Rg Gregory Poems

a cold bright sun
two days to christmas
a first-quarter moon
at a good vantage-point

a small white coffin
driven slowly uphill
from the cemetery gate
to the minimal grave

fifty people attending
unexpected collection
of nettle-stung hearts
at a barely-lived dying

a shuffling past yews
thoughts finding rhythm
a lightness that bred
from a silent aceptance

a red-arrowed plane
in single formation
scissored the sky's blue
above the procession

sagittarian arrow
a sizzling of fire
an unconscious dipping
of wings in salute

to a baby whose burning
from birth to departing
took thirteen fast days
from rain into sunshine

till almost the hilltop
the hole with its mound
a circle of people
shared its raw hollow

no vicar no service
a speaking of poems
cotoneaster sprigs
dropped into the grave

the red plane returned
cut its own circle
honoured the sunlight
and passed by the moon

from a treetop nearby
a sharp-singing blackbird
trilled its objective
gold-beaked lullay

the grave was filled in
the high hill deserted
and down in the valley
a rare christmas came
...

the great thing about the tall white daisy
is that it knows how to laugh at itself

some flowers for all their rich displays
won't preen themselves without a primness

in their sap - nor let their stalks abide
bending this way that way in the thick wind

the large daisy is happy to be slapdash
is not snooty about the company it keeps

it does have a flair for being noticed
it's the way it lets its petals out (ragged

and not wanting everyone the same)
that appeals to nervous garden sufferers

(weary with pretending flowers per se are
god's gift to the dull earth and somehow

the human race is privileged to be there)
the daisy knows everything there is to know

about not taking yourself too seriously - about
relaxation and how to be naturally yogic

how to be part of the rough common stock
yet have a whiff of the immortal about you

a patch of such daisies growing artlessly
contains the dreams of all good health
...

i want to hold the horse's string
cried the girl (three) stamping her foot
told by adults she was much too young
the black horse stood staring at the wall

it worries us you may get hurt
the adults whispered - meaning to offer
comfort to the little madam (not convinced)
the black horse stood staring at the wall

i'm stronger than any old black horse
the child shouted parading round the ring
thinking she was the star turn at the circus
the black horse stood staring at the wall

well i suppose.....take care ....ok
the adults muttered full of apprehension
the girl (three) poised - flexing her muscles
the black horse stood staring at the wall

now take the lead and grip it tight
they sighed fluttering hands like pigeons
she scoffed at the soft instructions
the black horse stood staring at the wall

it's easy-peasy lemon-cheesy
she triumphed (but doing as they asked)
the adults tried to swallow their fear
the black horse stood staring at the wall

so off to the man in the moon
the girl (three) laughed jerking the lead
swelling to the size of a goddess
the black horse reared like pegasus's colt

don't wait for me - i could be ages
the girl (three) sang to the shrinking adults
as the black horse leapt above the wall
the flowering cherries and the church spire

when i'm a grown-up - then i'll come
was the last the adults heard as the horse
and the girl (three) changed into pinpoints
and the world collapsed to its dull old self
...

when
one summer
everything opened out
and nobody close by
was quick enough
with needle and gut
to stitch the blue sky away
from all that fresh flesh
how we splashed about
in the red lake

daggers skimmed in and out
of each other's wake
like speedboats
thirsting for death
...

the two hands of me make inimical gestures
that only long after betray the one tune

though they have the same taste in throats
they go to their crime disgusted with kinship

the right has to act as if crazy for order
the left as a dawdler dangling by water

on sundays they plan suicides for each other
splitting time's atoms or drowning in feathers

between them i can't shape my own signposts
if i go out of doors i end up inside me

on mondays though jobs have to be done - throats
walk the pavements for hands to look out for

i use one palm with the other's fingers
that way i get the blood for both worlds
...

