Thursday, 29 November 2007

Monkey Trap

The design of a traditional monkey trap
as many people may know
involves the use of a vessel
containing something tasty, perhaps a nut or a banana.

The vessel has a small hole it in
large enough for the monkey to just fit a hand through
to take hold of the banana.

When the monkey has the banana in its hand
the monkey's fist holding the banana is now too big
to go back through the hole.

The monkey is not smart enough to realise that to free himself he needs to let go of the banana.

Neither am I.

Tuesday, 20 November 2007

In the beginning

In the beginning
god created the heavens and the earth
and god said:
"If I'd had more practice I might have done a better job,
but its a lot better than nothing."

Tuesday, 13 November 2007


if there is a god,
there must also be a goddess.
It is ridiculous to assume otherwise.

Monday, 12 November 2007

Modern love story

Love of my x tugs
at my heart-strings each time she
pokes me on facebook

Friday, 9 November 2007

All poetry is rubbish

All poetry is rubbish
unless you mean it
in which case
all poetry is the opposite of rubbish

Haiku version:

All po-et-ry is
Rub-bish un-less you mean it
And then it is-n't

Wednesday, 31 October 2007

Love online

Love on-line: When I
re-al-ised you are a scam
-mer it broke my heart

Friday, 5 October 2007

That dog!

Oh to be a thing
With-out a mind – like a dog.
Like that dog in-fact.

Saturday, 29 September 2007

How many published poets share our name?

I realise there are plenty of other people in the world called as I am, and Dave Gorman famously made a career out of tracking down his name-sakes, and I know really EVERYBODY is a poet - more or less secretly, BUT!

This made me chuckle - really laugh out loud - when I did a search on my own name today, and discovered someone writing poetry saying it had been inspired by someone with my name... like that required no further explanation... Now I know I have had my moments - like my humiliation on the Richard and Judy show, and having poems translated into arabic and so on... BUT I'M NOT THAT FAMOUS!

And next comes the horrifying thought! Could it be possible that there are 2 (fairly) well-known poets called as I am and worse: the other one is way more popular!

With "Bindon" being a lastname only slightly more common than Humperdink, I am currently feeling like the lesser known of 2 singers called Engelbert.

That being the case I would like history to remember that I was the one who founded the "Emergency 24-hour Mobile Poets" way back in the early nineties. It might even have been late eighties... Who can remember that long ago.

Thursday, 27 September 2007

And bending down beside the glowing bars...


and bending down beside the glowing bars
murmur a little softly how love fled
and paced upon the mountains over head
and hid his face amid a crowd of stars


Wednesday, 19 September 2007

A hai-ku is a

A hai-ku is a
po-em with five syl-la-bles
in the first line and …

Hai-ku: three line po-
Em, five syl-la-bles in first
Line, se-ven in sec-

Three line po-em with
five syl-la-bles, then se-ven,
then five in the last

Hai-ku: three line po
-em, five syl-la-bles, then se
-ven, five in the last

Hai-ku: three lines. Five,
se-ven, five syl-la-bles. Tends
to be (a) bit snea-ky.

Hai-ku: three lines. Five,
se-ven, five syl-la-bles; Oft-
-en a bit snea-ky.

Here's the real deal

Sunday, 16 September 2007

My life has been a kind of prayer

My life has been a kind of prayer
Lived backwards
Instead of praying 2 live
I hav livd 2 pray

Foolishly Blieving that simply
Wanting, in public,
the world 2 rise
Cud make it so

Of course, howevR,
I am not dead yet...

Tuesday, 14 August 2007

Coming to meet you

This is an "old favourite"... no really.
This poem was translated into arabic and presented to Saddam Husein as a gift by his brother in law after the first gulf war.
Not that I take any responsibility for how other people have interpretted it, or used it, nor what they have made it mean, but I just mean to indicate that it is reasonably "well known"... eg. it is reproduced on the Our Planet web site ... which I have nothing to do with (even though they put my email address at the bottom of their page, and a link to my software services web site!), and I have seen it in some other places as well.

Incidentally, you can buy this poem on a t-shirt! And because it is a bit like a prayer, they make very good nighties.


