there’s no framed face companioning my walls
or jewel measuring my finger’s fidelity
and I still manage to laugh at the gas bill
and hold myself close when I cry

kj7dec11

2
Hands resume their
fractionation. One bubble
drawn from its kin
suggests a trumpet.
Something about the angle.
A trumpet, like a shiny
needle, keening red berets and
red bandages into a crown.

3
Another bubble
carries the residue of a touch.
A perception on the neck
so slender, only ear lobes
know it, recognise a sound
such as wind makes
to charm the willow tree.

4
Beneath the water
where monsters
would sport if this were
Homer or Hollywood
one of those mustard yellow
plates scooped from a
supermarket.

It is perfectly flat
on its base
at the bottom
of the bowl.

Perfectly still.
Perfectly content.

That sleeve splashes down again.
She giggles.
Lets the water take it.

kj2oct10

Rain dulls the night,
not the eyes.
If there’d been a horn
it would be polished
every day, brighter
than any saint. A fresh

week wound to its
spring. The tip lodged
with last summer’s
petals. Every winter

would stay the elderwood
with pies and revels
and sweet pastries. Half-

shadows stiffen. Locked in the
girdling web. Such a place

where olive-branch
tautens to arrow, stream

to stone, crows gape.
Fingers caress and
crevice each
wall. Whipped up

beyond the pasture, the
lure of pipes.

kj16jul11

the wind made contact
voice like a recorder
structured from some schoolwall
nativity
like a fractured reincarnation
snow didn’t fully extend the trees
of leaves
though here and there notes
sounded reminiscent of flame
a figure earthed
in pearl
slowed inwards
like a candle unwinding
spilled seed on seed
like a blade
unwinding
a path flooded
with cinders
its sign to be heard

kj1jan11

Another train journey
and I’m skewered
with late office workers,
texty teens,  sullen adults,

sullen skies, wheels
mumble to wheels,
and teas, coffees and light
refreshments sip by

on a voice shined
to entice till you catch the
rictus smile with it.
My book had nothing

to add, lines of fog
turning over and over.
He wasn’t reading.
Wasn’t awake.

Two bumps on his forehead,
raw from gawping,
the yellow of stale beer.
Dad, said the one ring left.

Kj25nov10

I offer this poem as a reflection -

Called Aaron, this time

Loud eyes he had,
bolder than any blue
coursing the clouds
of Killarney’s sky;

she’ll cry for a year
when she hears them,
try not to shiver at
sting of arm
on her shoulder.

In Helmand boys
sow wire for other boys
to reap -  weary gravity
that shocks breath
from bone,
makes rock weep.

kj18nov10

buffed boots
didn’t quite
reflect all the medals

they’ve seen things
those boots
but that’s
for another day

kj11/10/10

Alert
to clouds
that weave
the threads
of sky

Hands extend
and in
their cup
planets
stir

Feet spread
boards
deserts
ice fields

Pages not
yet written
since they
were last
erased

And we
split off by
invisible lines
await
flute’s breath
to blend us

kj7nov10

I dreamed a boy taller than poplars
spinning laughter into leaves;
I dreamed a boy dainty as dandelion
lazing his head in the sunshine;
I dreamed a boy brighter than fire
lush with paint and proud;
I dreamed a boy fresh as beaujolais
gentle and unashamed.
I dreamed a boy that startled hearts,
shook the day to bursting,
proved love is not a dream.

kj22oct10