With Summer Homeward Bound

<Audio>

Beach burnt brown to eventide 

basking on a lizard day. 

Silhouetted in shrieks the

childrens' matchstick army 

fight "absoluterly ginormous!" waves 

that crash over castles, and 

flood vain their boasts,

that stopped no tides, nor did a

sun beseeched agree to stay.

Then along the cliff walk home,

apace the ebbing tide, seal hauled up 

and basking in the afterglow's warm

breath upon our weary shoulders,

salt skinned, itched, sanded,

and so long in shadow

absent minded 

and homeward bound.

Along the dusk diminuendo eyelids droop,

as the day draws in the sundown dusk.

Over dinner, served with breathless starlight,

and violin reflections, candles splutter in

dance over fine wines clinked and sipped,

in a seaweed hammock, briny upon the breeze.

When the promenaders, with their

dog-tired children, have perambulated

to their beds ashore, we attune

to the rhythm of the lighthouse,

the swell of the sea drowned day.

With nightgown drooping eyes,

at the confluence of the rivers of

all the delta suns, of all the days 

we ever wished to sail,

beneath high pennant colours,

resplendent and blown along

the horizon, golden in ribbon,

and wrapped in sighs,

at the end of a perfect day. 

Late summer upon the altar of autumn,

the sad sacrifice of a blood red sun,

quenched in its own skyline and salted 

with tears under the moon's cool stare. 

A cosmic shiver on the bedroom stairs 

of a spun down day, shawled in a lullaby. 

Whisper, "little one, remember today,

for one day, my bachgen bach, 

you will dream that you are here,
and you will wish you were once more".

Marking time

What is it at the end of day

that, left unsaid, rankles 

at being unwritten 

or unpainted? 

To know that

one day, 

when the end has ended,

it will never, ever, be said.

The realisation that no mark

can be left to mark 

that you were here at all.

Because, if all the marks 

that you have left

are not seen, 

or if seen neglected,

then why strive to leave that mark,

another in the line of marks neglected?

There is nothing in the lichen crusted epitaphs,

upon the tombstones laid repetitiously,

that will cut the mirrors of eternity,

on which we so seek to scratch 

our mark in perpetuity.

Alone in this contemplation,

the artist, poet, pen,

in the alchemy of ages striven 

to divest their fingerprint or iris scan, 

upon the slippery tides of man.

Or does the genie draw back

into the smoked bottle corked,

to lay in a dusty secret nook

cobwebbed asleep

never to be rubbed again?

For there is no chisel blow

that can wrest asunder,

or decipher the enigma,

the illegibility of

benediction when

the impotence of ego id, 

for marking time is ended,

and the tears flow

until

Among the flowers of a chance encounter.

<Audio>

Among the flowers of a chance encounter.

A pleasant hello, no more. 

Then an oscillating ... don't I?

Know you? 

It is! And 

names explode from the dormant volcanoes

of the magma lakes of gold.

A kiss, and hugs float on 

where did all our years?

Remembered features, 

by feeling more than sight,

for almost sixty years have passed.

Must be! 

As smiling eyes swirl in memory.

The briefest coy girl boy before,

in no time the conversation flows.

Of where and when, did you and I,

take our different roads?

To arrive back at this point in time,

from a time when the lower branches

of our family trees, rubbed in the breeze,

when in pinafore dress, and short trousered knees,

we sat at our desks in line.

Is it a fool's gold we hold within our eyes,

that stare across the years?

How can the canyon of half a century 

be dismissed in a glance?

In a smile, so nice to have met you, and

we could talk and talk for ages.

You have read my book, you said,

and found yourself within the pages.

Well, today,

Marlene (nee Morgan) 

met again

James Young.

Not way back in Cwm junior school, 4A.

But arm in arm knee deep,

in the glorious flower beds of time.

Why me (?)

Why me (?)

Approximately.

In all the world,

   of the 

3,739,142,333 women

   of the 

3,805,654,920 men.

  (On the 24th August)

What chance that mum met dad?

   of the 

525 billion lifetime sperm,

   of the 

400 eggs matured,

what chance that meeting?

But mum did meet dad, 

   and 

one sperm did meet one egg, 

   and

that is why I am able to ask:

why me, 

   why me, 

      why me?

Or to confirm,

    why me, 

       to me,

and 

    why you, 

       to you.

By chance (?)

Approximately.

