Haiku #531

531.

Only dreams will be
The means, the lonely plaza
Where our futures meet.

Dreams Of My Father

Two excessively-sized
Ketchup bottles stood
On a lounge floor,
Tangible labels
With a maker’s name
Imprinted, a brand
I did not recognise.
Before disappearing,
A dog knocked over
A shiraz-gladdening glass
On to a green sofa,
We watched that wine
As thick as bloodlines
Slowly fall on to a
Sofa I now owned
And you did not.
Slow motion too,
The substance absorbed.
I implored my mother
Who had just appeared
From nowhere at all
To rush through the hall
To the kitchen, for salt
Would reduce the opportunity
Taken by that liquid’s blot,
But you have to be quick
In these situations
And, sadly, she was not.
I did not think it
Implausible
That the one time
She stood in the same room
As you through forty years
Of stubborn lamentations was
At your cremation and wake,
Yet here she was in a space
Fetching salt for a wound
In the universe’s clockface,
Where through me these days
Flow all such forms
I’ll ever deserve.
You took down a door
From its hinges with
A gentle, deliberate force
Just to shout to the boys
Upstairs in their rooms
Presumably, those friends
Who had not aged at all,
Turn your music down,
Although we heard no
Sounds penetrating
Floorboards,
And no-one gave the
Implications of that door
And excessive force
A second thought.

Interchangeable scenes
Between life and a screen
Where inside we see
A film, and next, a magician
Who walked on night-waters
Where I have floundered,
Who made toothpaste appear
In a celebrated
Mathematician’s
White shirt pocket.
A window in that lounge
Morphed into a doorway
Which opened on to a street,
I mean literally on to
The central reservation
Of a busy urban arterial way
In to a city I recognised
In some respects and not
In others, for it existed
And at the same time it did not.
We were to meet in a restaurant
And had separated to browse
In different shops. An album
Landed in my hand, two discs
Of music I did not buy
And did not want.
Inside a store,
Miscellaneous goods and
Purple fonts, lewd record sleeves
And no DVD of the one I wanted
To buy you left in stock.
Some of the residents dressed
In Fenland ways I had not seen
For decades. I passed by bars
Filled with unreal people
Returning to you,
A cathedral, restorations,
A palace with three children
And I thought the extent
Of a garden
As extensive as theirs
Is a privilege in this city.
I carefully parked a car
In a nearby parking lot.
A game in a programme,
Or a programme in a game
To entertain the citizens,
I refused to play and they
Wanted me to place my hands
In two see-through bags filled
With red ants and foliage
Before I departed.
A disappointed bag-handler
Shifted again in to
An actress who held me close,
We kissed as though our
Lives were martyred,
And her single kiss
Flew me back to you,
Where you walked on
City walls at pace,
Talking passionately
To nobody else
About the psychopathy
Of Roman emperors.

I can’t remember how we
Ended these scenes, nor how
I awoke in to blue mornings,
To a world where imaginations
From children are stolen,
If indeed
I ever did.

Ode To A Jug Of Milk

These dreams pour
In to me with fluidity,
Like milk from a jug,
Like clotted cream, from
A place in time both
New and old to certain
Degrees, where I am not
As one would be, when
Awake in passive daily
Routines. This drink
Plays tricks on me,
A mind as arid as
Deserts devoid of oases
And mysteries sealed in
Camel humps and dunes
That burn beneath my feet.
Too eager to be deceived,
I gave away my fortune
For its cornucopia
In return received;
I opened the throat of
My soul to swallow
Molten gold, and in
Flowed milk from the
Dreams of a goat.

Crows assemble
On timelines scratched
Across the planets
In my palm. A caw,
And the awful liquid pours
Through my stomach,
Through duodenum walls;
These organs worked hard
Behind the scenes for
Decades. Assortment of
Bellows and pumps,
Light industries,
Where will the substance
Pour instead when at
Cellular levels
And levels of lux
I am composting the dead
Autumn borders of
A farmer’s garden;
He who sows, I haven’t met.

I survive the nightly
Poisoning, an attempted
Abduction with chlorophyll
And monkshood. I wake
To a dawn chorus.
Such structures men
Conceive in seahorse
Dreams, in prison cages
Far removed from the sound
Of thrushes warbling,
And the downpouring
Of cups of tea.

The Baleful Foal

Dreams swept down
Through the dale-deep village,
Seeking the sockets of sleeping
Minds and restless feet,
The muscles of the dreams
Are deep, but their feathers
Flowing over yeomen
Who kept their watch
With tired eyes
Are light.

A flock of omens,
A snoring of speech,
Like snake-throated
Cloud-birds hunting in pairs,
Reaching with blood
On their talons for
The granules of sight,
As rain falls from the loft
The grains plummet and
Nourish fertile fields,

Unobserved, unfelt,
Where mattocks tilled and
Machinery harrowed,
As sparrowhawks strafe
The wakes of mice,
So too the roots of
Their subconsciousness
Received the seeds
Of food, for sustenance.
I also encountered those

Dreams sheltered within
Other dreams,
Like a pregnant horse
Safe in waning hays
And felt-ceilinged stable,
You slept in the folds
And the hairs of a mare,

While I lay awake
In dark latent aches of

The baleful foal.

DNR

It was akin to striking him
With stage fright, imprisoning
His freedom of speech
Just like Carlotta the Parisienne;
A toad in his throat, sand-snakes
Under his skin, the imposter
Fluffed and fumbled his lines
From a script which was written
At the same time, instantaneously,
As he seized at air and gasped
Within the choke-hold grip of life.
Impositions are the maestro’s delight,
To see a man stumble in fright and
Mortified by audiences hidden
In the stalls and boxes and gods.
The first time, the God of Humiliation
Aided and abetted their captivity
By shoving him forwards naked;
The baying socialites paid for the sight
With old-fashioned notes and pennies:
Registrars and midwives, anaethetists,
Many of whom died in later times
And were themselves untrained and naked
When pushed out again, memory-wiped,
On to that self-same stage on
A distant fatherless Friday night.

My body is a hotch-potch cobbling
Of artefacts unique and yet
Paradoxically commmonplace,
Strange ambivilant occupants
And oblivious as pebbles
Compacted violently inside me.
Food groups brew in the
Iron cauldrons of my organs
To form the seven moods –
Cauliflower’s gristle in my pancreas
And broccoli for my spleen,
Bulbourethral glands steal
Calcium converted to
Fool’s gold, such colours
Inside me remain untold,
Like ambergris in my heart
Which every morning restarts
Despite my protestations,
Despite the actor’s appeals
He fossilized with poetic arts,
And named that poem DNR.