by Pam Crane
curled time-shards
reduplicating spin-drift, inkblot, starclot and coalsack -
by which light a God could see His scattered parts
And Being
God, He Said:
LET THEM FLY
Asunder upon the wind of
My unparalleled Imagination,
LET THEM SEED where a
plus-minus meets in the heart of light
a microcosmic god in the anti-mind, for this
is Matter of Moment; let there be Life, therefore,
so let there be Soul - let there be male, and female
warring and mating; let there be holes for light to penetrate,
dramatic poles, north and south in collision, upwards, down -
as in My excess I find
sorrow I cannot drown
in the necessity
for light to
mend Me by,
so will my Self,
enantiomorphic
twin of Me and
friend
be lover of that Light,
his flesh a bandage for My fractured dignity
for a seven-night.
Till then,
Let every action have its equal and opposite reaction.
Let there be
Polarity, pendulum, fractal, parabola
And parity.
Thus Spake God …
… One Day that suddenly existed, as
a myriad million fragments of Forever
took their first lesson in strife and alchemy;
towards which sex, war, succour, science and sainthood,
the long, vain struggle to tie the strings of symphonies
between grass and the galaxy, Caligula and Christ -
So many poles of puzzlement, poor man-thing! -
making itself slowly in God's other image,
feet on a star, head in the coalsack.
God forgot
to make men like snails. Here it is Sunday lunch
And still we have not mapped our route for the last afternoon
of our life; the future winks only briefly at us
out of the healing mirrors.
Some are struggling
To put their eyes out on stalks and see around corners
of the inconceivable before the last trump
is played, the last supper indigested and
the disbelievable unMichaelangelic Hand
reach forth to converge the silver trails
of the slow, vulnerable, visionary sun
housing the soul in helix.
Here they come,
a few at a time,
the unrejected cells;
a Miracle is made.
The Wound
closes.
Thy Hand, O God
may close the eyes of Time - but it is built of us!...
We who have put out the cat may be most unwilling to
put out the stars the cat and we have hunted our dreams by,
may be discontent;
may fidget with the smoothed fabric of Space,
finger the substance of the Maker's Dream,
flex the muscles of a new idea -
Spring a surprise.
INDEX OF POEMS
The Mistake
The Luck of the Irish
The Electric Chair
Whodunnit?
Ma’s Mission
The Visitors
Survivors
Visiting Time
A Lover’s Passyonatte Replye
Ever-Decreasing Circles
Rediscovering Rabbit Week
Head of TV Drama’s New Year Sonnet
Sarsaparilla
Paintwork
Manalysis
Self-Sufficient
Armageddon
Romanus Romano
On The Brink
Hiawatha and the Midges
Seven Ages of Teeth (7 parodies)
Happy Fifteenth Birthday …
My Double-Decker Bus
Virgo Rising
Sixty Seconds
Pain (a macaronic)
When I’m Cleaning Windows!
The Ballad of Binky Pocock
The Ballad of Wilhelmina Pomeroy
Winners and Losers
The Ballad of Uncle George
Big Bang
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1ABOUT PAM CRANE
Pam has been a poet since she was seven years old; it was only when she joined her local Writers' Club that she found she could also write short stories.
She has been a Christian astrologer for most of her life, is well known in that community, and is the author of two books plus many articles in the Astrological Association Journal (for which she compiles the regular Cryptic Crossword.)
You can find her website at https://revpamcrane.weebly.com.
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