Three Poems

Wet Morning
Cool air and whey sky.
Greetings shared with passers by.
Early rain showers;
the sun a rumour.
Proto day; baby light.
Stray raindrops play
and a puddle smiles
There is intimacy in this,
and childhood revisits;
wet grass on a morning mile.
Day is not drudgery;
never mundane,
when plinky plonky raindrops
and bowed dripping leaves
replenish gutter drains.
Silence the Voices
Silence the voices
that speak other words.
Extinguish them,
choke them,
flush them like turds.
Diversity counts
when we tell you it does.
Justice seen best
when you see as we do;
for equality vests
in our own worldview.
Join up,
gang up
on voiced dissent.
Label it nastily,
call it unceasingly.
In a struggle it's necessary
for the right side of history.
Black becomes white;
wrong morphs to right;
when you fight for the cause,
and demand the right.
Until nothing is true
and it's dark as night.
The Visit
Night dreams from nowhere
thunder through an unsuspecting sleep,
slashing and bruising.
Pass like a storm front, and just as fast.
Disturbing, turbulent, deeply troubling,
they blast a well ordered world out of the water;
leaving it bobbing in their wake.
Sleep steals back;
repairing, soothing, until first light
brings a cloud of wellbeing;
caresses of mother unknown and father unseen.
Outside time,
in the presence of power not understood,
seek space, and savour creation.
Delicious detachment;
intrinsic, elemental,
flows from the source; inexhaustible.
You want for nothing. You are whole.
In a place beyond knowing,
something, wholly other, holds you tenderly,
as if you matter.
For days afterwards
you circle the memory of that morning,
probing; wondering how to respond.
You ask:
“What happened?”
“Why me?”

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