I wish we had played on all night

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I wish we had played on all night,
African cowboys with not much,
Else to do,

I wish we had challenged the fish in the sea and,
Called out to the Bison,

My father and his band,
And his

-strike while the iron is hot-

Jive,

Johnstone, his brother,
On the drums,
Kicking up a riot,

Sarah the lead,
Crooning about her rescue from a,
Very bad man,

Lydia,
Lead back-up,

Flinging in the,
‘Alleluiahs’, and

‘Godda-let-it-be’s!

Samuel,

A doctor dying of AIDS,
Breathing life into a tin-metal harmonica,

‘Alleluhia,’

Rocking the old man at the end of the bar,
And the couple at the table, fighting with their lips,

I think heard it coming when he fumbled the line,
AndI wish we had played on all night.

-evocative short poetry-

Walking in the Light

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We could dance on Gravity,
We could burst the Sun,

We could be that horror Alien who stole your child,
We are born metal touching galaxies though glass,

Galileo’s kids seeing through Sombrero,

We could look after water,
Or it’s facsimile,

We could look after Earth.

                                                                                                                                                        evocative short poetry

On Loosing People

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How I wish I had another chance at,
Caroline,
I would rub her stomach until,
She fell asleep,

And sit there some more,
Catch her  when the nightmare ,
Threatened to be too real,
I’d tell her stories about the past,
about dragons and princesses and,

Hero’s,

I’d sit still beside her all night and,
Close my eyes and find her in,
dreams,

Of sand castles,
And sunflowers,
And puppies in the rain.

                             -evocative short poetry-

Where Do Socks Go?

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The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,
Clothing,

Pieces,

Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

Loose Birthday cards too,

Steal up on you,

Perched as they are atop,

Passports

from a long time ago,

On leather surfaces by

open briefcases,

Dragging with them memories,

Sweet enough to have you sitting there,

well past that very important appointment,

With a Very Important Person,

In bed beside you now,

Like an angel,

Asleep.

Wayward sock appears on top of the,
Crest on the
Right
Smiling.

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley,
Though it took years,

Has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick,
Is creating life at last,

As was written,
The cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

-evocative short poetry-

Love the sinner, not the sin

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I go to church and sit at the back while you tell me I’m going to hell

I go to church and sit at the back while you announce the Dates for ‘Men’s Breakfast’

I go to church and sit at the back while you undress my sin, wanting to love me naked

Stripped, beaten, unrighteous, unholy, I sit at the back and go to church, every Sunday.

I go to Church.

I go to Church.