The Flip Side & The Funny Side

  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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