by a dank and ancient coffin
in the gaunt and gloomy hall
alone and sighing deeply
crouched the sorriest crone of all
her worn hands clutched a feather
her eyes were sore with tears
her lips were mumbling slowly
through the burdens of her fears
her clothes were drab and tattered
her body drooped and old
she waited waited waited
her blood let in the cold
she waited waited waited
a chill draught killed her sighs
day slunk down from the windows
night spied with its evil eyes
the mildewed sagging curtains
dragged on the harsh stone floor
and the fitful crash re-echoed
of the limping thickset door
a distant churchbell gloated
a groan grew in the trees
a shudder of horror shook the coffin
the crone sank to her knees
the coffin lid was lifting slowly
a weird light glowed within
and a hand as thin as a chicken's claw
seized the crone and pulled her in
...

begin at a chapter you have read before
with new words and a new hand turning
the pages where the print vibrates and the white
paper runs in a stream of many colours

stand with a new light at your shoulder
and wander slowly through familiar doors
into tomorrows no shadows yet have trodden
or come in an old way to a new place

and there i think you will find me entering
from the other side along the same path
carrying my heart in a silver rosebowl
and you in the palace of my heartbegin at a chapter you have read before
with new words and a new hand turning
the pages where the print vibrates and the white
paper runs in a stream of many colours

stand with a new light at your shoulder
and wander slowly through familiar doors
into tomorrows no shadows yet have trodden
or come in an old way to a new place

and there i think you will find me entering
from the other side along the same path
carrying my heart in a silver rosebowl
and you in the palace of my heart
...

against their beliefs a blue spot came slowly
out of the green

nobody expected such a thing to occur
on a thursday

the watchers switched over from their electronic
eye to their notes

the evidence undeniably placed thursday as the day
of the pink circle

they recorded having seen another pink circle
in a strange light

which had (explainably) created the illusion of
being a blue spot

(blue from green on a thursday meaning disaster)
no one need panic

to ease minds they laid a complaint against the probity
of the machine

the next thursday the pink circle again appeared
to be a blue spot

the watchers congratulated themselves upon the circle's
sense of humour

and on the next thursday the earth came out in a
rash of blue spots

the watchers (finding themselves sitting on one) were
the first to die
...

whirligig twister
dancer prancer
st vitus's quester
chancer romancer

the inkman cometh
from that nether world
where dream and coincidence
are darkly furled
accident rubbed him
into puzzling light
he is what he isn't
(he's the geist of zeit)

whirligig twister
dancer prancer
st vitus's quester
chancer romancer

he cannot move
but he never stops
particle-wave
(ask the science-cops)
all creation swirls
from his restless frame
he isn't what he is
that's the inkman's game

whirligig twister
dancer prancer
st vitus's quester
chancer romancer


(ii) ninkam poop

so this the inkman's alter ego
the fool who shadows us
wherever we go
he can't get right a thing in the light
desperately wants to be our amigo
but he knows us
knows us

knows us from the inside out
each beat of the heart
(he's in with a shout)
sets him dancing (call it prancing)
he's what the dreamt world's all about
and we're just à la carte
à la carte

to him his à la carte (his me
and you) his raison d'etre
such a fool â€" we can't be-
lieve he's a manifest of our mutual quest
to live to the full fate's strange decree
etcetera
etcetera

etcetera â€" wow â€" this idiot
poop the inkman bringeth
(proof he's what he's not)
is the sum already of our going steady
(on even keel â€" patiently - why not)
and why not he singeth
danceth

danceth our lot (our ninkam poop)
our nobility of folly
(our life's amazing scoop)
the making of joy from almost lost alloy
an astonishing loop the loop
by two half off their trolley
how jolly
...

the red man says hello
the green tree says i'm here
all grown-ups are sleeping
only the children hear

decorations are delighted
presents hug the floor
the room in its festive hat
hides behind the door

through the glittering day
two worlds split the one
grown-ups lose their tempers
children have the fun

the red man says goodbye
the green tree says next year
grown ups are exhausted
only the children hear
...