Grandparents die.
It’s what they do.
Though it may be sad
it is not
unexpected
and so somehow it does not
quite
seem to count.

Parents … parents should be immortal.
Immutable, unshakable, eternal anchors;
an origin and homecoming
that never, ever, fades.
When they die
it seems like a trick;
as though they conspired with Life
and cheated for no reason.
Changed the rules;
dealt from the bottom of the pack.
Stole the sweets
from a bewildered, uncomprehending child
now stood,
empty-handed,
momentarily, perpetually, frozen
waiting for the world to wind back
to the way it should be.

Ankle
biter
Tug
fighter
Garment
render
Skin
bruiser
Sleep
despoiler
Life
up-setter
Bed
shredder
Floor
wetter
Net
consumer
Shameless
abuser
Heart
confuser

And they call it
puppy  love?

Sometimes it seems the poems don’t come.
I pretend that I don’t know why;
resort to cliché –
– They’re like buses …
– It’s a muse thing …
– The moment has to be right …
and other blatant
flagrant
lies.

In truth I know
why the poems don’t come.
It’s because of Stuff.
Stuff gets in the way.
Stuff distracts.
Necessary Stuff, like work.
Chosen Stuff, good Stuff:
friends; this band; that band;
the things you do because It’s Right.
Beautiful loved Stuff that moves around the house
talking, singing, chuntering;
appearing behind me to happily plant
a kiss
on my ungracious head.

Yes, it’s Stuff that gets in the way,
devours the time,
occupies the space
where the poems want to be.

But … even that is a lie,
or at best half-truth.

For without Stuff
without beauty and busy and friendship and love
without family and tension and annoyance and
Stuff
there would be no point
no muse
no reason or rhyme.

Stuff may delay, but it cannot stop;
Stuff is source
as much as block.

You can’t blame the Stuff
for not taking small time;
for stopping up ears
and screwing closed eyes;
for shutting down heart
and blanding out soul.
Stuff does not have
that final word
on how you choose
to look
listen
and learn;
on what you let in
and what you close down.

I do not always treasure
the questions
Sometimes a little proof
would be nice
A nugget of knowledge
irreducible
irrefutable
something tangible
to carry one through

I see certainty in some and
 - with a touch of conflicted envy -
wonder
how do they know
what must they feel
how can they not see
that
whilst I agree
admire
even desire
it simply
isn't that simple
(A pantomime aside:
   Oh yes it is
   Oh no it isn't
     (repeat
     to no meaningful conclusion))

I see certainty
in others
that chills like fever late at night
Their
(sightless) eyes wide open
(knowing) minds locked down
(empty) hearts burning
with a cold
cold
passion
that brings neither love
nor joy
The rubble of their passing
fear
hate
conflict
potential turned to ash

So whilst certainty eludes me
and the questions crowd on in
I guess I'll dwell in the tension
certain
of the certainty I prefer 
to remain uncertain in

I remember a time
when I was a boy
standing
crying
in a sunlit playground

Not because I was hurt
alone
or afraid
But because my friends were shouting
urging, encouraging,
willing me to take the winning shot
in a game I rarely won

I refused
kicked the ball away
as they shouted louder still
while my opponent lay
ankle twisted
crying tears of his own

So I stood
and I cried
Whilst my friends saw a chance
at sweet, uncommon victory
I saw only
unfair advantage
injustice
another in pain
So my friends
they yelled in my face
and my friends
they did not understand

Now
looking back
having studied life's lessons and
learnt them too well
now
I'd find a
pragmatic
solution, take the win
yet satisfy honour
but still
I wish
I wish
I wish I were that boy again
because I fear
he
was a better man
than
the one that he became

In the small hours
to find
whilst on a necessary trip
there
on the landing
a dead mouse
we used to think
was the worst thing

To find
in the pitch black
the bare-foot squelch
of half a mouse …

Thanks cat
you bastard

It feels good
to hear a loved one say
they cannot conceive of life without you
The air glows suffused with golden motes
bird song ripples with sweet light clarity
and a warm scented breeze
caresses your soul
as your feet tread thinly on air

To be told
down the line
that they cannot conceive
life with you
that is a very different thing
The world fades away
shifts sideways onto a parallel groove
a vibrant, sharp, colourful reality
to be moved through yet
not quite touched
like a second-class ghost
double-exposed over a once familiar scene

To know throughout
that the first
almost inconceivably
trumps the second
that though desert sand blows across the surface
beneath lie unshakeable
irreducible
unknowable foundations
that is a feeling
beyond mere words
a goodness and anchor
to cherish and rest in
secure beyond reason
a blessed assurance
returned without doubt

“My Father’s house
has many rooms,”
you said.
This is good
I’m bringing lots of baggage.