Faces Poem by Mary Champion

Why,
when I gaze at random cracks on a wall;
tangled swirls in the floor tiles;
haphazard clouds
or incidental splashes of paint,
do I see faces?
unmistakable faces.
Is that the default setting
of my optic nerves,
or my brain,
to make faces from chaos?

Across the world
men have studied the moon and found,
amidst the shadows,
the trace
of a face.

Stir the froth on your coffee
or your beer and
chances are
like magic - you see
it appear,
in that space-
a face!

The fire flames flicker
in the downdraft and,
if you watch carelessly,
you will see grotesque,
but indisputable faces
in places
you'd never expect them to be.

There's a wizened old man!
There's a horse.
And there -
such a cute little mouse.
Inebriate lines
seem to trace
the shape of a face.

At twilight,
on the skyline,
that misshapen tree
just has to be
a witch.
In profile-
hooked nose
meets hooked chin.
See a face - In the tracery.

A stray strand of spaghetti
slips from my fork
drawing the shape
of a face
on the floor.

The ketchup I poured on my burger
flowed into a face.
Scorch marks on my toast
are the most
striking yet.
surely I recognise Jesus.

They've found him in melons,
on rotten bananas,
in peppers,
in doughnuts
and half eaten tomatoes.
But my slice of toast
is the closest likeness
to his imagined face.
Ever!

On the face of it,
farcical.
But facing the facts
I cannot dispute
that chaos
inclines to make faces.