God’s little hands

The  branches of the tree  reach out like  hands
The hands of children trusting in their need
Beseeching me to notice their demands

On the sea shore, ghosts of children stand
By gasping waves. where  fishing boats made speed
The  branches  bend out like   god’s little hands

In microcosm, in miniature on land
In macrocosm where the planet bleeds
Beseeches us to  answer earth’s demands

The suck of surf, the prayer of shingle sound
Where  rough plants  fill  the shorelines with their seeds
While  branches  reach out like   god’s little hands

Look stranger  at this island, hear its sounds
The sea birds here, the robin in the weeds
Beseeching man to notice their demands

Prayer  is less important, it’s these needs
Demanding ,without bitterness, our deeds
The  branches of the  trees, the golden strands
Tell us, humankind ,their  last demands




I am the earth

It’s frosty and I found my knit wool skirt
It’s purple heather Northern, long and warm
I remember falling down some steps
Stone,they were ,you took me in your arms

With you standing staring on the edge
Oh, Cleveland Hills that make a cliff like fall
We drove the A 19 at deep sunset
The profile of the hills stood out,they called

They ,like Langdale, speak myself to me
My soul awakes with joy to cliffs of sight
Rejoice, oh psalmist, sing your rhapsody
From deep darkness to the morning light

I am the earth, my body will lie here
From Arnside’s Viaduct to Buttermere

I love you like

 I love you like I'd love a black walnut.
You're so rare I can't eat you.
I'll put you in my pocket
and take you with me
when I go in town
I'll feel your crinkles and your wrinkles,
But nobody will know.

I love you like I'd love a comice pear.
I'll put you in a golden bowl.
I'll let the sun shine on you,
Till you are ripe.
I'll put you in my bag,
Take you to a meadow of buttercups
And devour you.
And nobody will know.

I love you like I'd love a flower.
I'll give you my best vase.
I'll stand it in the window.
Then I'll look at you all day
With my peripheral and my central vision,
Till your pattern is embedded in my brain.
I'll sleep well and dream of you all night.
When I'll wake up ,I'll remember everything

Free at point of service

I wonder if I can write
the sort of poems
that the eliterati produce,
after reading the
London Review of Books,
while cooking a Rick Stein recipe,
drinking gin and tonic,
or French wine,
and serving a ten course meal
to Nigella Lawson and Charles
that leaves her gasping
in the most elegant yet sensual manner
her tongue flickering like an adder
across her glossily carpeted scarlet lips
while her cleavage looks as tempting
as my mother’s lovely breast did when I
was but an infant in arms.
That’s enough of that,The Editor.
signed X
[Books are not us……….has noone told you
We’re alive,alive………..we’re alive.Thsnk God]
I think I can probably bring in Heisenberg
and my cat;I read The Listener;
Weren’t those the days,
Ah, for just one of them now.
Anyway in Dirac’s space there are four dimensions
…….I can feel for him..
I’m almost four dimensional in my living.
I could feel myself
Looking down on my sister from the ceiling
And thinking,Is that me?
Am I who?
However I descended again after some sleep,
And I made some earl grey tea.
It was very grey;
possibly i did not let it brew for long enough.
Thst’s the main question in life;
When is enough enough?
What is exactly the right time for action
And reaction?
That sums it up.
Tea is quite wet,luckily..
I’m parched with the literati,
The clitorati,
The flitorati,
And the fitorati.
All we wait for now is notoriety.
Tempus fugit.