Sunday, 21 January 2018


There lies Laugharne
at the tide turn;
full flow over boated gullies,
over the grave worms
that writhe beneath his sea;
and there, in the flow of his words,
at full spate Dylan speaks to me.
In truth, it is only when I am at Laugharne,
that I feel, I just feel, how he speaks to me.

Saturday, 20 January 2018

For who do the owls do howl

The owls howl down the tunnels of the night.
For who? For who?
For you, for you,
it’s true, it’s true!
For me? How?
Moon cat, moon cat - Listen!
Hush in your halo crown.
Hush .... there, there!
That tremolo is for you. For you
do they howl, way down,
to you, to you
way down in the soot of night
they hoot to you.
Stalk with teeth on edge, from nails upon
their beaked blackboard,
then chalk a bleak moon screech.
Who? Well you. Who me?
Yes you. You, who
are tucked up, and safe in bed.
And so nice, so nice
it is.

Leave the owls to gargle moonbeams.

Friday, 19 January 2018

Chip off the new book

 I sniff the pages,
this new book of poetry;
fish and chips!
  Salt and vinegar!
What the?
  it’s a new book.
I read the poems.
They’re OK. Not great,
  but amusing.
Then I turn back to the pages;
chips, and they are going cold,
the greasy poems turn translucent.
Finger lickingly good.

Thursday, 18 January 2018

the Everly Brothers

the harmony of their songs
ached us down the night lanes,
and we, the shadow boys,
with our pub side pasties,
fired in the Band of Hope, 
kissed the girls
and told each other,
yes, tomorrow,
we will.

Wednesday, 17 January 2018

beggar me neighbour

beggar me neighbour

you sit there in the way
with your dog and grubby blanket
and a few coins
in your upturned cap
mumbling a please
that I do not want to hear
why should I talk to you
I don’t talk to anyone
  at random
why should you talk to me
  at random
why should I want to know who you are
  or were
more than I would want to know
  who anyone else is

give you a few coins for fags
  or for your mobile phone
no    no
if you need help go look for it 
get up from the side walk
  it’s not there is it
the government has my pennies
and they spend them on you as they see fit

  so why are there so many of you
messing up the place
go away
no I don’t want your magazine
  stop asking 
I don’t want it 

  there must be something you can do
why must I know something about you
I don’t even want your answer
  to that
I am walking past now
go away
  or stay
it’s up to you
just don’t keep asking
  that is what I’m asking you

why do I feel as if my words are cruel
see what you have done 
  just by sitting there 
all the shades of need across the world
  I am in my niche
  and you in yours
not my fault
  is it
shall I change my niche
can I change my niche
  let’s just be as we are
I am because of what I did
and I got here
  your turn to be somewhere 
just not here 
so don’t ask me 

if you think I can change the world
  you are wrong
we can stretch the elastic
but it always returns to its original shape
  over all the years
we live
we suffer
then goodbye

it’s the thoughts that count
  and they are free
and beggar your thoughts
  have made a beggar out of me

Friday, 12 January 2018

The voices of God

The lilting hiss of the curate’s kiss
along his words of wisdom;
God only knows why they talk like this
when proclaim the keys to The Kingdom.

A two and six postal order
and a tuppenny stamp, please,
hushes the vicar to the counter.
The football pools, he decides upon his knees,
and bets the numbered hymns in order, 
with a promise that “just four little aways?”
would win his eternal praise, 
curate to creator.

Such a gentle voice, a hand upon your shoulder,
but so out of place in the supermarket isle,
that we all say “off his trolley he is”,
slightly mouldier than a Stilton smile;
because, now that life is so puerile,
that chip upon his shoulder
has turned into a boulder.

For God’s sake man!
Talk like a human being. 
It cuts no ice, when you talk so nice,
you’ll never send the money lenders reeling.

Talk to me, talk to me,
for God’s sake talk to me;
not in condescension;
but scream and shout, 
spit it out, sputter in the tears of Christ,
and reflect upon their condensation.

Thursday, 11 January 2018

The Lord of the Morning

The music and the sunlight
upon the throne of dawn.
I might not, then again I might;
the cat stifles a yawn.
We close knit our eyes in the sunrise,
and surmise, surmise, surmise;
why does fur slink upon a sunbeam?
Why is a dream a dream?