Trees in the Courtyard

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Enfolded by homes the trees
Rise gently from cobbled floor
To skies bent with bluish blush
On doors that let you go, release
You into the arms of the green
Breeze breathing your first flush
Of the courtyards embrace. Turn
Your face to their wings of light
Bright whispers flying into the day
Showing you the long straight spines
The upraised arms that will send you
On your way.



That moment when

The Chandra clan hangs out
In the city, yakking about
Their feelings and those of
Others, sharing trauma and joy
Laughing till the tears come,
Nodding over some moment
Of childish fun, stories of
Grief, love, how rarely they meet
Until one looks down and sees
The curb at her feet and since
She’s quite bright, memory nudges
And she wonders when the light will 
Change so they can cross the street.

Fly Me To The Moon

I don’t want directions. Signs
And arrows, instructions, and
Soon, who knows, a checklist
Of do’s, don’ts, definitely nots. Just
Give me wings, don’t make me
Flap my arms and tell me I must
Flap faster if I want this to
Work. And that wind beneath
My wings, for the love of god,
Don’t make me search a
Lifetime don’t make me crawl
Under every stone, fall
Into every ravine, creep
Into every crevice, sleep
Away a lifetime just so I
Can keep dreaming. Beaming
Moonshine at me isn’t hard
To do. If you really want something to
Point me to, turn my face so
I can see the turning blue planet
I was meant to be. Each ocean
And mountain clear to my eye
Every leaf and stone exposed to my
Moon-standing self. I’ll fold
My wings, blow out the wind,
If once I could see everything
I am and was meant to be.

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Living Organs

As dusty brown as the loft
It rests in, its rusty crown
Soft with deflected sun
It’s keys ivory yet not so white
As to shine in the battened down
Window’s muted light
Such pipes as once breathed
Majestic airs, silver-gleam
In proud ranks still. Place
An ageing organ wheresoever
You will, it is part of a body, a
Living thing. Climb the stairs,
Open the doors, walk the floors,
Hear it sing.

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Follow the Sun

When giving directions
to daughters, the astute father
is usually content with rights
And lefts, and the odd mention
Of traffic lights. “Follow the sun”
My girls are told, and I think
– So much wisdom for one
Instruction to hold. Teary eyed
I listen for further pearls.
“Then go straight and turn right”.
And that, my friend, is how
We failed to rendezvous one
Lovely summer evening. So
Now, as you wonder if there is
A deeper meaning – remember
‘Second star to the right and
Straight on till morning’? Cute
Peter Pan moment is actually
A warning.

April Fool

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In velvets and lace, gold
And pointy shoes, ribboned
Cuffs and ankle ties, the
Finely painted eyes that hold
A glimmer of knowing hidden
In a fine mist of white – almost
Motley, almost the Fool, a thing
Crafted from Venetian light.
Of Christmas ornaments long since
Taken down, this last survives.
Perhaps it alone bears the hints
Of the wisdom of the clown
In the warming Spring of our lives.