_ _ _ _ Facial hermeneutics _ _ _ _

                             In  the  space  between

                                                                                your glance

                                 and my take on its

meaning

                                  there is a fog of


                                     need-hope/
                                     hope-need:


                              the source of all texts.

Skidding

Do you remember when
the puddles froze over and
with your grip-worn school shoes
you launched yourself upon that tiny rink?

Skidding, sailing, blurring.
Gliding above the asphalt,
your step smearing into infinity.

And when you first controlled
the wobbling wheel of your bike
and your balance came good
pedalling down the driveway triumphant.

Steering, turning, rolling.
Crunching down the gravel,
your momentum gathering pace.

What about when you first took off
careering down a wave?
You felt the board surge beneath you
and a new rush soared within.

Dropping, bursting, cruising.
Elation in the sea,
your heart pounding with victory.

En el norte de Ñuñoa (my first draft of my first poem in Spanish)

En el norte de Ñuñoa,
camino por las calles calladas.
Cada día conociendo más los detalles tranquilos,
conociendo el calor de las esquinas verdes,
y convirtiéndome en las aceras mismas.

Estoy cambiando, paso por paso.
Pisoteo el perfume de las floraciones caídas
inhalando las explosiones añiles de las jacarandas.
Aspiro nuevas tonalidades, una bocanada de pinturas.

En las mañanas me uno al flujo ascendente.
Nos elevamos a los nacimientos del día,
a las fuentes de la corriente diaria,
hacia la cordillera que forma el nido ciudadano.

Aunque entrecierro, mantengo mi cabeza en alto
cuando se libera el cautivo nocturno de su cama montañosa.

Ojos desnudos, con iris abiertos,

me deleito del baño pajizo.

En el descenso facil de la tarde,
fuera de la agresión ruidosa de Vespucio,
escucho los regadores siseando,
rociando una canción de cuna pacificante.

El el norte de Ñuñoa
tenemos nuestro propio mundo
perturbados solo por el sistema de alerta
del equipo de perros
aullando al Universo.

Santiago, Chile

The brimming heart of this strip of earth
beats so softly, the flow is thick
and its lungs are starved
it strains to grow
and live.

It owes its all to the care of the range
bright strong looming mountains
make a soothing presence
a motherly nest
of grace.

Moral primer

When I think of

politics and views of

value in my eye,

The question is:

Who are you competing with?

And why?

We swim in deeper rivers now

You walked past my wave,
And then turned at my touch.

You dropped your things; nervous, on edge.

"You're the same", I thought, and smiled, 
As I watched your flustering shame,
As I took in your eyes once again.

The air was dull and cold, a winter's day. 

We hugged; you felt familiar, 
So slight and yet so real.
Warm, beloved, delicate, I pulled you close.
How has it been so long?

With instant growing feeling, we set off together, 
Catching threads of life between us,
Cascades of joy undammed.

So much to say, we talked at pace
Without fear of silence.
Different journeys of the heart, 
The distance we had to cover,
Yet conversation flows like milk. 
Nothing is small talk, nothing hidden.

We cleared up hazy memories,
Reeling in the years gone by.
A night in London somewhere.

The subject turns to old letters kept, and we 
Check the bonds have been preserved.
A stable pact, our common mischief.
We laugh at old Blur lyrics, sing some Frank Black.
Eddies of feeling stir with new vigour.

We soon decide to drink all day.
Our eyes start to linger, I swim in your gaze.
You tell me not to leave,
But you know I could never do that,
Not for any duty.
An old hook, a new line.

Once we paddled upstream, not quite innocent, 
But so much river has flowed since then.
Now we play in stronger currents.

The elation surges, now I feel it again
This fervent spring stoppled for too long.
"So, what about that desert island, huh?"

**

But no, we can't. We have to stop.
Things aren't the same. We need to think.
Look away or I'll look back.
If you moan like that I won't forget it.

I'll tell you how.
Not here, not now. Another world.
But this is it. The present chance.
This the absolute, the realest thing,
Undiluted by time.
The mind swirling through sensual motion
And raging ardour, pulsing fast.

**

Suddenly, the spell was broken, 
The tractor beam switched off.
My mind tried to collect itself,
From where it had been floating, triumphant.
The pangs begin.
You're not mine.

"You're the same", I thought, and wondered,
as I watched your flustering shame,
as I took in your eyes once again.

