Imagine an angel from distant space, an alien being who in being alive Surpassed all we thought we would see in this life, She placed hands on my shoulder, and stepped to the mic, Seemingly composed entirely of white light, and her eyes Turned their shine to outside… she looked at the earth, And she asked me, what's it like… so I began to describe… This is planet earth, population seven billion, Most of those are judged by their material worth, Here on this world, those billions of stories combine And we care about a small few of those at a time, Our telescopes poke distant galaxies, (44) But of our own realities we're consistently blind. Where I live, we will cry at the depiction of fictional lives Our emotions twisting inside, fixing our eyes on scenes Of soap drama sadness. The real madness is that real life Does not draw forth the same reaction, we watch mass disasters, With abstract detachment, and change channel with fast distraction, As long as it does it not happen to me. I always walk by kids younger than me on the side of the street, I would spare change, but my feet need new nikes you see? These aren't quite white enough, see this cycle repeats And will continue when my recitals complete What can I do? But our planet, our planet is beautiful (1.21) It's oceans swirl beneath the suns embers that glow And December brings snow that ices mountain peaks, And drifts over green trees, fountains leap from springs To quench our thirst, but our thirst won't be quenched, And those trees from earth we wrench, Each generation more displaced from their roots The fruits of our work astound, We build to the skies, and yet we never look down 1.43 We strive to fly high, and forget to keep feet on the ground Lost souls… Some of us believe in a God, I'm not sure why, but he is supposed to be a man, And if we are created in his image, I imagine that he has a distaste for mirrors, For we do ugly things, considering we are obsessed with appearance, In my country, the banks are built with blood money, Their bricks mixed the mortar of memory, The cement of sweat and tears, formed from years of the slave trade Oh yes, when it comes to war, we humans make the A-Grade, And nothing spurs inventions, like the thrill of more hurtful weapons, We can kill you in a hundred ways, but contract aids, And you will not be saved, even less so depending on how much your paid Where I live the politicians increase their wage, But will refuse to admit in this day and age, that many here live without food, The poverty line will not wrinkle their foreheads. Yes, I live amongst this, and I accept it as given, I have never been driven to question this status quo, I save that for the Mother Theresa's, The Nelson Mandela's And the heroes closer to home, like my own mum Whose marrow draws arrows in my bones, pointing my limbs in the right direction, I walk sometimes, under nights protection, and sit by the sea, Watching the rolling waves stir gently at my feet. I think of my Grandfather's and of all those who have taken their leave, The fabric we have weaved on the tapestry of the pasts simple history, We make marks, even if they are never monumental, Humanity is given its name, by the solemn, gentle acts of kindness I am rarely brave enough to show. The fact is, that we come and go And our lives are a flash in the pan, a splash on the sand That will fade, but for a moment, it is an ocean in its own way We humans can love with a passion, and it drives us to ecstasy and despair To curses and prayers, to life, and to death. We still refuse to accept, that one life is no more important than the next, We judge on race, on sexuality, on sex, we judge on whatever difference We perceive to be left. I have never felt disease breath on my neck, For me it is no concern, my concern is what can I earn, On the best ways my small income can burn, I do not use it to light candles of I do not place my hands at right angles and pray, Some of the worst of us on earth, use God to get their way But still I have kept my faith, simple things like the exact hue That forms the colour blue, in the eyes of someone I love Reminds me there's something to hold, something to live for and die for, At twenty two, I am young and I stand before a minefield of mistakes Each one, I will at some point activate, What makes a human is picking up the pieces, not just scripting masterpieces, This is not art. This is heart. This is the conversion of converging rivers in my nervous system These are not pearls of wisdom, you have to live on your own terms, You will do fine if you learn from the wrong turns, Surviving on this earth will eventually kill you, But do it right, and you can be living, and it will thrill you, It will fill you with excitement, I compare it to the first night spent With one who shows you what life meant, and its meaning is not Explained by philosophers, by astronomers, by the psychologists, Nor poets who are destined to remained anonymous. Truth is, forget the meaning, turn your days to dreaming And your dreaming to days. For this is our world, We can do with an angel that stays

What if one day, the sun died, And you had 8 minutes and thirty five seconds To say your goodbyes. They say that a life flashes, and to the crimson skies, Alive with falling stars and meteorites, What would I see on this night, of my time here I would begin with child years, being pushed on a rusty yellow swing While my father sings behind me on a Thursday, I would see him arm in arm with my mother on my first birthdays, The next flash, I am riding a bike on the wet sand of a beach, The tide just slipping out of reach, the wheels spray my face With salt, and I am cheering, for the first time, I ride with the stabilisers off The next flash, I am watching my father leave, And part of me is wanting to say don't… don't go. The other half of me is saying don't return But with eight minutes on this earth, for what its worth I would say I forgive you. And if my future could unfurl, those words in person I would give you But what's the use? While the buildings crumble to dust, and mountains of proud nations Fall from foundations, raining grey satellites tumble from space And comets trace their roads above me… when everything scatters It is only then, to the lightning and my life that flashes I can see what matters And mostly none of it did, except the simple touch Of a loved one fingertips, that at the very last Stay entwined in your hands… Now they might save the sun, and with this in mind How would you live, if given another chance?