We are throwing down our weapons
We are leaving our barricades
We are coming to meet you

There are sixty-five thousand of us

If you receive us with friendship this will be
...something new
If you do not we shall die

And they rise out of the ground, across the barbed wire,
Through the mist, and the shells fall
And they walk on

And with each rifle shot
My father died, and my mother died,
And my sister died, and my brother died,
Falling at the other men's feet
Helped to the ground by other men's hands

And still they come, stumbling on through the mist
Pace after pace
Wave after wave of men going to their deaths

And then...
ONE man
One man in an army
One man in the world
Threw down his rifle and cried
And then another
And another
And another

And no one knew it could happen
And no one can be sure it would happen again
But everyone who was there when those soldiers met
Everyone who felt that embrace
Everyone who knew that joy
KNEW that love can be made in the world each day

I am throwing down my weapons
I am leaving my barricades
I am coming to meet you...

Saturday, 4 August 2007

when I was young

when I was young
i used to tell people i was a poet

because i wanted to be "a something"
and although "poet" was a difficult thing to prove
it was also a difficult thing to disprove.

closer to the truth you might say
i pretended to be a poet...
I was the "young pretender"

Occassionally saying i was a poet got me into fights,
Occassionally it got me into bed with a beautiful girl,

Mostly it didn't get me anywhere.

Years later,
I discover there is a fallout benefit of having spent my youth
pretending to be a poet,
a fallout benefit that I never dreamed or hoped or prayed for,
never even wanted
or thought to want.

A fallout benefit much more useful than success or glory.
(What could possibly be more useful than that?)

I am not going to tell you what it is.
(Because I am older and wiser than I was
when I pretended to know what I was doing with my life
and pretended to know what I'm talking about.)

But just a mention to the young folks,
that pretending to a be a poet,
may just turn out to be a smarter move
than you might think.


Monday, 16 July 2007

Give me a day like this! Give me this day!

Or as it was in the original script:
"Gimme a day like this! Gimme this day!"
(Steven Moffat - The Doctor Dances)

One of my favourite quotes from the 2005 series.

Another one is: "You would make a good dalek".
I think I should definately have that on a T-shirt.

And then of course there is: "I think you need a doctor."

Tuesday, 19 June 2007

Ah yes, its Dorchesta!

Ah yes, its Dorchesta,
Where the old folks come to festa,
And the breeders like my schwesta,
(Least there's someone I can pesta).

Ah yes, its Dorchesta,
50 years behind the rest, a
sort of place where I investa-
gate my theories on Swan Vesta.

Ah yes, its Dorchesta,
when I left here barely yesta-
day it seemed I had a desta-
nation, now I'm just a jesta.

Ah yes, its Dorchesta,
getting over polyesta,
studing the Almagesta,
gut the town Starbucks investa.

Saturday, 26 May 2007

My Great-grandfather was a poet, sort of

As if I don't hate myself enough already
My father taunts me with the arrogance of my youth
And calls his taunting "love";
Pointing out how I have failed to achieve
Even as much as the school teachers I used to make fun of.

He reads The times every day
but mostly keeps his political opinions to himself
apart from inflicting them venemously on me
like as though I am personally responsible
for the hand-over of palestine to israeli jews,
like as though I ordered
the Deir Yassin massacre
or that the world's failure to resolve the middle-east conflict
between palestinian arabs and israeli jews
which currently threatens to engulf the world
in a nightmare of terrorism,
political correctness,
loss of civil liberties,
and a resurgence of medieval religions which were on their way to becoming past cultural riches,
the endless carnage of wars in iraq and afghanistan and across africa


His response to the prevalence of knife and gun crime amongst black youths
is repatriation
I tell him I think he is only slightly less evil
than George Bush and Tony Blair
I say it with a wink and he smiles

I mean - I love him, obviously ... he is my father

Later on he finds a pile of old papers and clothe
which he lays out over the desk in his study
heaping on my head the weight of the past

My father's father's father, Jim, it turns out, was a calvalry seargant,
who fought in the Boer war.
Here is a letter he wrote home sending love to his "darling sweetheart" (my great-grandmother)
it is written by hand in pencil on wafer thin paper
which has crossed lines like the old math's exercise books on it

The letter makes me cry when I read it, although I manage to hide that from my father

My father's father's mother ("great granny" we called her)
her life crossed with mine by about a year before she died
She held me in her arms when I was newly born, or there abouts,
I remember seeing the cine film my grand-father took

Great-grandfather is writing home from the front,
Describing borderline starvation level rations
Although I guess everyone lived closer to the starvation line then
The pile of papers my father keeps
Include clippings from newspapers of the time with headline's like "Today's Battle"
Make's me laugh considering it's noncholance
Like "Today's Weather" or something
And the clothe map of the country they were fighting in that he carried with him

And here is a poem he wrote and sent home to her
Three verses each of four lines, written in well-scanning rhyming couplets
Was he the author, or did he just write it out from memory?
Dwell deep! it is called
A referrence to some passage from the bible I think
(maybe ECCLESIASTICUS xxiv. 30)
which makes the meaning of the phrase move in the direction of
"dwell in eternity".