And then,

   perchance, 

you might ask of me,

   what is the chance 

that I,

   created by chance,

   could by chance,

answer our question:

can chance ever be

so approximated?

Hopscotch on the Metal Men

<Audio>

Hopscotch on the metal men,

dainty do the buckled shoes

hop where clogs were scorched,

in the tapped bot's searing flows.

Of all the cowboy horses, or

the girls' skipping faster tally,

who will remember the copper works,

or the spelter men of the valley?

The slate roofed veins that run, 

along with the children to their quarry,

their joy unbounded, outcropped hard,

over a slag and cinder furnace dowry.

Render new, as you may, the stone cottages

of Taplow terrace, or along Rifleman's row,

but the sweating muscled ghosts will stir

and blur the memories now, of how

there was the Devil's smoking works,

fed by the cobbled turning tracks,

where the bread and dripping men 

were ground down by their tasks.

Smelted into the fabric of their lives,

in days numbered by the ton,

and mums in scrubbing doorsteps warn,

"just wait until your dad gets home my son!".

Under a new gentrified pentimenti,

ripples the strata of works in toil.

"Remember", the pallid grasses call,

the metal, the slag, the rags and oil.

Grime tattooed and weeping beneath,

or in each wall, or crumbling rotten jetty,

they lie upon the river Tawe, time a minded

how their anguish laid, the foundation of our city.

Look around, below, above - just there!

But you'll not see them. Yet, whispered

down in time, they toll the rent you pay

in tears, for the homes they once revered.

Upon this strata black bled slag, the

ochre cinder's Cinderella children,

feel the wheel of times long ago, 

ere now the chiming hour, when

we flee from thrall, or fall upon,

the wretched witching hour.

requiem

floral railing 

against war

remove the gilding

so pointless are

the bloody spikes

we're building 

Sent from my iPad

Popping the pink bubble

(Junior school in the 1950s)

<Audio>

The ladies in the pink bubblegum shop,

in outrage stare, o the tutting window where,

kissing boys hard on the boiler room steps,

the girls squeeze away their school-time crushes,

in a golden blur, and hot in ruby flushes, 

that will last these pinafore wives,

and their vainglorious lover boys,

to the very end of their very tiny lives.

What?! Oh eye sea

<Audio - read twice>

Sofa out upon the tide

of an assault sea swim.

See son, some are turning,

ought um we to run across

the unraveling rope bridge.

For the sun vines are rotting 

and the mists' must falls.

The lichen is turning 

to mild you will find it

upon the cataract of time,

where the cars cade

until the tide turns.

Womb sea Tomb sea

<Audio>

From the womb of the sea,

when the waters break,

deliver me safely to the shore,

and I will suckle the cradling sun.

A cloud's silver lining splits the shine,

on the ebb and flow of tears and joy.

Happiness, the bell is calling, calling.

It's a buoy. It's a buoy. It's a buoy. 

Safe upon that bank of sand,

draw down the busy world, and

with stick-lines incise your time,

in sacrifice before the erasing tide.

Gaze upon the soft horizon, constant

through the ages of child to man,

of man back down to child again,

in calm and storm be calmed.

Laid long upon a moon tomb sea,

flowing along the ebb tide's race,

weigh the anchor of my soul to flee,

to bleed westward with the sun.

Berth

From the womb of the sea,
when the waters break,
deliver me safely to the shore,
and I will suckle the cradling sun.

Midlife meiosis

<Audio>

I am the fulcrum of a seesaw.

See, on the up side, scions ride.

Saw upon the down side,

there my ancestors bide.

Reminded of the tombstones,

that topple in the ebbing tide,

to shorten the downside lever,

and propel my scions rise, and rise.

As my fulcrum slips towards twilight,

the scions shriek delight,

for down they ride, bump bump down,

as their ancestors drop aside.

Then as the penultimate fulcrum,

slips abject from the pole,

so my fulcrum slips into the night,

as he takes on this pivotal role.

Instead of a fulcrum, it seems to me,

I am now a spindle in a wheel,

for spinning all around me,

are my scions gazing in,

as I peel off into the void.

  Slows down, and slows down,

becomes their seesaw again, 

as another fulcrum strong,

smiles upon its life of strain.

Caterpillar-like this seesaw track,

is making, breaking, unchanging length,

the spring of life on the one side,

as dotages drops off from the ride.

Oh what joy to have been a fulcrum,

to have balanced my time of life.

