mid-November poem

Straight to the Point

I can never get stalactites and stalagmites straight in my head

Nor the difference between port and lee, let alone aft and fore,

Even in times of stress, left and right—but before

You call me an idiot, remember how long I have been dead.

There was a time in my youth when I thought the red

Light meant the cars had to stop and I could walk, the green

Signalled it was a dangerous road to cross—for

Crimson was a positive colour, verdant sad.  A screen

In the cinema did not exist: images were real.

Nor were there actors and scripts—things just were.

Back in the streets, late afternoon, all a whirr,

We rolled and fought over what was best, steel

Or cellophane for heroes to wear in battle, blur

Of colours through the sun, sparkle to blind

The enemy, transparency, invisible powers stir

To courage, protection from dreams, and thus all wind

Their way homewards after the film in the cave of hopes,

Ideas tied to our imaginary ropes.