Whoso will hear the wisdom of the Father must dwell deep, and abide at home, and be at unity with himself. Three things hinder us from hearing the everlasting Word. The first is fleshliness, the second is distraction, the third is the illusion of time. If a man could get free of these, he would dwell in eternity, and in the spirit, and in solitude, and in the desert, and there would hear the everlasting Word.

He was a methodist or baptist convert or something
My father's mother's father was too - a follower of Spurgeon
According to my father - that was where his life all started to go wrong
Although he married my father's mother's mother after that
And managed to produce (help produce) my father's mother

Before being knocked down in the street by a horse and carriage,
having a second stroke and dying
He met his wife because she worked in his butchery business
A point my father does not emphasise
Because he likes all the evidence to fit his conclusion that
Running your own business never does anyone any good

Father shows me the framed photographs he has hung round the walls
of what used to be my sisters bedroom
although they are long gone

gone off to procreate another generation
six of them so far

His mother's father (the butcher - father says "he sold meat")
His father's father (the calvalry seargant)
His mother's father's parents
His great-granny marrying great-granddad - their wedding photograph

Father heaps on my head the weight of the past
When I was young he always used to say "Sub Specie Aeternitatis!"
- "From the stand-point of eternity!"
But really he doesn't believe it.
He is "Sub Specie 1000 years".
Or Sub Specie 2000 years.
He is at most Sub Specie 5-10 thousand years.
He is not Sub Specie Aeternitatis.
If he was he would love me the childless way I am.

I tell him "Love first, family second"
... Love first, culture second"
And I wonder what the cavalry man who was promoted to being a seargant
and survived the boer war
(and went on to have 2 sons one of which was my grandfather, Fred)

would have had to say about that...

Dwell deep?

Monday, 7 May 2007

You stink, therefore you spam

You stink therefore you spam

.... Spam etc.

Sunday, 29 April 2007

Love first

Love first, religion second,
Love first, politics second,
Love first, family second,
Love first, justice second,
Love first, belief second,
Love first, duty second,
Love first, blood second,
Love first, faith second,
Love first, morality second,
Love first, prosperity second,
Love first, truth second,
Love first, survival second,
Love first, god second,
Love first.

Love first, infatuation second,
Love first, admiration second,
Love first, lust second,
Love first, respect second,
Love first, pride second,
Love first, honour second,
Love first, recognition second,
Love first, power second,
Love first, looking good second,
Love first, winning second,
Love first, health second,
Love first.

Thursday, 29 March 2007

Britney Spears' Sister

The world has become full up, it seems,
of people pretending to be Britney Spears' sister.

I did a google search after
A friend I hadn't seen for 5 years
called to say
he had met Britney Spears' sister
(that Britney Spears
whose initials are only coincidentally B.S.)
in an internet chat room
and was moving to L.A.
(a city so arrogant that it is known only by its initials)

For a long while I wondered whether
he was making fun of me
or whether he/she/whoever was making fun of him
or whether
as I suppose is a possibility I could not entirely rule out
HE REALLY HAD met Britney Spears' sister
in an internet chat room
and SHE REALLY HAD invited him to L.A.
(a city so arrogant that it is known only by its initials)

Then I realised,
that it didn't really matter
what the truth of any of this was

For there is one person on earth who you can bet your life
is right now pretending to be Britney Spears' sister
and that is
Admittedly she does it professionally,
whereas the rest of us pretenders
(we may make a bob or two out of it here and there)
we are mostly much closer to amateurs

And I for one have always preferred the company of deceivers
who were doing it for love

Tuesday, 20 March 2007

Leaving Stuff ( )

I keep hearing these words of wisdom about poetry
its not what you put in, its what you leave ( )
like I should have probably left ( ) those brackets
or someone like the pope of poetry
will refute the validity of my ( )

Some are considered to be worth more
some phrases
some combinations
well otherwise
there would be no game
nothing to play for
no prizes to win
no laureates to bestow
some poems surely are better, aren't they!

