The Ghost on Dead Bird Run

I rise,
silent,
in the dark
and peer out
at the wind, strong but not impossible.
Nothing is impossible.

I lace
up
silently
and don a vest
for safety.

I step out on
Bird Road,
keeping silent still.
In step,
maintaining pace,
inhale the morning air,
asthmatic lungs rhythmic.

This run
has
landmarks.
Once there was
a dead bird
right there,
squashed, flat.
A dead Pukeko,
dead by the ditch
saddened me then.

Today it is me. Looking. Running.
I see the crescent moon,
waxing and thin,
Venus and those other planets,
they were in line a week ago, now
spinning off on their own tracks. Me?
But then
a random shooting star
I say "shooting star" out loud...
...
and I'm aware
that
I'm the ghost
on Dead Bird Run.

Other poetic ideas of the late evening.

Who are the characters in the city?
What are the streets like?
What buildings are there?
What noise?
What sights?
What sounds? Smells?
A whole city!
Me.

Why silence?

Silence

I get very lonely.

The silence surrounds me.

My gatekeeper…a huge monster…a jelly-like Michelin Man… huge, heavy…stops me.

“Stay where you are!” he commands. “Be quiet!”

He’s got me trapped. 

I get very lonely. 

Quiet.

“ You've always tried to run away!” he says

“to a girlfriend, teachers college, a School, a hot air balloon, inside the earth, on a canoe in the middle of nowhere, Europe on a train, Bhutan in a dungeon, somewhere else.”

I always come back to the gatekeeper. 

I get very lonely.

It is quiet at the gate.

I wonder what is inside the city

The city that belongs to me, my city.

The gatekeeper always stops me from seeing it.

 I get very lonely.

 He laughs as I go hunting for something, somewhere else… quietly. 

I get very lonely.

Wondering, I look back at the wall with the city behind.

What if there is chaos? A bit like my own life.

I might have no control. A bit like my own life.

I get very lonely.

A jelly of silence.

My own.

Todays collection of words

These words will turn into a poem soon.

Gate keeper. Sad. Heavy. Gut, full. Heart empty. Head overloaded, overworked , overwhelmed, over used.

The city behind the wall.

Chaos. Control. No control. dark and light.

constant sadness.

Lonely.

The Real Leprechaun

My family was on holiday in Ireland.

We spent some time in Dublin.

It was December 30th 2010

We took our three boys and two nieces for a tour of the National Leprechaun Museum.

At the end of the visit I was inspired to write this short poem about my day.

                                            The Real Leprechaun

                                            Today I woke and rode

                                                    then ran

                                               through the park of the Phoenix

                                              past a herd of deer

                                                  sleeping in the dark

                                               of a Dublin dawn.

                                              Came to the place of

                                                 the faery

                                               heard the story of Setanta

                                                    and the hound of Chulainn.

Andrew Thompson

holiday (unedited ideas)

Snow

cold

christmas

family

cousins

Yeats

Dublin