Weekend Poetry: Dominic and other poems


A serious house on serious earth it is.


                                                             Hesitant, weekend travellers

hours till the coach & too early to seek sandwiches; we’re tugged

by bells into this vaulted shell.

                                 Our presence un-make us tourists. Our eyes,

ears adjusting                     so much dark             light   high    light,


pocked, blocky walls, a half-moon of stilted chairs.

We squash up to a thick pillar, a quivering woman in red wool.

The candled dusk, bro

ken by Norman windows, small white squares above:

illuminate matting, seats, and stone. An iron rack of bulbs alight;

the theatre starts with communal song;

the blond, ear-ringed pianist,

an uncanny Elton


A bevy of clergy (five men, one woman)

file from darkened wings,

assemble and sit like a council of wizards, all tall hats, billowing robes

to our winter coats; a bell ringer dressed in white, smiles

and smiles.

The old bishop is a balloon of approval, buoyed

to baptise this sheepish teen.

People of God,

will you welcome Dominic?

How he can he look so Anglo-Saxon, so pagan?

Is this your faith?

This is my faith

Dominic murmurs & promises not to be ashamed.

He vows to reject the devil & come as he is,

(in skinny black jeans, a hoodie, lobes

pierced with black hoops, his long hair a dark curtain).

His friends fringe the back pews;

gothic as the walls, hard eyed

as he affirms an invisible Jew

who asks:  

Will you be claimed as mine?


How might a more accurate realism be achieved?


We had a snow storm yesterday nightsix inches

or more. O sweet spontaneous earth.

Was out for two hours shovelling the driveway, the walk

up to the garage.


We’re all good.

So, with the anticipation of being enlightened I ask, ‘who

turned the rock into a pool of water? The hard rocks

into springs of water?’

Sandra was in the hospital again, but ok now.

She’s still in the home. They say it doesn't hurt—

It's only fainter by degrees.

I go see her 3-4 times a week.


Consider a semi-permeable membrane.

Sometimes it is said that an oblong is a rectangle

whose sides are different lengths

partly or totally unlike in nature, form, or quality.

For the world, which seems to lie before us, has really neither

any road or trail I have never travelled gladly for a person aged 75

or over and eligible for the full personal allowance.


Everyone else is ok. I keep on the move.

We accept that these things can be achieved

only through our own efforts.


Hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving

Dick, Clara and Frida will be coming.


We will miss Tara.

Too bad she passed away.

Let us be true to one another.

I have stilled and quietened my soul

like a weaned child.

like a weaned child is my soul within me.


Your family are moving on. Soon

you will be alone, and life goes on

through literature people learn

about the experiences and struggles of their ancestors:

Stamp Duty, Land Tax

on property and shares – how they work,

how much you pay.


road, narrow and glazed 
with old icy snow. 

The long lights 
sliced the night.

Outside the Milky Way 
swirled and was still.

We stopped
scrambled out the car

stood, breathing.



ant, m o r n i n g

sea-light surges

across soggy marshes, roll

ing, rolling towards shoulders

             piny mountains,

the arced back horizon.

I see you         see    you    see

you                 everywhere.  Dazzling

                      water flashing silver, fluttering

reeds stoop to the oncoming rush.

                              We swerve

inland, the light

dims to moss and shadow.

Slopes hem us in.

Bushes, outcrops, tangled hawthorn

make divisions and maps.  

A white hull

looms from brown woods

and breezes move



through old trees.


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