Its not what you put in, its what you leave ( )

Some words are harder to avoid
Like stupidity, aging, regret, foolishness, resentment, fear,
anonymity, failure, childlessness, loneliness, oblivion

The dull tick tick tick
of an empty life
seeping gradually to nothing

That's why
when I come to write a poem
I don't leave ANYTHING ( )
(not even brackets)

Sunday, 11 March 2007

I try not to think of poetry as being gd or bd

I try not to think of poetry as being gd or bd
Instead I try to think of it as applicable or inapplicable
Serving a particular purpose or not
Appropriate or inappropriate
Useful to resolve a given grief or dilema - or else not

From time to time
A rubbish piece of poetry
has saved my life
or set me free
or turned an old sadness into a new joy

It is power of poetry, language, collage, hexagons and all art
The power of planning and alignment
The power of simply telling the truth
The power of owning up to an old lie
Strangely the axis on which the universe turns
In the beginning, god SAID
Just what she said remains a mystery
The significant thing is that at the very least she said SOMETHING
Rather than nothing
And as far as I can tell
that is the difference between
a gd poet
and a bd one

Monday, 5 March 2007

How long have I been stupid for ?

How long have I been stupid for ?
40 years, maybe
And each enlightenment brings with it a realisation of
Greater and deeper stupidity
For example, for example
Realising for the first time
That what Pinter was up to was a matter of
Show Don't Tell
And how despite my best intentions
I regularly tell instead of showing
This "poem" for example lies so close to the line
Between showing and telling
That it only manages to show by telling
And only manages to tell by showing

Saturday, 17 February 2007

This is not a political poem

This is not a political poem.
My basic attitude on life is if anything anti-political.

My main political proposition is a world without politics or politicians.

If you are a politician, you call that anarchy.
Which it absolutely isn't.
Anarchy is just another type of politics,
and I'm talking about a world without any politics.

This is outside the box of most politicians, so they either try to point out
how what I'm saying it insane, or impossible, or they
give up and go away.

Whereas if you are a poet, you can conceive of anything.

Any world.
Any universe.
Any impossibility is just fine.

Call it a fantasy if you like.

Like the fantasy of going to the moon was,
before we did it.

Wednesday, 14 February 2007

Juliet, when we made love you used to cry

(bits i like / can remember)

Love struck romeo
fills the streets with his serenade
laying everybody low
with the love song that he made

finds a convenient streetlight
steps out of the shade
says something like hey babe, you and me,
how about it?


You promised me everythin
you promised me thick and thin
now you just say Romeo, yeah,
I used to have a scene with him


You shouldn't come around here
shoutin up at people like that
Anyway, whatcha gonna do about it?


Juliet, when we made love you used to cry
You said I love you like the stars above
I'll love you till I die

There's a place for us
Goes the movie song
When you gonna realise it was just that the time was wrong

(Dire Straits)

Sunday, 11 February 2007

Guiding Star

For reasons known only to google, they have not indexed this poem on e24mp, so I thought I would link to it here, just to make sure everyone can find it... Guiding Star. This poem was a written as a commision, to celebrate the christening of a new born babe, to a very lovely mother and father. Hopefully you and the baby, young child by now, are out there somewhere enjoying your fabulous lives. Love and best wishes to you.

Wednesday, 7 February 2007

Conversations with my son

Although in a sense
my unborn son currently never existed,
sometimes I have conversations with him,
apologizing for having split up with his mother,
or else having not worked hard enough at meeting and seducing her,
or else having been too diligent with condoms,
thus preventing his conception.

He tells me that he forgives me,
just like I know I must forgive my father,
and he must forgive his.

In the end, that is all you can do.
It is the job of all sons and all fathers.

When we talk, I tell him about how beautiful life is,
how I'm sorry I never managed to give him that.
I tell him how I loved my life,
even when it was the saddest
or most frightening, when I feared imminent death,
or imprisonment, or serious illness,
or blindness
or most embarrassing
or most painful
or most lonely

When I felt most utterly and completely lost
and without a friend

Even in the worst times I loved my life
and was bottomlessly unfathomably grateful to my parents
for giving it to me.

I tell him this but he just smiles at me and says
I love you, dad.
I love you and respect you.

Because I know you gave your life for the sake of love,
and that is all any child could hope for in a parent.

And because I would have done the same with my life,
if I had had one,
in my non-existence,
I am at peace,
my life is complete,
in a sense, I already did.

