Polite Animals

The dogs are waiting patiently for
any hand to feed;
the birds line up in neat little galleries;
the cats bob their heads – good day, good day –
as they saunter the streets in
their white-glove affairs.
We see the human in them,
we think, though perhaps,
humans are simple and
quite polite animals.

is this hate

is this hate or
an interruption of the lungs,
is this a feeling or
a portent of death;
is this what I am
when no-one is looking;
is this what I seek
when all else has been found?

What Are You Waiting For?

The perfect day will never arrive –
always some issue,
some delayed bus or
failed exercise;
the best we can do is admire it
like brushstrokes caked into the painting –
does that not add something,
make it something more than ideal –
something human?

The Me In The Mirror

The me in the mirror is truest of all,
seen from without –
all image, no substance,
a stranger in shape,
familiar yet backwards,
and yet if I focus
and contort my thought,
I can imagine this stranger
thinking, feeling,

Does Time Pass In Heaven?

Have all the Choirs learned to code
and do the saved souls of sinners spend their ever-summer
learning pickleball and piano,
reading the books of living men and
laughing at how good the future is,
how hard life was;
have the Saints any hobbies?
Experimental painting, maybe,
or sculpture, clay-work,
the growing of edible mushrooms,
small or large gardens where even the weeds luxuriate in bloomings –
and if not, eternity must be
a mighty long emptiness.