The Thirty-First of December

Usually, when we celebrate,
we remember:

a child leaving its mother's womb,
the formalisation of love,
the departure of a loved one.

Tonight, we celebrate endings,
but we have no endings to remember
because nothing ever really ends.

In truth,
life flows into life
as year flows into year.

However,
I have no doubt
that the vast puzzle of existence
is gradually solving itself

moment by moment,
with each dawning of truth,
with each feeling of love.

I have faith
that we are gathered
in the midst of a perfection
being made
quite simply
for the pleasure of doing so.

And that one day,
everything will end.

And so all our celebrations of endings
are being held
in the name of that one ending
still to come
when all that was ever made or dreamed
is finally complete.

Flower Rocket

You can listen to me reading this poem here.

A rocket went up
Into the sky today,
And from its thrusters
There came
A great unbroken stream
Of potpourri,
And inside the rocket,
Every room
And every bay
And every locker
Was full of flowers:
Red ones,
Blue ones,
Flowers whose petals
Were shaped like bottles,
Flowers whose odours
Evoked memories
Of grandmothers.
Flying the rocket
Were flower-people in uniforms
With big flower-shaped heads,
And the two lieutenant flowers
Saluted to the captain flower
And smiled,
And the captain flower
Saluted back
And smiled,
And the rocket went up and up
And around and around.
And when it reached
Its apogee,
One of the lieutenant flowers
Wrote down
Their exact distance
From the directrix:
An imaginary line
Above their heads
That went out into space
And touched the edges
Of the universe.
And the lieutenant flowers
And the captain flower
All looked at each other,
And they smiled.
And then the rocket
began to fall,
And the potpourri
That came streaming
From its thrusters
Now sprayed upwards
Like the water sprinkler
In Piccadilly Gardens.
And it continued
To fall;
It plunged,
It plummeted,
It dropped like
A plump peach.
And at twelve minutes
Past four
On Tuesday, the 23rd
Of May,
One hour
And thirty-seven minutes
After it was launched,
It entered the waters
Of the Pacific Ocean
At Point Nemo.
But now,
Instead of falling,
It was passed from palm
To palm
By the great watery hands
That lie in the ocean,
And wait
For the signal
To applaud.
The ship tumbled
And spun,
And bubbles went up
To the surface
As it sank.
Finally,
Its nose hit
The bottom
Of the Ocean
And slowly,
As though bruised,
It lowered itself
And lay down
On the Ocean bed.
All the flowers
Were dead.
The flower-people had taken
Revolvers
Out of their holsters
And blown their heads off
Ten minutes previously.
And when the metal
Of the rocket
was no longer
Too hot,
Fish would come up
And look through the windows
And mouth words
That are not
In any dictionary
And will never be
Spoken.