Little rain drops whip on the whitewashed walls and kitchen windows Where I sit alone on the shaky wooden table where fables and stories Unfurled from your words and our world was entwined, a young child Who smiled at the jokes you told. I'm just about to visit your ward, miracles Lord, miracles, Lord, please give us some more time, the spiritual thoughts Of my mother reside inside of my heart while I try to find Some words before you depart to summarise the binds and bonds, We shared in your life upon this earth. Grandfather your worth I immerse in this verse I rehearsed In the waiting weeks for the worst, for you gave me the words Which I work and weave into each breath that I breathe Still can't believe how quickly we grieve, seems a dream That only last month are hands shook and you danced up And down the garden kicking a rolled up pair of socks, Now you'll go where I'm not and I know your scared, Calling out for your brother in the night, we throw the prayers Skywards, looking in your eyes which cry silent When you read the words I write before your failing sight And the world pales to white. I don't know how to say goodbye, I don't know how to save a life, I don't know how to save your wife, So I wake in the night in cold sweats and shaking with fright Already thinking which phrase to recite At your funeral, soon you will be my happy memories, Teacher who was sent to me, with the wisdom of centuries How could you be meant to leave, and mentally we're broken Soaking in these elegies my pen strokes that when spoken Open wounds to one day close them. Remember we would cycle on the hill sides, With the wind in our eyes, what a thrill ride, Instilled pride to your grand kids, visit my school Taught lessons in your languish, a blessing that the anguish Was vanquished for so long, now so long and farewell Don't fare well for words, now your welfare is worse And we watch the nurse... tell comforting lies, Try to cushion demise, blood rushing inside And gushing from cancerous cells, a man who was hailed Strong and alive, dying next to me while the song that I write You will never read, I pray you that you rest in peace, And the pain that kept you leaves and your son Sean, Again you will meet. The rain beats on the street You are able to see, I wish the sun would shine And the grey would fade and retreat so light Would arrive and stay to complete the cycle of life, You're painfully weak, and in pain that we see What we have to see, but it's okay I'm here to the last my friend We laughed with friends in the living room of my student house Last year, while you hovered round and joked at the mess, I still hoped for the best, not knowing you'd be slowing Till they opened your chest and pressed pressure To coax out your breath, I'm broke and depressed, Lonely and stressed, same old clothes that I dress With the scent of ward 17, I never dreamed I'd ever see Scenes like these. Breaks my heart to hear saying that you'll go home To a farm, in Ireland where you spent your childhood, Fishing in seas, so cold that your fingers would freeze In the whistling breeze, and the grass rich and green WIth the sky dipped in the sheen of bright blue, I try to live in this dream but all I see is clinically clean Drips and beakers, uniforms and nervous speakers So I close my eyes, and I close my ears. I see you on a beach with old jeans rolled to the knees While the warm water flows to your feet, Over the worn golden soul then goes in retreat, Leaving the foam combing driftwood and white sand. Your slight hands opened to a palm and wave like the ocean Eyes bright with excitement, and quiet emotion Devotion to the next stage, so when the boat comes… You wade waist deep and climb in, say goodbye then Head to the horizon, wind in the sails, you sail From land farther. Safe journey, my beloved Grandfather.

