Eyes Wetted In Poignant Beauty


We are born continuously,
from the womb of night
into day. Shall every shape
and sound secure your welcome?

Yes, it will. The building hums
its ventilation, monitors
and roof lights can show
enough to know enough.

Delight and Disappointment,
equally important,
shall satisfy emotional security.


The skin!, these bodies!, tight and loose,
the new in swimming nappies, the old
with youth, the truth of the progression
through the stages, evolution in filtration
systems, the lighting by the window
and the roof!, the magnificence of standing
unassisted, and eventually the hydroslide
alone, woosh! into the water pooled below,
the ginger, blonde, the black, the Indian,
the fat bulge out front in swimming gear
wet and contoured, the efficient mind
that cares not how it looks, concentrated
effort unselfconsciously perfecting its employment
as immersion tool for spirit, Essence, life
at the beauty of enjoyment, with the fullness
of a child learning walking; the herculean patience
as you recognise disorder in the pattern, the
schedule, as the child who adores you refuses to exit the pool.


No, I love the movies, they are like poetry:
so many made, so many awful movies
and occasionally an offering arises
so genuine and unified— from location
-scouts to all of postproduction,
that will lift me shifting something in the uplift.
Less work in a Poem, certainly, the Economy
won’t register the brilliance— Bukowski
and Billy Collins: there’s an odd grouping
of poetry sales Economics hardcovers
with international shipping. My
movie today: it is morning, Friday;
Mingus asleep in the van, his mother talking
through the movie, takes— tries— takes
my hand as three, then six Spoon Bills
move amongst gulls and swifts & pipi’s,
wading the draining estuary.
Mingus awake now, lays at the open van door,
his tight skin is white below his underwear,
then croissant-brown to his toes.
He looks at me, baby freckles and man eyes,
at the scene on the bright mirror of wet mud
appearing in this summer hour after high tide
with what I expect is the same wonder
and peace of existence inside the calm
of free time warmed with beauty and grace;
only four days Holidays remain; Primary
School years finished, my Dear what a beautiful
…excuse me, I’m cry-leaking Well-being.




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