Starlight Sonnetina

Wise Man, Magi, Philosopher - King;
Though each one was humbled, when heeding The Call.
So they hastened abroad, their oblations to bring
To that faraway town, with its unlikely stall.

Near the town, yet another king (killer ; distracted)
Demanded their presence (he'd heard of the Child),
Yet knew nothing of stars, or of starlight refracted,
Or the love that drew kings through the dark and the wild.

An invasion of sorts, when the border was crossed,
But their mission meant more than the laws guarding lands.
And without giving praise, saving hope might be lost,
So their caravan inched over Judean sands.

Later on, mothers cried in the streets where blood spattered,
While the three brought home news of the one king who mattered.

Redeemed

It's You when I wake
And it's You when I sleep.
It's You when I'm shallow
And You when I'm deep.

From the essence of image
In the furnace of soul,
You arrive without intro
To arrange me as whole.

Incandescent emotion
Fills the void in my spheres;
Just a glance or some laughter
And the fog in me clears.

Archangel, beloved,
You've embraced human form;
And throughout bleak midwinter,
In your space I feel warm.

'Everything but...' (Monday, December, Bletchley JobCentre Plus)

Lost his job -
Made a Claim.
Lost his wife -
Met a Flame.
Lost his kids -
Christmas dull.
Lost his house -
Moved to Hull.
Lost his way -
Took to Drink.
What loss next ?
Kitchen sink ?

The Valley of Death and the Home of Hunger

Roll out of Dar on
A claptrap bush bus
And you're there... or
Better, passing through.

Scraps of life dent
The roadside: Maasai beggar and
Brown scrub, but mostly
The dearth of breath.

Burton and Speke pushed
Through here; undeterred at
The name bestowed by Arab slavers.
Hellbound westward, or

Coastbound east. Two Victorian
Obsessives; slaves, too, in their
Quest for
The Source.

Pleuristic Speke, slung
Between porters, on his hammock.
Race-hate Burton, carried by
His bile, slinging

Cloth and beads at the
Feet of reluctant chiefs. We're
Always in motion, carried forward by
Truth, or a lie.

Why am I on this
Bus? Aimless Mzungu, safe
In passage, while death slings its
Bile across the road, wheel-bound.

Familiar hell-on-earth, like
Dachau, or Dealey Plaza; each a
Passing-through place or a terminus. Entirely
Random - as decreed by killers.

We're off to the Mountains of the Moon, over
The Pass Terrible, so clear the road before
This jerry-can juggernaut does to
Life what drought couldn't.

The Temple Gate Called Beautiful (Acts 3:1)

We gaze across the sea
In an uncertain time
The loons and seagulls flee
As if from serious crime.

The rollers beat the shore
And steal the sand away
I wish that they'd do more
To keep me on this Bay.

The flotsam speaks of wrath
And bonfires on the beach
We filled our pails with Plath
But kept them out of reach.

Then in came muffling mist
From there to what must be
We'll all be on some list
In time, reluctantly.

I don't know where I'll go
When winter kills this scene
But equinoctal glow
Will flare when light is lean.

Under Your Arches

Your arches bewitch me
(I don’t see them much;
But the times that you’re shoeless,
They reach out and touch.)

Then I yearn for that arch
Betwixt waistline and hip;
When I bend down and view it
All my vertebrae slip.

But the arch of your brow
Sends a message of fear;
And your look says it archly:
‘Arch-enemy near.’

And I fear for my health
With the arch of your back;
As you rally your archers
For a bedroom attack.

But McDonalds’ are golden
And yours are magenta;
Underneath Roman arches
We’ll feast on polenta.

There’s an Archway in London –
Shall we go there right now ?
Just to say that we did it ?
Just to stand and say ‘Wow’ ?

October Brings the Cold

What, really, do we know,
Of the shift from life to death;
With our childlike, searching guesswork
On the themes of that last breath?

When I'd heard that he'd departed,
Then the child within me spoke;
Asking questions, shouting answers,
Breathing fire, spewing smoke.

Then I knew I had to grow up,
So I left the house and walked
Down the path to that frail seashore
While the child and adult talked.

But those voices both were quietened
As I looked across the bay;
Contemplating - senses heightened -
There was nothing more to say.

Little breezes teased the surface,
And the ripples laughed and danced;
While the cloudlets hurried eastward
With the seagulls they'd romanced.

And the wavelets kissed the shoreline
Over stones that seemed to sway;
While the lighthouse pointed skyward,
From its home across the bay.

Are these the objects we call lifeless,
Like my friend, soon in his grave?
Or is each infused with life-force
From the memories we save?