The Magic Money Tree (or mixing metaphors for the proletariat).

Billions slip along its bullion branches
sliding towards
the grasping, greedy, greasy
palms,
of the high/
mighty,
fake empty pockets wafting,
to placate the ones
they stood upon,
to climb the limbs:
the maddened crowd
(mere cuttings,
mere deadheads)
who tend the roots,
of the *magic money tree*
and salvage the acid soil
and patch the bruised bark
for those besides them,
ground in the grind,
drowned under the discoloured leaves,
agendas dropped like arsenic manna
from the crown and
crowded canopy.

(Just tell them,
send whispers to their fear...
There is no *magic money tree*
There is no *magic money tree*
There is no *magic money tree*
and say
instead we steer,
veer,
career,
this strong and stable
unfragmentable
iceberg
through uncertain waters.)

Don't rock this boat
we need to stay afloat,
they state,
we need your vote,
in order to
disintegrate.


.

Thief

Put in my place,
a hanging basket of weeds,
for all to mock,
I hear you say 'forgive'.

Not knowing how to start,
I ask you to remember me,
as light begins to stalk,
Your frank assurance drops,
pick-pocketing the fear
of these ticking clocks,
with a word in my ear,
'Today you will be with me'
in paradox.

For a Friend.

These words disappear,
like the scent of morning toast,
no longer lingering,
in this cold, cold
corridor of uncertainty;
no 'morning colleagues'
to light the way,
with a grin,
and tell us we are more,
much more than that;
no relentless spirit,
in that stride,
to fight off blow,
by blow,
by blow,
to teach us,
that to keep on
keeping on,
is intrinsic to the universal law
of not giving up.

No eighties pop
escapes your radio
now
your name's been taken
down.
How many dramas
still sparkle in the ether of that room,
where your stoic, level-headed
handwriting crops up,
from time to time,
and spins me
like a loom,
weaves your voice into my head,
until it's swallowed
by the gloom.

Sometimes I'd drop you
at the cross,
to let you catch your thoughts,
before home.
'Alright Davie Mitchell?'
you would say,
to pull my leg,
from you it was ok.

You
left your post without permission,
we search for you,
in words and times,
and memories,
of wacky Wednesdays,
Friday lunchtimes;
and still more faded photocopies
bear your hand,
I try to say,
'Good morning'
through your door,
to help me find
dry land,
forgetful that you're more alive,
though gone,
set free,
beyond these walls,
a part of us is gone,
we left with you,
as life goes on.

You gave me you

You
brought me from a kernel,
light/nocturnal Tendril,
hidden seed defined,
emerged,
to grow,
refined,
pushed through bruised reeds,
renewed in time,
clung to the vine;
grafted in the madness,
seeping, swooping sadness
travelled into branches,
stripped naked by the wind,
cold exposure glint,
relieved,
leaves gone
with nothing left to give,
you gave me you,
and left me nothing left,
to need,
for me to live,
you gave me you,
and let me breathe.

Third Person Chef

You be
ready,
steady,
cooking your book,
rewriting recipes,
dealing out fresh dinners,
dishes of this,
dashes of that,
added in,
for the here and
now,
new salty combinations,
feeding hunger pangs,
within hearts,
stirring up as the pot of your story
simmers, sautés,
thickens,
fills with flavour,
sweet scripture savour,
words that marinade in minds,
your best vintage soaking in,
alongside new wine,
appetising,
taste-buds sampling,
good hearty food,
no less,
from your holy kitchen,
blessed.

Lost for Words

Lifelong distance call-
you're b rea k i n g
Up
down a bad line:
Is it something in the atmosphere today?

Disintegration
shreds the air:
beyond repair?

Citizens of nowhere
here,
lost in the wire,
fax failing,
no message to

be engaged to,
no phone call home,
no place to call our own.

Stuck

between two kingdoms,
one,
we cannot see,

united once
were we.

Shells

Waves echoing inside us,
tides, here and gone,
on sea-shores pulsing,
inclining into sinking sands,
dousing every grain,
wiping clear the memory
of days of sun and rain.

Back to the ocean,
water will relent,
exposing sea-shells,
silent,
side by side,
holding the crescendo,
you and I,
within our curved backs,
beauty in the ridges,
ready for the call of the wind,
we wake.

Going ForWARd

Princes of peace
and the power of the air,
go square,
square go,
on the streets,
of everywhere:
drop a cent,
make a welt,
push a button on a
belt,
and kA-boom,
god is great,
coming soon
love is hate;
hate is love,
ditch your soul,
evolve to animal,
on the wings of a dove
hate hatred
rise above,
all that's left
on these streets,
are the choices,
when we meet,
prescribe peace,
for our feet
unclench fists
or delete.

Flight of Weakness

Out of the ashes
weakness rises,
a bird unfettered
feathers flying,
the blue sky tips her hat/
she soars the currents,
no preening power postures,
serving as imposters,
weakness wills against herself
and wins,
instead,
strength's favour
as she grins,
and bears the wind,
she flies against,
and in,
and swoops and swirls
though few can see,
she pecks a paradox in me,
reveals her morning song
of weak but strong,
trills last but first,
the meek inherit Earth,
the born perform rebirth,
she flies: the face of the absurd,
a most peculiar kind of bird.

Haiku in the Clouds.

Sky strides in my face
evolutionary thought:
who needs a rainbow?

On Hold

In your grasp,
Fingers clasp
A ring round wrist,
Thumb prints nestle,
Digits wrestle into
Flesh and skin,
Limb and bones,
Held and honed
Richly owned.

When this grip,
Began to slip:
With sweat-filled palms,
Veins at risk,
Your holy hold
Refused to twist,
Stuck with this son,
Till he caught on...