It's just 58 days, since your friend Maurice Francis Baker, sailed away To embrace his maker, now on this morning dawn of mourning Your daughter called while the sun was pouring its rays over the glades Of your small garden, you will no longer walk in those shades. My dear grandfather, our last conversation was based on the trace Of infinite constellations, the stars whose dimensions when mentioned Had you lost in amazement, gazing at the dark nights from your arm chair My heart's prayer is that you find those stars and start there, For your next journey. Over open pages of your favourite naval ships and fighter jets, You would rest your eye on mine and inquire are you a writer yet? Now I regret that I had kept meaning to call, never dreaming you'd fall Into sleep deep enough never to be recalled on Easter Sunday. So our Goodbye I'd write on Monday, through the words That were pinned to your kitchen fridge like a badge of honour Your grandsons song of undying love and respect, My mother just left, closing the door quietly and stepped towards the sea To watch the waves on your favourite beach of the place Where you bathed in the peace of a small harbour, tasting the breeze Salt flicked over rowing boats, farmers sowing oats on the steep Fields by the coasts, you would sit by the small port cafe on the pier And peer back over the years that led you here. An orphan boy who formed his joy from books and stories, And all these you recall, nearly a century later - last night While you were still alive, I sat with a blank page and planned The story of your life, to show you one day that yes I was a writer, And my story was your story for you sat before me and I saw Life lines and rhymes shining from the lines of your features, Weathered by the reaches of time's hands, I held your palms In mine, and felt the strength of memory and experience, Pulse jumping with the richest tales, of the ships you sailed, And the first time you beheld a whale whose fins when flailed Were heavy enough to tip the scales, and turn your boat So the ocean would you would pitch in pails from the deck The motion of commotion, I picture well. These are the stories I'd wished to tell, but I wished more that you knew that I loved you. For I never once told you. Now I have no grandfathers, but I know though you believe in no afterlife, When those stars flash their lights like passing flights in the night, I will see your face. And laugh at the sight of your thick glasses. From behind which you saw the world change and still kept pace, Walking with a small cane, over the Yorkshire lanes - tap-tap-tap You are not far, for you will live between these margins, You live inside these written words, so I will still see You in the kitchen, waiting for me to arrive, eyes trained on the window In those days we would talk till the fire burned low and those eyes closed For the last time. I miss you. And it's been seven hours, in heaven's showers Of pain that rain I now know to never cower and forever tower Over grief, for it was you that would teach a young boy of five to be strong. And now from the world you rise to those skies, once again To find your beloved wife, and live another life. So fly from land farther Safe journey, my beloved grandfather.

