In the dark backroom
lies a table with a
big clear crystal globe.
When everyone is
asleep you gather round
and tentatively lay
your hands on the globe.
The power flows out
from the globe and you
feel re-energised.
Whilst us mere mortals
are asleep in our soft,
forgotten beds.
No wonder you do
so well, no wonder
your garden is so
immaculate.
Do you ever feel as though
the world is full
of opportunists?
God I’m so bored,
I’m so bored
of myself.
The cup of tea steams in my hand,
outside a rust coloured car is
stopping by some traffic lights.
Like a perfect painting or a piece
of pottery the panels fit mechanically,
so precisely together.
My mind starts to wonder,
from dust to car. What miracles
occurred to do this thing?
The visionary bosses, the investors,
the scheduling managers, the factory
floor workers.
The hard working workers.
So motivated to get
shit done.
A great team effort.
A testament to capitalism, to vision,
to co-operation and to humanity.
I have nothing so say.
There is no muse on my lips
or in my fingers. My brain
is to all effects and purposes,
empty.
On the other hand you seem
to be able to put out loads
of poems which makes me
feel even more inadequate.
Leading me to write even less.
You were vulnerable and I was naked.
The water started to pour out
unrelentingly from the unmerciful
shower head. I saw you struggling
to try and climb from the water jet
which pounded on you with
it’s stream of droplets.
But you couldn’t make it;
you tried to climb out of the
constant stream but were failing.
So I turned off the shower and in
a moment of compassion I grabbed
your stick like leg and chucked
you out of the shower.
To live another day and probably
go in the shower again.
Cross the brooding trees to the
snaking River Exe,
swooping down like an
oversized peregrine falcon,
he claimed his prize. A
dinner for two
at a nameless hotel,
overlooking Bossington Beach.
His father would be landing
shortly at the same hotel.
It sits proudly on my Casio keyboard in my garage;
a blue book which is bound with white wire.
When I play I’m taken to church; the pipe organ sound
is so similar to the one you hear there.
Familiar tunes ring out and fill my garage; tunes such
as “What a friend I have in Jesus” and “Seek ye First”.
On one page your scribblings indicating the intro and
verse. On another 3 and 4 are circled.
I can see you now in your red gown; sitting at the
organ at the front of the church and to the side.
You were such a faithful church goer. You didn’t ask for
much. You just turned up week after week for over twenty years.
I can imagine you in heaven now playing at the royal court
not making a fuss; just getting on with it, true and faithful.
Sometimes I think
I’m an intellectual snob.
But then I realise
I’m not that intellectual.
I try to pray but it’s as though
the heavens are as brass and I
can’t even come up with my
own metaphors.
I look over to see my Bibles and
it looks like I’m seeing a
set of encyclopedias,
impenetrable and dense.
I’m lying on my bed and I’m thinking
about the last conversation I had
and how some people are so
difficult to understand. Or am I
just incapable of understanding?
Now I’m listening to some
Christian radio station and it
feels as though they are just
trying to get money out of me.
You’d be thinking at this point
in the poem there’d be
some sort of turnaround.
But there isn’t; just fingers dancing
over the keyboard and trying
to get my feelings out so someone
might hear. Anyone!
timthepoet 