Joy

Now, drinks the stuff that makes a lass
sillier than silliest ass,  
she'll not hear the breeze tune the trees  
to play music within the leaves,  
nor see a work of art can be found  
in clouds when eyes are on the ground,  
when stumbling to feel her way  
hear the birds chorusing the break of day.  
 
Drink frees a lass from mortal dread  
makes music in her empty head,  
then silence isn't quite as loud  
as that within some glass-clinking crowd,  
it loosens tongue but she can't think  
or use a pen, it's wasted ink,  
all true, and when drink is employed  
can't hear her cat purr, for sheer joy.

To be among this dancing glee
of radiant life of flushing flesh,
those flowing locks those long lithe limbs
this suppleness it is to me
the only life of these so fresh
to rush me into big broad grins.

There's one, just there, her shrieking voice
is shattering cut crystal glass
on dusty shelves ten miles away,
and I, near deaf, I can rejoice
as ball hits bat of that young lass
and knocks me back to yesterdays.

A group of four handstand the wall
two or three hopscotch a fine dance
the greyness from the old concrete,
I pray to God to bless 'em all
and keep 'em from boy's haphazard glance
but just for now joy is, complete.

My brothers and I running through fields
of poppies and haybales.
dinner is ready in 5 minutes, my loves
never did we go on time, we let what we thought was
10 minutes go by and then we’d return.
Still, dinner had 15 minutes left to go.

We could have used those minutes
so wisely but instead we obeyed.
I think my mother wished we defied her sometimes
so, we can enjoy the beauties
of the open fields and endless greens.

Dinner was great but let’s run again,
this time we would climb up thick trees and skinny trees
and whatever was in sight.
Even if it was us, tangled in bushes.

I flew from the tree, Bradley caught me.
I paused for a second, so my body could
decide if I was hurt or not.
Harry licked my face and stared at me
with those puppy eyes, he waited for a reaction.
I sprang up then ran again.

Harry chased me back to the house
Bradley and Haydn followed.
My mother would stand at the patio door, smiling
3 cups of tea on a slab of wood
And biscuits to dunk.

She knew this too, shall end
And on my 13th birthday I would not jump on the haybales
And make mazes out of the grass.
But instead I would wait with her
For Haydn to return with a band aid and some tea

Oh sweet peace, how we have forgotten
your riches in pursuit of things so rotten!
The simple once was so coveted,
so tender and beloved.
Now we try to keep pace,
forgetting to play fair in this human race.
Our unholy, unending pursuit of more
has at long last ushered peace from our door.
Not wishing to appear less than,
we choose to destroy fellow man,
raping and pillaging, we destroy our youth
all in the name of uncovering some new truth.
Never content with our meager lives,
we use words like knives,
cutting and stabbing the next guy
in order to steal his slice of the pie.
Peace is now a forgone ideology,
lost in time like a forgotten mythology,
no one remembers the simple,
so to the hurried pace we do build our temple.
Sunsets and long talks we do not have time for,
always, always in the pursuit of more.
Give yourself peace of mind,
and paradise you shall find.
'x' truly marks the spot,
where the good life we forgot.

Garage roofs, were made for jumps,
when Mr Knievel did his own stunts.
Old shed doors were skateboard ramps.
and games were played under lamps.
 
Garden fences were made to hop,
Chinn and Chapman were kings of pop.
Chippers, Choppers, Tomahawks and Racers,
all ridden by kids with Mickey Mouse braces.
 
Stories of ghosts and shadows mistook,
terrified in tents, dark nights down the brook.
Den’s dug out, covered with a car bonnet,
shot at by an idiot with a two, two bullet.
 
Corner shops, sold huge elastic bands,
that soon became weapons in the wrong hands.
Trees stripped of berries and nest stripped of eggs,
missiles thrown conkering, watch out mind your heads.
 
White lines on grass, three pots and in,
play in the nets before the match begins.
Wet leather football, your skull it could crush,
seaside specials, popped on a rose bush.
 
When air riffles did the job of a cat,
night walks with torches, thud, a dead rat.
Time trials, on our own assault courses,
jumping obstacles as if we were horses.
 
Jewelweed pops open with the lightest of touch,
walk along pipes, jeans covered in slutch.
Abseil from windows, ropes tied to beds,
one word to parents and you are dead.
 
Saturday wrestling in homemade ring,
fingers bent back in a special move thing.
Two fingers poised for the Monster Mash,
stop before the talking bit or grave yard bash.
 
Sunday night the one hot bath of the week,
wrapped up tight in a flannelette sheet.
Summers lazed on, ever so slow,
and we did our best to try not to grow.
 
Exploring the day, never seeming to tire,
running through fields then setting them on fire.
When time, was our time.

I placed a moment out of reach,
too young to explain the details
embroidered on its
white cotton sleeve.
 
I trusted it to mother,
she carried it behind closed eyes,
curved reflections pushing shapes  
into a wrapped tight blanket.
 
I watched the light as it entered open eyes,
then scattered into saucers,
settling like fish returning
to the deepest parts of the pool.
We lay there casting quiet,
as the battle tent raged above us.

I held that moments single note,
gripped by translucent fingernails
so small, so imperfectly real.
Inhaled your sweet and perfect pale
that deepened scent of skin revealed.

My breath spread incantations
that promised you my touch.
The kiss I forged on your forehead
would only let in dreams, tell stories
of the worlds we’d weave and all
the songs they’ll come to sing.

You could
say that the
thing that
gives me joy is to
watch the Thanksgiving
Day Parade before
we eat
some turkey
and stuff.