I was not born, but I did begin, In conjunction, with the origin of all things, By your presumption, over those, you are called King Do not be too comfortable with such a crown For compared to me, the entire histories you have passed down, Are less than a raindrop in vast oceans, The seasons rise and fall to the tidal call of my motions All that you make, I will one day fade to nothing And long after the last of you are gone, my journey continues on Mark my passage in various ways, from the sundial to the satellite, My appetite, has the right to devour, minute by minute, hour by hour I am time. My rhythm may seem to possess the gentle tone and steady drone Of a metronome, but this is not true. Think about how I move differently for you? In the seconds of intense pain, I am stretched, Each heartbeat seems a century, one hundred years of blinding tears And jolting fears condensed to an never ending venture in heavy grief I split split seconds, and divorce them, filling the void, To kill and destroy in slow motion, I pause them in high resolution heartbreak The same applies to the moments of bliss, I can freeze the picture of lips in a kiss, On the foreheads of daughters and sons Born, under my watch, their life just begun. When a team has nearly won I move slow before celebrations And quick for the opponents losing in the greatest of sporting occasions, I will carry you all forward, and you have all bought a ticket On a one way ride, there are no return journeys, Once aboard you climb. Your track will wind, over valleys and peaks Through alleys and streets, beneath trees and over seas, In the shadow and sun, the hurricane winds, the coldest winters And beautiful springs, believe me for I mean it, The route will be scenic, and many will share your carriages, From first loves to marriages, you may stay together As close as you can to forever, and grow old, clutching one another Under my touch. Many will depart the ride, but you must continue That's part of life. How many times have you prayed that I would rewind? If only I reversed, you could return to your birth, And not make the same mistakes, If only I reversed, you would be there on time, To say goodbye when your best friend died If only I reversed, you could share one more talk With Grandparents and parents and families whose tickets, Took them less far, and ask their advice If only I reversed, you would save relationships Kill Hitlers and stop genocides, you would buy lottery scratch cards And hit the winning prize - From the altruistic, to the materialistic You wish that I would bend to your will, for after all you are humans The very same humans that ensure each war has a sequel So that history repeats, and then repeats again in movie scenes If only I reversed, you would still do it again without end. Some names will echo through my halls, but never eternity, For no one ever does, some names will never make my noticeboard But they are no less worthy, for in the eyes of time, You are all deserving to have your fair share, it is what you do with me, That is all important. I am a healer, or I feed the fires of bitterness, I can turn best friend to stranger, and stranger to best friend A lover to an enemy, and back to a lover again. I will change opinions and only from me, can you access wisdom So the young man that wrote this poem, Is far too ignorant to understand my systems He cannot do me justice in rhyme. I am before you. I am after you. Now, I call time.

The day faded, a pinkish smear that slowly turned to an ocean Churning blue-black. Clouds as grey ghost ships rode the swell Tipping out their pale water in pails over the night. Window eyes, either wide open or with lids closed Were blinking on and off - the winking lights of high rise Towers. Beneath these stories, another one runs along... “I run on the oil-slicks that have become city streets But what I see, is the ripe apple-green grass of a garden Tears of dew cling to its tips, they are flicked into the summer By the bristles of a thick paintbrush. A tin of white paint creates a line Not quite straight, but straight enough for my son. A little football pitch Takes its drunken shape - all off-kilter and tilting. Fingers tie the net’s rigging to old goal posts, and I Behold my father: the fisherman. We spent seasons wading waist deep In charcoal dark waves that carved coves into the cold South-Irish coast. My father stood unmoved in mist. Amidst the deep sonorous songs Of the wind and the rhythmic whip of the fishing lines that cracked As they snapped back and forth in the night. Dawn brought its orange glow and in its warmth we hauled the fish, Glistening wet and silver over shoulders. No words the whole night. I still see his ghost roam those shores, a fisherman’s voice Still echoes over cold stones rolling in the surf. His sole lonesome soul Blowing in the breeze... The city still rushes past unseen As thoughts peel back to the dream of the green garden’s scenes. I tied the net, then fell back to see it through my child’s eyes My boy, whose head bled questions in streams of thought... Mostly about Dinosaurs. For him, I planted creased corner flags Made from pale pillowcases that billowed like sails And with a willow’s grace, when the silk was laced by the wind I later learned from my son, that I had made him a day to build all days upon. An amber sun burned and dipped to embers behind the fields. We kicked a flat crumpled ball, as he made up player’s names And would become them all, half-cartwheeling when he scored. When night wrapped her black blanket around us, and he had won Because he never lost well, we shook hands and time span out Of control - lifting us forward four years and our muddy forms fall Into the departure hall of an airport. I bought him cheap books From its faceless, bored stores consumed in the smell of perfume samples. He would have read them by the time I left In planes ,whose bellies were bloated with businessman; being Hauled from homes and the families within them. He watched From blue viewing galleries whose chairs in sad church pews Had the quiet tragedy of hospital waiting rooms On Sunday afternoons. As I flew, our distance grew His laughter soon became a distant blur in another world. This flight was a passage of unravelling time, Traveling nine years to the past. He is sat, being pushed On a rusty yellow swing in an empty playground, It creaked in the stillness of morning While inside, his grandmother has just died. He can’t see her, and he keeps asking me why. I look into those eyes, and they grow wider, Fiery as Catherine Wheels, they spin to become portals, Veiled by tears, through which I climb to a future time Fast-forward twelve years. I see the whites Of his eyes in the coal-black Twilight. They flinch under a fist That finds its way through a web of wrongs And breaks into his skin. Against, or maybe with, a base instinct I do it again. A viscous mix, thick with tears and clots of blood-red blots, Jots vicious patterns onto my hand. If I read them, I would read the warnings Of what I’d become as a man. Yet I wipe them. I wash them... and then I dry them. By his side, his mother is crying, and his eyes grow wide, he is still too young to protect her And he keeps asking why. Closing the door to murmurs of prayers, I run from their life, and flee down the stairs.

