The Edge

I love the swirl of purloined thoughts that
float in and out of my head
when I’m on the verge of sleep,
when plans for tomorrow meld into
abstract images of rollercoaster carriages
that hurtle along tracks in a honey sea of
green and purple and orange and alabaster filigree,
then emerge from the depths in a
fountain of four-winged pelicans
who sour over white-capped mountains
that forever change their shape

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The Man Who Lost Himself

The man who lost himself woke up one morning,
an ordinary morning, just like any other.
And realised he had lost himself.
Well, perhaps not lost – perhaps just ‘misplaced’.
Perhaps, just ‘overlooked’.
He checked all the usual places he might be –
in his bed, because it was still quite early –
throwing back the rumpled covers.
And, of course, on the veranda
where he always liked to sit
and watch the changing light.
But there was no one there,
no one anywhere,
no one smiled, and sprang up
to shake his hand…and say, “At last, there I am!”

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Poem for Michael Jackson (1958 – 2009)

Wired, the monkey on your back chatters and frets away sleep
with nervous come-back logic, with ass-kick dance routines:
slow-slip, heel-back moonwalk, freeze, turn round and shudder
when you wake at 2am you’re still, amazingly, Michael Jackson.
Turn back with the signature moves all down see the crowd’s
excitement arc on opening night to a perfect broken leg of fame:
So far, 157 million units sold; even when you’re born to it, it’s insane! 

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