Saturday, 17 March 2018

the newts of spring

the newts of spring

spring of the newted boys,
infatuated the many mile,
up the cefn, 
to the clay pits, and
turning the mud bricks,
and taken with a smile,
pot the newts with magic.
the safari floats home
back down the memory mile.

Friday, 16 March 2018

the tea is drunk

the tea is drunk
the log fire dawdles
the music wanes
the seance begins 
the words cross over 
onto the page
you are reading them


the beholden poet’s clatter
is spilled in word’s that clatter
it doesn’t matter 
          it doesn’t matter 
let the seance resume

let the abscess that gathers
all the puerile aged pus 
yield to my sinus pen
be lanced the boil
drain the mind marinade
of the all the anthologies
and all the libraries of noise


can I sear this tattoo 
of the past and
brand the page anew
or water mark it
as my own

  exorcised of the poets 
the vacuoles still remain
to permeate my poems
  is there no icy pool 
into which I can dive
and emerge pristine

let me think
      let me think

Thursday, 15 March 2018

failing to reach escape velocity

my childhood; a stone in my shoe,
a wallpapered memory, peeling;
trimming the lamps, and dimming
grandpa’s gas-mantled dusk.

rejecting today’s vermillion carpet,
unwelcome by the zinc bath boy;
the iced windows are, thoughtlessly,
not listening. they never did.

the hard slag tips’ strong foundation,
is ill-designed for building today;
they will not house my childhood.
false, they call back; false, false!

eyelid heavy, the village days wrap
up my today and throw it away.
the village ball and chain drag,
and i fall back as i always do.

said the four o’clock abed

westminster dolefully downs the cold fired night
where the black pads scurry crumbs 
homeless on the grit coal carpet grate.
then chimes the hour balanced moment 
between the days down either side,
and thoughts suspended simply are,
and we? where are we halted then?

between a dry tear and a lemon smile,
a rising laugh and a choked off frown.
the scant breath off the lake of night
lays a black cracked window feather,
to stir the stardust ashes
around the point of no return.
with no signpost forward,
sleep comes to kiss;
there, there; hush now,
my cariad,
nos da,
night you night,
for everything’s alright.

Friday, 9 March 2018

spring blossom

champagne in a pink fizz pedals           
                                                          first almond blossom skies

and slakes the thirst that winter 

                                                         for the salad summer days

then however daintily its petals 

                                                         and lift uncertain eyes

it will blush and when its sinter
                                                         the blue frost’s cruel ways

be roused you negated winter 

                                                         bunting for a summer fete’s reprise 

Monday, 5 March 2018

running from the where i did not want to be

the settling down comfortable days,
the safe within the picket fence days,
far away from the scenes of a life 
that he has run from all his days.
               the trapdoor bog days of
the forced march against the tides
flowing along the cold winds of his insecurity.
bending backward in his rationalisation
his justification of the suffocation,
of the wire-wool stuffed eye jobs.
beaten down by those 
             who are also beaten down
                            by those in the relay race to 
end all relay races;
        to the end of time 
               in times unending.
safe now along the slow cemetery path
he can laugh at the absurdity of
his question - why did I not ....