The city peels away and still I run on, feet drum on The grit-grains and asphalt. Momentarily, I lock the last vaults of memory And see where I stand. I look up to the face of a tall man walking past, he casts A glance to me with eyes that disbelieve and recognise Simultaneously. Why am I not slowing down? his eyes are portals, in which I could climb, transporting us both to an earlier time Why am I not slowing down? Now, he must be eighteen, we’ve been strangers for years The eyes haven’t changed, My only son still veiled by tears Why am I not slowing down? Five paces, four, three, two... I am just one pace away, Then I am two, then three, four, five... I strode on. A woman he’s with Asks ‘who that was’, and the echo of his reply goes on And on for so long. He told her ‘it was no one.’ A mile later I stop, yet the traffic stutters on - All throaty engines wheezing their mucus and fumes Sad eyed windows still blink, trying to make sense of it all. The city turns in its fitful sleep I see my father pass me by and merge with the murk His filmy eyes speak of the mysteries That the dead have for the living. I hear old oar splashes, and the clink of bicycle bells As the memories push and bulge, then pull at me Like sea-swell. Yet, what I see most Is the ripe apple-green grass of a garden Tears of dew cling to its tips they are flicked into the summer By the bristles of a thick paintbrush. A tin of white paint creates a line Not quite straight, but straight enough for my son. A little football pitch, Takes its drunken shape - all off-kilter and tilting. And what I see most, Is the poem he wrote on that day, that I meant to read But I never took note. ‘My Dad is a giant. My Dad could drive a bus if he wanted to He wants to drive trains though. My dad buys me army men And is good at pretending to be a dog. He takes me to the football And he taught me how to pass One day he made a stadium And painted white lines on the grass’ I’m sorry son, I’ve not done what I’d rather I should come back, I could back But I just keep running... Farther.” The End.

The world turns on its axis, I sit strapped in the back of black taxi's And look for change, But as the nights fade and wane to days I'm amazed how it all stays the same… I miss unbroken whole homes Feeling secure in their threshold, With clothes neatly ironed and pressed in fresh folds, And tables set for four, Its the simplest things that affect you more… Simple conversations based on nothing, They come to mean everything When left behind by those who are gone, I dreamt of my grandfather last night, Who sat by my side, in an old stadium now knocked down, As a child he would hold my palm in his worn fingers, And weave me through the massed crowds at the match, Back when sitting on shoulders, would amaze me You raised me. In this dream we spoke, and your words I cannot recall, they fall from memory, Though I do not know what you said to me, I do know what it meant to me, That you were there with me, in some form, In some force, I felt your energy… And when I looked left, where you sat and talked next to me And remembered that you were gone from my waking world, I looked again and the seat was empty, 1.22 How did I miss the cancer signs, I should tell you that I graduated yesterday, Soon to see friends slip to strangers with the sands of time, I try to hold these years with the young hands of mine, I'm nothing but an imperfect man with ample crimes, Who rhymes for his slight chance to shine, Wish I could say I followed some planned design, But thats not true. I went to your childhood home and watched the same stars I felt that warm glow, No one can tell me that's not you