ODE TO ROBERT DE NIRO

Deep in the heart of New York, deep
in that foreign land, your father -
like mine here - lived out his life.
On opposite sides of the Atlantic
those parallel, yet disparate lives
instilled into each of us unique aspirations
through childhood, adolescence and beyond,
that made us who we are today.

You found fame, are celebrated worldwide
for your trademark brand of gangland violence.
But I have glimpsed something else
embedded in that shocking façade -
an inner sensitivity: a contradiction
that mirrors my psyche's painful longing
for something you could never feel
for a mediocre English poet.

Still, you are as close to me as the heart
beating inside my thorax; as my complicated need
to see your eyes focus on mine; to hear my name
spoken in your distinctive accent.
Please
           let deja vu kick in...

mine is the face that crops up
often in the background of your dreams:
barely noticed, soon forgotten,
yet persistent -
because energy follows thought...

and I am the stranger who shares your life,
distantly, in another time zone.
I think they call me "fan".

TO A LOST LOVE

Is there ever a time you care
that I am no longer there?
And have your nights ever been
haunted by my face unseen?

Or have you forgotten that distant time
when you promised you'd always be mine:
how as we strolled hand-in-hand
along Sandwood Bay upon golden sand,
you stopped to hug me close to you
and ask if I could love you too?
Oh how we loved upon that shore -
how all night long I begged for more...

So what went wrong between then and now?
For I cannot pinpoint exactly how
it fell apart and broke my heart,
and we were forced to live apart.

And I wonder if that lonely shore
will harbour the phantoms for evermore
of two young lovers from an earlier time
who dance there still to the surf's endless rhyme.
 

TALIESIN

Inspired by The Book of Pheryllt.


Otherworldly Bard to Elphin am I:
shape shifter from the region of the Summer Stars.
Many have confused me with Myrddin,
but I was once his teacher.

I have lived countless lives
in a myriad of forms:
I have been king, queen, noble and prince;
beggar, slave and condemned man...

I have been a savage lion and a domestic cat.
I was once a Viking longship upon the ocean.
I have been a blade of grass growing in a meadow
and a snowflake falling upon Stonehenge.
I have been a moonbeam and a new-born lamb;
a spider in her web and a dew drop in the morning.
I have been an Oak Tree in a Forest,
a scorpion in the desert heat.
I have been a wave breaking on the shore
and a single grain of wheat eaten by Ceridwen...

Then for nine months I was little Gwion
growing inside her womb -
to be born as Guardian of Tradition.

I have passed through the Web of Ariadne,
have dwelt within Avalon's Hill.
I was fluent before being gifted with speech.
I have tutored all intelligences.
I alone built Nimrhod's Tower.

I am the tetragrammation.
My origins predate The Creation.
I shall exist when the Universe is no more.
It is not known whether my body
is of flesh or of Spirit,
for I am legion.

Simultaneous participation
in every aspect of Creation
has rendered me omniscient:

I have lived your past,
I share your present,
I am your future
because I am learned Druid...

I am Taliesin.

THE BLUE BELL HILL GHOST

As the shadows lengthen across Blue Bell Hill
a ghost drifts - a shard of refracted light at the road's edge
that merges into a hedgerow.

Rising in the steam
from an under-road drain.
Trapped in eternal catastrophe.

You could mistake her for the strobe
of headlights through fencing posts,
if it weren't for the sudden chill...




There are no kind motorists tonight -
no-one to stop for the hitch hiker
and drive her safely home.
They all pass clean through her.

No traces of how she met her end
on this lonely stretch of road:
A fatal aberration of concentration.
A step into the road.
A beautiful blood-red sunset
that momentarily blinded a driver.
Blue metal that lifted her like a baby.
SHOCK WAVE..................................
A skull shattered.
Suspended time as rainbows struck asphalt
that heaved to her last breath.
Then her brain could no longer think -
the bone was too far in.
She died before her time,
a masterpiece unfinished.




The Blue Bell Hill ghost
still tries to reach home.
She knows her mother will be devastated
because there was no time for goodbyes',
nor to soften the blow
of shocking bereavement
with comforting words -
and because premature death is disrespectful
to the womb that nurtured her.
I MUST GET HOME...

A sensitive psychic
slows his car to pick her up.
He drives her all the way home.

He pulls up at the gate.
She opens the door and steps out...
into the lengthening shadows
of Blue Bell Hill.

TEENAGE SON

He rests on pillows all askew,
beneath duvet tied in knots
and peers with bleary eyes at you,
as he tells you he loves you lots.

It's just his way of placating you
in case you've tripped over the mess
and through the air headlong flew
like the nine-fifteen express!

'Mind my I-Pad!' he mumbles in
that familiar half-asleep way.
You want to scold, but hold it in.
'Are you getting up today?'

But there's no reply as he's back to sleep.
So you pause to gaze around
at the shambles of a massive heap
of technology gone to ground.

His clothes are discarded in disarray
all over the beer stained floor
and so you tidy them all away,
then head for the bedroom door.

But your foot becomes entangled in
a spaghetti junction of cables
that make up an assault course within
the arc of his play station tables.

You stumble and land upon the bed,
waking him up with a start.
'Mum! Please be careful where you tread!'
he implores you from the heart.

But all you see are the coffee stains -
noodle and curry too,
splattered over duvet cover. How it pains
you, for this one you've just bought new.

He's exasperating, he's the bane of your life.
He drives you to distraction.
He brings you nought but anxiety and strife -
yet a certain satisfaction.

For in spite of his faults, he's all you have:
your friend, your inspiration.
He's the child you thought you'd never have -
your miracle of creation.