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.
Tag: literature
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,
dreaming
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.