But, actually, it's a binary pivot,

designed for a husband and his wife.

Hi Sea

<Audio>

Where's the sea?

Inside of me.

Wear the sea

upon me.

Whatever the sea,

it weathers me,

and breaks in wave

over my grave.

Love forever sea.

hospital gate syndrome

<Audio>

read my genome

do a CT scan

positron emission 

stress ECG

or an EEG

myography 

ultrasound

X-Ray chest

body scan

do every blood(y) test 

known to man

test my breathing

dab my stools

dip my pee

sample my drools

exhale

inhale

hold it

spit

strength

eyesight 

  oh I see

hearing

  what WHAT

is hammering 

stammering 

reflexivity 

conductivity

weigh me

mark my height 

BMI

photograph my gait

then MRI

open and close

a stitch in time

inject some dye

I'm turning morose

and don't give a dime

for my prognose

so

blood transfuse

don't refuse

a transplant or two

before you

anaesthetise me

for an ECT

or better still

some CBT

I seem to be

a b_bit shaky

tell me now

would you prefer

an endoscope up 

or 

an endoscope down

anal retentive 

then

let's really go to town

cough twice

bronchoscopy

auscultation 

cardiac surgery

a stent for lent

or a cardiac bypass

on the road to ruin 

of my family tree

genetic counselling 

xxx my arse

you'll never know me

cos you see

they're coming to take me away 

ha ha - ha ha

hee hee - hee hee

but you've lots of data

to remember me

when finally

I can

R I P

DNR

Asystole

Check out my Early August Diary on SNN

http://swanseanewsnetwork.org/nature-diary/early-august-diary-fruit-heaven/

The swimmer in winter

<Audio>

Lanyard, seaward, tethered to tide,

the swimmer standing tall.

Owns the slanting day down beach,

and the high sea's sky. That's all.

That's all there is. No secret,

in the knots running spate,

that ebb and flow, instilled

of whether to or not. The fate

of a swimmer in winter facing down

the wind that hiss-spits in his face.

Armfuls of horizon, cutlass grey,

snow gulls tumbling down in grace.

The ocean vehement,

shouldered in towering,

banshee in screams, wild

in glaring, growling, glowering,

a predatory wolf in a skein of sky.

Unfaltering waves, icy in solemnity confirm,

when ensnared in snarls, and gritted by both sides,

they steadfastly refuse to squirm,

or slip their lanyard, tethering tides.

book ends

<Audio>

my nose in this old book

a seance with every hand 

that held it close

at every fireside lighted

in the dust down gloaming 

  in every nook

  in every strand

  of thought morose

  or drawn delighted 

  booked and roaming

in stares and stares

that rage on the pages 

of where's oh where's

that ache down the ages

entangled in my poem

a very particular duality

Rotherslade unmade

Have you seen the mess at Rotherslade?

 Where the Council neglect their duty.

Weeds and weeds, not bucket and spade.

  Oh Gower! Why do we neglect your beauty?

But Council (ours), you just sit back in your city,

  for the locals, once more into the breach

dear friends are cleaning up. Such a plastic pity,

  that visitors regularly see, despoiled upon the beach.

Photo here: 

http://jimyoung14.blogspot.co.uk/2017/08/rotherslade-unmade.html

Of Rich

<Audio>

We take no memories to the grave,

   not even a pallid, cold sweat in pain.

So when you laid your memories at our feet,

  by such memories you will remain,

forever voiced deep in that Welsh valley,

  your gravel words to stir our guts,

along the brogue and downward lanes,

  where infamy spits, no ifs or buts,

in eyes that ride upon the voice,

  that stare crazy part the time.

That pierce my soul, my bloody-fool soul,

  as that voice harsh blasts the grime 

of ordinariness, in ordinary people,

   that so inordinately love your words,

cut and polished, inebriate in style,

  in feral ferocity trod the limelight boards,

in theatres harangued by sackcloth-to-glory times,

  in a Richardness unbeknown of many men,

swallowed, as must bring meaning to

 the wife of your life. So that if any then

would sink into your worldly sneer,

  or in the far horizons of your bleary eyes,

wrapped deep in smoke, that, when the hard spirits

  had wrought what lay therein, therein up and dies.

What words of yours shall we read,

   to know exactly who you are?

Until, sanded by your gravel voice,

  we will know then, that you are ...

Richard Burton,

from Pontrhydyfen.