Any Time...

Any Time

In pleasant opus we can sit together, or apart, on any porch, at dawn, dark, or any time of day.

We can have this.

Amidst all that is bad in the world, be happy we have this.

The clarity is not always there, clouds steal the sun’s shine, maybe our will of some days. But when it’s quiet, as here and now, we can feel someone has dressed this corner of the earth, for just our minute.

Another day to finish, with the cautious promise of another, nice to know we can have this, whatever life’s decision. Because,

nothing is worth more.

At this moment; I understand what we have.

It’s not one thing, it’s not that, or the other, it is the rock shoal of all…

It is us.

Lancashire Bloods

Lancashire Bloods

Sitting by a bistro,

in the city,

I was mulling the

flavors of a fantastic

Panini Italiano.

It was warm

down in Chelsea,

antique in my corner.

The bricks

in a wall,

a broken,

crippled wall,

spoke to me.

They grew thoughts

to me,

single ingots

of countless sagas.

They were Lancashire bloods,

new in 1900,

as books,

on shelves,

unread,

noble novels

without words.

Each had felt the

grip

of a chiseled hand,

a gentle push

atop wet mortar.

They took their place

beside

one another,

each brick,

every course,

placed there

by a mason,

assisted perhaps

by an apprentice.

a thought, or wish,

attached to each.

When he first knelt

by the cornerstone,

had he been content?

Had he a wife

and children,

debts unpaid?

For sure,

I’d felt

what he had that day,

during

the third course,

there had been tears,

a funeral

for his father

he’d attended that morning.

Pigeons crowded

the lonely pavilion,

beside the mason,

and the

brick by his side.

Each red brick,

a memory,

a moment,

flower,

year,

season,

smile,

parade.

An arm,

a hand,

his,

a brick,

a trowel’s tap,

lilt of mortar,

knees to earth,

another course

toward sky.

Storied stories,

each wall

a prince,

hand hewn

by kings,

Lancashire bloods,

in course

atop course,

lime and sand,

water and lunches,

and walks

by the walls.

Lovely tales

entail,

once the brick

leaves

the kiln’s

bake…

Their stories

begin.

Hayward 2006

Could Forest

Could Forest

There are

confused roots,

reaching in every

direction,

driven,

by memory of water.

Pregnant night,

righteous flash

of thunder

lightning drenches,

steam mists,

and a frog's throat

swells.

Limp limbs

dip,

heavy leaves curl,

holding

communal reservoirs.

Nests of

old species

yet

undiscovered,

coddle the

hatchling’s

first night

in the trees.

Morphine tongued

viper,

there and gone,

slithering beneath

cathedral

skies.

The gorillas

wade the razor grass,

then disappear

into the hold

of a sagging timberline.

Sweeping tops

of umbrella

trees

cover their

lumber.

Crush

of insect screams,

fill the humid

voids.

Fruit bats lunge

near orchids

in the dark.

Mosquitoes stab

their  prey

steal blood,

until tiny

abdomens might

burst.

Then,

they ferry the stuff

away in the night.

Great falls of water

lather

volcanic rock,

loud

in the light of moon’s wash.

On

tips of

my fingers

I could feel all this,

and more.

In

the dark,

this jungle

behind my eyes.

Hayward 2006