Several Poems for Children ~ The Planets

1. Mars Visitor

Once like our Earth,
And maybe once again.

My faithful probe extends
My reach,

Placing red rocks into
A basket for analysis.

But what was that,
To the left of the image?

Behind these alien
Stones so red?

Was it a creeping limb,
To close my camera lid?

The pink robe sky grows
Darker...

And I peer into my
Monitor,

Receiving these pictures,
From so very far.


2. Our friend, the Moon

We see him almost shocked,
His bright face looking
Down,

Luminous partner of a dark,
Clear night,

His mood we see in our
Oceans but
He sometimes slips away!

But peeks again gradually,
Over the lid of our dreams.

3. Approaching Jove

Slowing by retro rockets,
Burst silent in the dark,
Jupiter looms over everything
We see now...

Massive even at fifty million miles,
Huge winds move
Colours in immense powerful tides,
Amber red slicks, spilling into
Each other like paints run with water.

An invisible field locks
Strong around the ship,

The Great Storm is an eye,
Glaring at this tiny
Approaching Voyager.

Found Poetry ~ a series of my poems, found in my personal belongings.

Bottle

The planets hanging
In the half drunk bottle,
The galaxies strewn
In spheres resting, furiously
A nova and another,
Rip open in the infinity
Of the closed neck;
Terrible millions of an eternity
There, in the sight of a young
God, holding his creation
In trembling fingers.

Box ~ a short story

Box ~

They had been onstage for ten minutes and already the actors were panting as they ran on and off stage to the sounds of screaming children. The panto was in full swing, lights flashing, sounds bursting and children whooping, calling, shouting and laughing. So far, so good. James stood back against a tab as Santa Claus bounded past being pursued by a sweaty goblin. The goblin nearly knocked James' camera out of his hand as he ran past, a huge butterfly net trailing behind him. In the tumult of noise James instinctively shielded his expensive piece of equipment and called for the actor to watch it; the goblin turned his head suddenly and broke his comic book character, the face turned from a comedy grimace to shoot a look of pure hatred at James as he ran on. James shivered and resumed his documentation from backstage, capturing a company on tour for Christmas season.

The play was easy enough, Santa was being chased across the world by goblins who wanted all the presents for themselves, to ransom them for children. The children were encouraged to join in the fun and even plucked out of the audience at the end to help Santa give out the presents. James thought that the perhaps the basic premise had undertones of a Grimm fairy tale and was even moderately risque in places; especially the scene where the goblins 'stole' a child from the audience to get the ball rolling. The children were led to believe that the goblins had taken the child off to eat them, and many whooped and screamed, many cried and had to be led out by parents. James had been in the auditorium for a previous show and was concerned at the crying ones, these children reminded him of abandoned babies in war torn countries, their eyes rheumy with tears and their ideas of terror being formulated by adults playing comic book. He had wanted to photograph them for a separate project, maybe something about 'the breakdown of the family' or 'ideas on a social expectations in children'; anything really to blanket the images of  those fascinating and disturbing children, few in number, crying.

He turned his camera to the wings and snapped the actors backstage, preparing the props for the next bit of action. One, the heroine, was getting ready to ride in on a reindeer prop, a cardboard horror on big golden wheels, but looked terribly stressed. James kept snapping with interest. The stage hands were trying to dress her in snow and tinsel, but it wasn't really working, the bits kept falling off and it was obvious her cue was approaching. James wondered how any of these actors could hear their cues with the noise of the screaming children at all, but then, the stage hand began wheeling her on regardless, to the delight of the audience. You have to think on your feet, he thought and watched through the lens.

The screaming laughter became high pitched, the actors seemed to be confused. From the wings James couldn't see anything, but could hear. Then, he watched as the actors were obviously trying to calm the children down. Something had gone wrong. James edged forward to look, still gazing through his lens. There, centre stage, beautifully lit, the actors were helping the heroine up from where she had fallen. The reindeer prop had broken, it's head, grotesque, was hanging off, torn from the main body by her weight. It stood there, slowly nodding to then be ripped and finally crash to the stage. The children were screaming at this sight, adults trying to calm them down. Above, the stage curtain couldn't come down fully due to the monstrosity beneath, and James focused his camera upon it, house lights fully up now, illuminating perfectly the children beyond crying at the sight.

Winter ~ a nonet

In this, my hour of broken sleep,

Empty silence in a cold room,

Moonbeam sheen white blade across

This bed I lay upon ~

Such peace of heart I

Find in this time,

To think of

You and

Dream.

Millie and the Moon

Woke up from dreams of being photocopied and having to deal with several hundred paper versions of myself jostling for attention, to find Millie staring at the moon. Quite beautiful. A kitten, new to the world, staring in fascination at something I could never possibly make her understand, myself too in awe of the morning moonfall...existing in that moment, a human and a cat, no language to link us, yet both animals on the Earth, dumbfounded by the beauty of our ancient companion; on a journey through time and space ~ Until I realised that she was infact stalking a spider on the ceiling.

winter morning ~

still the sun rises

behind the veil

morning shows

a painting undone

of colours

love is barren

fields hammered flat

under cold steel

invisible unless

the strings of this knotted

heart relent

After an image in 'A Body Lain Out' by Lorca ~

The summer in a foreign dusk.
Close heat that grows everywhere
From the skin, breathed.
A balmy silence towards the lain loved one -
Alive in degradation!
The smell of seas emptying
It's cold shoals on the sense -
History gathers at last to rest
On pebbles, red stone as warm as a heart,
Whispering grasses -
The shudders of the mourning.