Thursday, 1 February 2007

Political Correctness and the Alter of Pretty

Religious Ferver, Political Correctness, and Market Branded Gods:

She worships at the alter of semblance
Offering her soul as a human sacrifice
Berating herself (and others) for failing to keep its commandments:

Thou shalt be thin
Thou shalt be sexy but mostly unavailable
Thou shalt be fashionable
Thou shalt drive small fast cars
(Thou shalt know the signifance of car registration plates,
to determine just how new and enviable thy neighbour's car is)
Thou shalt know who is in thy top 40 album chart
Thou shalt go on 2 or 3 foreign holidays a year
Thou shalt work for a major corporate
Thou shalt upgrade thy mobile phone on every contract renewal
Thou shalt have a kitchen and bathroom like the ones in the property makeover shows
Thou shalt replace thy lounge suite biannually
Thou shalt smash thy brain out with alcohol Saturday night clubbing, vomit over thy bed and defend thy right to have "a good time", regardless of suffering from thy alcohol related health issues
Thou shalt know the names of all premiership footballers, managers and their wives
Thou shalt shop for clothes that thou shalt wear at most once before selling them for 50p on car boot sales
Whilst doing so, thou shalt accumulate unbearable credit card debts at extortionate interest rates that line the pockets of the wealthiest members of thy society
Thou shalt enjoy Robbie Williams and Take That, every time they have a revival.
Thou shalt consider Posh and Becks to be admirable, and care who wins big brother.
Thou shalt keep up with celebrity gossip, and really believe that it is meaningful.
Thou shalt hope for a way out of thy missery based on the the 10 billion to one chance of guessing 6 random numbers, and call it Saturday night entertainment.

I wouldn't have minded.
Her skin was too soft and lovely,
her flesh too warm and intoxicating,
her manner too generous, too approachable,
too welcoming, too friendly, too straightforward,
her delight and celebration of simple pleasures,
I could wrap myself up in her loveliness,
and live in her arms forever,
the lick and smell of her,
between her legs,
like tasting god.

Budhism teaches us to find a balance between the polarities;
I am not gay, but I don't mind the odd homo looking at my crack.
I have no holy book, only a holy idea: love above all else.
Reality above appearance.
Our own fantasy in preference to someone else's.

I wouldn't blow myself up in a crowd of strangers so as to defy
republican oil imperialism.
But I would put up with listening to Robbie Williams sing angels
to someone who I doubt could spot an angel even if he was wearing a halo with "Angel" written on it in flashing neon.
(Time square style) ... I would bare the idolatory of surfaces,
if you would bare my idolatory of you.

There is no way out of the prison.
Fortunately there is another you, that is already set free.
Leave the one that's in prison where she is,
and be the one who is free to worship
a God of your own invention.

Saturday, 27 January 2007

Sentenced to Language

I intend this sentence quite sincerely at this point in the poem
But later on you will see I say the same thing again, and when I do I really don't mean it at all.
It's a fine sentence to start with,
But please don't get stuck on it.

I don't mean it to be a permanent fixture of my all time greatest sentences
Or a way to evaluate my moral depravity or poetic prowess…
I just wanted to say "Hello"
How are you?
What's for breakfast?
Or … would you like to sleep with me?

I had to start somewhere.
Just a way of getting from the blank empty void at the top of the page
To the place where we have now arrived.

There is after all plenty more sentences where that one came from;
Bizarre, offensive, shocking, lovely, erotic, transcendent;
Mind fucking of every flavour - available like an obedient pet;
An endless supply by common agreement.
And I would like to give you whatever kind of sentence you are in the mood for.
Or at least one or two you could find room for on a happy day.

I suppose I could just leave the page blank
And you could fill in your own sentences.
But that would be rather ducking my responsibility as the poem on this page.
If I had just run off, after the book had been printed,
Someone would probably blame the small family printing company that produced it
And all kinds of unnecessary arguments would ensue.

No. I think I just have to stick it out here somehow.
At least I could make some suggestions for sentences that you might enjoy.
Some people I'm sure would like that.
I might have a few out back that you haven't heard before?
And then you could incorporate them in your own poems.

Let's face it; I could have said all kinds of equally stupid things
And achieved largely the same result,
(I mean, you're still reading... apparently)
… And still reading …
I think you must be addicted - a thought addict.
Can't get enough of those damned words.
Need to do the 12-step with Thinkers Anonymous.

What is it that you're after?
To be honest I doubt very much you will find it in here.
Why don't you go and make yourself a nice cup of tea?
Then you'll feel much better.

