The Blackberry (TM) break

Small circles tessellate across my page,
Bigger and less uniform as they escape the corners,
But wait, silence has fallen on the meeting,
In a moment I am back to school,
The teacher has asked a question, everyone
Waits with half breathed breathe.
But no, a surreptitious look to left and right reveals,
Heads down, worlds apart, broken conversations
Hang in mid-flight -

The Blackberry break.

Opposable thumbs demonstrating their evolutionary
Potential. But that hunched squinting blinkered mode,
Reflecting stone-age figures marveling at fire,
Ah, but fire is communal and this, this is about as
Distant as man can get. Broken lines wrapped
To fit small windows on a smaller world,
Building global bridges but crossing them alone.

Rain on my balcony

It's cold out here,
Out on my balcony in the evening gloom,
Soaking up the rain-sound falling on my ears.
Peripheral flashes vie for my attention,
On the left the orange pulsing pedestrian
Crossing through the night, on the right,
A white crane winking urgently at passing planes.
All around, all night, the rain falls,
I watch the soldierly drips form upon the rail,
Soldierly? No, like frightened children,
Awaiting the first plunge.
Closing my eyes I can isolate the sounds,
Drops on the plastic roof of a new school below,
Dancing like a thousand typewriters staffed by crisp,
Efficient secretaries. Drops on the pavement far below,
Solid endings, fanciful flights fallen to earth and draining
Away. Drops on the glass windows at my back, familiar
instrumental sounds which called me out to listen.
Cold drops on my skin, now I am leaning forward, alive,
But silent in this falling world, for my drops make no sound.
Alive, and silent, soaking, listening to the whisper of the rain,
An amusing conversation overheard in a bar on a cold night,
As the rain patters on the panes and draws me out.

To the man who listened

The piano played, his eyes were closed, body rocking to the beat,
The jazz diva's voice took off, his hands played the air,
He pursed his lips with satisfaction, breathing in the sound.
I watched him from the leather bench at the side of the room,
Seated in the back row he played invisibly,
Feet tapping now, walk-worn shoes on a polished floor,
White beard bristling on his heavy winter jacket,
Head swinging from side to side like a metronome,
Oblivious (I hope) to my curious sideways glances,
Oblivious to the gold watches and champagne glasses,
Forgetting cold streets and icy fingers for the warm music drifting,

During the interval he paused, contented, a maestro mid-performance,
Modest and avoiding the glances of his audience, poised and prepared.
Another patron, making for the bar in haste, knocked a chair, it scraped,
A sound that grated him from contemplation, offended his sense of place,
And so with caution, soundless, he inched it back into perfection,
For all I know, only I was witness to this short window on a man's character,
The champagne flowed, the laughter dimmed, the piano played, the diva sang,
And those worn old shoes began to tap the beat.

Ophelia

Stay one moment or an artist's vision will come to nothing by our hands.
I visited an art gallery this morning and dwelt upon a classic beauty,
Mourning that my fellow visitors, as I, showed poorly in her velvet light.
The keyboard-hunched shuffling about her painting as if for warmth,
Outdoing their rivals by dressing up in studiousness but dumbing down in understanding,
Outdone by a long dead girl captured by a long dead artist, motionless on canvas.

No, stay a moment longer, my story has an ending,
I should have left that gallery doused in admiration for that artificial beauty,
Instead each step was a heavy falling to earth, to a world of rich colour faded.
Against her silky skin I held the man-made scratchy fabric of my time,
Against her piercing eyes, deliberately absent glancing stares of passing strangers.
I closed my eyes against the bricks and mortar, wishing a brush into my hand.

But the brush I did not need,
Nor this pen, for my words are just a shady mirror of what I see,
Opening my eyes, drab existence threatened, clawed forward,
But receded, for there you stood.
A classic beauty for the modern day,
Soft skin, embracing eyes, untouched but touchable.

I pity the poor artist who pictured you before your time,
Immortalised your face in canvas yet unborn,
But never heard your voice or felt you move,
So many generations awed by the art,
Never to meet the subject,
Don't go, step closer, for I owe them this.