September 21st, 2010


One of my own for a change


The conjurer has a die that's full of wires,
circuits and gyroscopes that send a sly
beam that tells him with pinpricks on his thigh
which way it's up. The nice young man he hires

to toss it, breaks a side off, sees the stuff
that's in there, puts the side back, throws some more.
Each time he calls it right, this guy's in awe
of his strange magic. Conjurer says 'Enough'

and his young friend says, 'just what are my tells?
how do you read my face to call the six,
the two, the three. What fiend taught you such tricks?'
Conjurer says 'it's gadgetry, not spells.

You saw inside the dice'. Guy laughs - 'I know
it's magic or my face. Wires are for show'

And another


Quite soon the sun erupts a solar flare
So vast that all our electronics fry.
That day, all words in cyberspace will die
my poetry included. Everywhere

will flood when half an island goes kersplash
and all our libraries will turn to pulp
and paper mache. And the seas will gulp
and hiccup methane gas, and in a flash

we'll either choke or burn and every word
we uttered dies. The glass towers and the steel
bridges and statues melt and then congeal
to puddles, ashes, The last thing we heard,

If we were lucky, 'love' which lasts as long
as things more permanent that seemed so strong.

A third poem


You're out with someone else. They're smart and young;
they've ink on arms and lower back - a dove
drawn by Picasso. Later, they remove
the ribbons from their hair. And then their tongue

is on your shoulder blade; their fingers touch
the space between two ribs, and nestle there.
You wonder for a second if it's fair
and then you kiss them back. It is of such

moments that knowing you're in love is made
because you break the kiss, and stroke their brow
like parents do. And then you wonder how
to do this kindly, then say 'I'm afraid

that this won't do.' They leave. You lie alone
and then call her you hope for on the phone.