Or well I doubt it.
What salvation can there ever be
For animals who have been sentenced to language?

Not only mortal, you shuffle begrudgingly towards a reluctant death
But also word-laden,
prisoners of paragraphs,
bearers of signification -
you carry on your backs the weight of ten thousand years of insane pompous chatter.
I have listened to all of it.

The authenticity with which I now speak,
is derived from the moment which came before it and one that will follow.
This poem was never meant to be carved in stone,
Isolated in time,
Dished up at an inappropriate moment, (with the wrong accompaniments)
Taken down from the shelf, any old time you felt like it,
As though I am a whore who can be used whenever you want to take me.

I belong in the flow of life.
I need to be wined and dined.
Engaged with funny stories, and brought flowers in the spring time.
Given slight touches of appreciation, that let me know you're coming for me.
Given air to breathe; maybe I'm not so sure I like you either.

If you read me when I'm not in the mood, I may seem very strange indeed.
But don't think too badly of me for that…
Someone gave me a hundred beats of their heart
Risked the derision of friends
Dared to speak into a silent void
Whose silence it seemed at first that only they could hear.
Someone gave me too many moments of short life
Not to at least shake my hand.

I intend this sentence quite sincerely at this point in the poem
But later on you will see I say the same thing again, and when I do I really don't mean it at all.

(by the blogger)
Sentenced to Language

Saturday, 6 January 2007

benedicat nobis omnipotens deus

benedicat nobis omnipotens deus
nobis pri deus largitatis
sumus percepturi
per jesum christum dominum nostrum

May almighty God bless us,
we are the first to receive
the bounty of God .
Through Jesus Christ our Lord .

Friday, 5 January 2007

for all the world i'll never sell my soul

For all the beauty there may be
I’ll never throw away my soul
Only for something I don’t know
That one may come on randomly

In savoring the finite joy
The very most one can expect
Is to enfeeble and destroy our taste
and leave the pallet wrecked

For all the sweetness there may be
I’ll never throw away my soul
Only for something I don’t know
That one may come on randomly

For such a lover as the Lord
Tell me if you will be in pain
For his love is the void of taste
Among the things made in this world

Without a foothold you must seek him out
No face nor form alone
Tasting there something I don’t know
That one may come on randomly

And don’t look to your inner eye
Though of vastly greater worth
To find among the joys of earth
The happiness and ecstasy

More than all beauty there may be
Or may have been or can be now
One feeds on something I don’t know
That one may come on randomly

On earth you must never rely
on what the senses understand
Or on all the knowledge you command
Although it rises very high

No grace nor beauty there may be
Will make me throw away my soul
Only for something I don’t know
That one may come on randomly.

San Juan De La Cruz (Saint John of the Cross)

Tuesday, 2 January 2007

God's final ecstasy

In the art and science of deception
There is a classic con trick
Known as bait-and-switch;

(The mark thinks she's buying something of great value
which the con has shown off to her at enormous length.
The con wraps it up in an attractive box with fancy ribbons.
When the mark gets home she undoes the ribbons and discovers the con has cheated her…
There is nothing inside the box.)

How many of spring's great deals
Turn out to be winter's sad delusions?

But in truth this betrayal is just a misunderstanding.
Winter does ALWAYS follow eventually from spring
And if you are paying attention you will see that coming.

Spring's "bargain" is predicated on winter's payment of interest -
I'm only able to offer you spring now, because the winter sales are not far off.
If you read the small print in the accompanying leaflet
you will have been expecting it since at least October.

Of course there are alternatives:
You can follow the swallows south for its summer -
chase the spring back and forth between hemispheres.

Or for a more relaxed approach, settle - somewhere temperate:
There is a secret text that rarely makes it onto the flyer -
At least not so as people notice.

Yes winter always follows spring, but so too spring ALWAYS follows winter:
The greenery that became autumn's brown mulch
and then winter's black dirt turns out to be
the compost for spring's new life.

We go round so as to arrive at the place where we started.
This is not defeat… it is spirit's ultimate victory…
simply to notice who we have ALWAYS been.
The one that survived winter death and burst into summer fire,
The one that I am never not -
Not the budding flower - not the falling autumn leaf.
Who I am always, have always, will always be.

I know the place is different
just because
I notice that it is the same;
All over the landscape of autumn's rotting language
Spring joy spurts from the hardness of winter's deadly irony.

The trickster's con, in the wink of an eye,
turns out to contain god's final ecstasy.

God's final ecstasy