Wars & Just Cause. What would you kill or die for?

PART ONE: reflections on hard-won liberties.

They say they died for freedom,
and if that is really true,
then they always will be heroes,
and we should pay our dues.

Such bravery and trust they showed,
like lions to the slaughter,
and year on year they volunteer,
their grandsons and granddaughters.

Noblemen once went to war,
with workers side by side;
in olden days we hear of kings
who fought for England's pride.

Those in charge today no doubt
would like some glory too,
but do you think this government
would die for me or you?

Now it seems, for us at least,
that wars are far away;
other lands can be the stage,
where they don't have a say.

They started it, it wasn't us,
We didn't want to fight,
We're stepping in to help,
you see, we're on the side of right.

We're lucky, we're the winners,
though we lost much along the way,
at least we're free, well, more or less,
and must be grateful every day.

All those young men gave precious lives,
to fight against oppression,
but how can bombs and drone strikes
be the way to end aggression?

It's right to fight for justice,
for the whole human race,
but war is not the way to
make the world a better place.

PART TWO: what are we killing for?

I wouldn't kill for Britain,
NATO or the EU.
I wouldn't kill for glory,
or a Western point of view.

I wouldn't kill for money,
how ever much they offer.
I wouldn't kill for corporations,
to help to fill their coffers.

I wouldn't kill for history,
the past is in the past.
I wouldn't kill for vengeance,
a grudge should never last.

I wouldn't kill a criminal,
however gross his crime.
I wouldn't kill for leisure,
or just to pass the time.

I wouldn't kill for anger,
for hate or thoughtless rage,
Tantrums are for tiny kids,
I've learned to act my age.

I wouldn't kill for property,
Not mine or yours or ours.
I wouldn't kill for an easy life,
for duvets or hot showers.

I wouldn't kill for politics,
economics or for oil.
Not even for the landscape,
though I love this blessed soil.

I wouldn't kill for Jesus,
though they say he died for me.
The only true religion,
is to love humanity.

I wouldn't kill for knowledge,
to be infinitely wise.
I wouldn't kill for honour,
in anybody's eyes.

I wouldn't even kill for truth,
and never for a lie.
I wouldn't choose who gets to live,
and who deserves to die.

I've thought about just cause,
and what counts as decent grounds.
I wouldn't kill for any idea,
however smart it sounds.

I wouldn't kill for animals,
though I feel for them a lot.
They may be close to us indeed,
but humans they are not.

I would only kill to save a life
of my fellow human souls.
To protect is not to murder,
they're entirely different goals.

I'd kill to save my family,
my loved ones and my friends.
I'd kill to save my own life,
but not as means to ends.

I'd kill to save an innocent,
from this country or another.
For every life is special,
and all men are my brothers.

For Rosasharn - A poem inspired by Steinbeck

A poem inspired by one of my favourite books: The Grapes of Wrath and by the work of Woody Guthrie and Bruce Springsteen

For Rosasharn

Wheels tumbling West
Scratching over dry land
Driven directly by dreams of dignity
Leaving trails of bitter dust

Some roots just won't pull up
and Grandpa had to lay down
It's too far over the blood-red mesas
The dimming sun is looking tired

The highway's only half alive
Punctured souls are heading back
The promised land is a mirage
Now who knows which way to turn

The machine of change is grinding fast
Store prices far from labour's fruit
And now the insult of fallow land
New power thrives when men compete

The preacher finds a calling true
Authentic lives of soil and growth
But guns and money won't stand down
So he founds a life of standing up

Where dreams of hope are dying cold
Children cry and men fight for food
Tom Joad's ghost is always there
In the purer power of hands turned to help another
Or the sharing of a mother's milk

Woody Guthrie's "Ballad of Tom Joad"
Bruce Springsteen's "Ghost of Tom Joad" feat. Tom Morello

Pub Gardens and other pleasures

Pub gardens, spring flowers,
Night music, small hours.

Hilly landscapes, long hikes,
Country lanes, pedal bikes.

Summer evenings, drunken chat,
Fresh rivers, a new hat.

Going camping, cut grass,
Crispy bacon, cute ass!

Autumn leaves, bonfire smoke,
Stunning clouds, a great joke.

Blown-out candles, donkeys' ears,
Nieces dancing, local beers.

Getting logs in, winter chill,
Friends laughing, free will!

Nostalgia for times past,
Renewed hope: let it last.