Stars in Jars (15 page)

There are little people in my bed,

I hear them every night.

They march along my pillow,

and swing on my reading light.

They're always there in the morning

when my eyes blink up and down.

Half of them have a silly smile,

the other half, a frown.

If I smile at the frowning half

they start to wriggle and squiggle.

If I laugh a belly laugh,

they giggle, and giggle,

and giggle, and giggle

and giggle.

There are little people in my bed,

I hear them every night.

We all go to sleep together,

with our eyes shut tight.

Last night we gained a jot of time,

Clocks were held to let

An extra second slip into our lives.

Time enough for feet to leave the ground,

For fingers to click,

For an unkind word to be said.

Time for a mouth to open,

For a bee to land on a zinnia,

For a door to slam after a row.

Time for an eye to blink,

For a finger to push a piano's Middle C,

For the penny to drop.

Time for an apple to drop from the tree,

For a swing to swing,

For someone to change their mind

About saying that unkind word.

We have a leap second to make use of,

A jumping off point into our world.

What will you do with it?

Every few years we gain a second – called a leap second – to keep up with the varying rotation of the earth. This poem was written Sunday 1st July 2012
.

There's a time to tell your friend he's doing good,

And a time to tell your friend he's doing wrong.

There's time to eat broccoli,

And a time to eat milk chocolate.

There's a time to laugh out loud,

And a time to cry inside.

There's a time to wear a sparkly dress,

And a time to wear torn jeans.

There's a time to keep your favourite toy,

And a time to give it away.

There's a time to dance and jump and sing,

And a time to sit quietly and think.

There's a time to be angry and row,

And a time to make up and hug.

There's a time to sow a seed and watch it grow,

And a time to harvest its fruits.

(
In answer to the question ‘What happens to time after it is spent?'
)

All last year's nights

are in black bags

at Euston.

Paddington houses Lost Time

in rows of sieves

beyond Lost Property.

Bright sparkling mornings

are in clear plastic pockets

lining each horizon.

Birthdays are the grains

of gunpowder cracking fire

from Roman candles.

Moments of supreme happiness

are held in bubbles

rising from the mouths of guppies.

Sadness lives in cinders

waiting to be steamrollered

beneath the road.

Each and every

touch and hug and kiss and smile and sneeze,

is dancing with the dragonflies, up and down the breeze.

I give you a wooden gate

to open onto the world,

I give you a bendy ruler

to measure the snow that swirls,

I give you a prestidigitator

to make your woes disappear,

I give you a hopping robin –

he'll be your friend throughout the year,

I give you a box of mist

to throw over past mist-akes,

I give you a slice of ice

to slide on mysterious lakes.

The cards sit in a pile – a child,

dressed as a Christmas pudding,

walks along the top.

The tree lies outside –

pointing the way

for a council collection.

The fairy lights are curled up

inside their plastic box,

resting their filaments for another year.

Time to fold gold wrapping into bags,

read instructions on presents,

press my finger

on the last crumbs

of the Christmas cake,

and lick the sweetness away.

For Moniza

I've been to the park to-day,

swung on the swings,

slid down the slide,

climbed a tower,

I'm not tired.

I've been to school to-day,

run in the playground,

listened to teacher,

written a poem,

I'm not tired.

I got home to-day,

watched some telly,

drew a picture,

read my book,

I'm not tired.

I've eaten my dinner,

thrown my clothes,

had my bath,

cleaned my teeth,

coloured my nails,

talked to the gerbils,

danced on my bed,

blown my nose

and I'M NOT TIRED.

Underneath the bedclothes late at night

I read by the light of a torch –

no giveaway crack that way

of light from my bedroom door.

If the battery was flat I'd chance my arm

with an old tin lid from a jam pot.

Stealing birthday candles

from the kitchen drawer

I'd melt each end on the lid.

Under the covers, the candles lit,

I read my books at this altar.

The thing set alight was my mind.

Forget about your homework,

forget about that fight,

give it up to the cheesy moon

and the meteor showers of night.

Chuck your frustrations out of the window,

punch your pillow with your fright,

then lie in a river of watercress,

tomorrow will be alright.

It nosedives from the top of the fridge

into a bowl of rapids,

it crawls along the floor

and taps you on the knee,

it changes the colour of a room,

it puts great wheezing slices of life