Sea swim.
Salt under the back scratcher.
Red and green seaweed in the bath.
Joy in my heart.
Purple knees hold memories.
Freedom to choose.
Saturday, 30 September 2017
Second childhood
Throwing back the comfort blanket,
the old man from his chair,
picks up on a conversation,
with a small boy playing there.
Friday, 29 September 2017
Thursday, 28 September 2017
Wednesday, 27 September 2017
More Haiku poems
childhood village tear
for away in the manger
Sunday school pinned
me see sea see me
onto me shall salt sea be
sea see me see sea
the cuttings blossom
not sure if to live or die
problem of the root
verdant sedum rouge
on the wrinkles of autumn
will not melt the snow
Haiku poetry is:
Monday, 25 September 2017
The thing in the night
Just beyond earshot
the night will not say.
It is creeping reptile black
a heartbeat away.
Through the window now
and I'm under the sheets!
Sunday, 24 September 2017
Parking mad
Parking mad
I know said the Devil,
outside the church,
let's park on the pavement.
I know said the adult,
outside the child clinic,
let's park on the pavement.
I know said the far-sighted,
outside the meeting for the visually impaired,
let's park on the pavement.
I know said the running engine,
outside the rehabilitation centre,
let's park on the pavement.
I know said the fanatic,
outside the gym,
let's park on the pavement.
I know said the youth,
outside the senior citizens club,
let's park on the pavement.
I know said the unfit,
outside of the playing fields.
let's park on the pavement.
I know said the adults,
outside the playground,
let's park on the pavement.
I know said the mum's and dads,
outside the school,
let's park on the pavement.
I know said every driver,
outside of common sense,
let's park on the pavement.
No!
said the little man,
but nobody listened.
In that case, said the mob,
let's get rid of pavements,
I hope you are all listening!
Sent from my iPad
Saturday, 23 September 2017
Teenage
you stretched deep within the machine
reached way back to the source code
changed "you are the 1" to 0
and you broke my heart
Reaching for the word
Like the biggest blackberry
just out of reach,
the words are never sweet enough.
So, describe the thorns, and
the blood will remember.
Friday, 22 September 2017
Down the seas of my history
the
dreamboat ploughs the rolling waves,
the
high tiers of tears,
stinging,
just there, where I used to be.
Aquamarine
in dream, but grey
in
reality, the slag tips and the stone
where
we played, short-trousers ragamuffins,
with
mum waiting at home for tea.
Little
light bulb station road,
haloed
in watering eyes.
When
darkness beckoned, adventure bragged,
and dragged in backward glances.
Pals
we were, dwarfed by the ghosts
who
were there. We knew. We stepped
onwards
in the flow of growing up.
The
round trip of home for supper.
The
wooden bridge, the slag slashed path.
Our
hurrying feet, sure but unsure,
span
the wide-eyed orange moon, of Dan Dare,
up
there, in a spacesuit full of bated breath.
Take
not the chapel path, nor by the pub.
Meet
not the prayer books or the beer blather.
But
tread the boys' own secret paths,
of
a communion, dark in conspiracy.
Knowing
there's an answering to the village,
in
the mist above the moon ways.
Where
the book of times was written,
recording
all our sins.
Even
'ere we shun the whispered rules,
even
our mothers' solemn contracts.
So
runs the demon spark of youth.
Go
on! It is! Go on!
I
could race around and down
these
warren ways, for all my days and days.
Awash
with sangfroid broken tears,
and
the anguished love of years.
Long
gone, and yet alive for always,
when
we return in thought,
to
our ruin in the ruins,
on
the slag tips and woe betides.
Lay
the ashes of my thoughts,
where
the torn pages smoulder.
Lay
them upon my village times,
and
sprinkle over my slumber. For
I've
been back there again.
I've
hugged them all again.
And
I will return there again.
To
laugh again, and again, and again.
Surfing
the tides of my history.
Running
in mystery.
Wednesday, 20 September 2017
Second-hand prose
The faces, held with bated breath,
in a book's dusk-dusted pages,
congregated in the pews of twilight,
drawn down upon their ages.
Each slice of their hearts delight,
desiccated in the spume of tears
torn from their rants and rages,
to lay warm, wrapped in dust,
and fast within the pages.
I can smell their sadness there in must.
The hands that held the book,
cheek to cheek, dusting dust,
swirl fast a gazing loving look.
Or, cosy in brown paper shroud,
you haunt the time machine,
tip toe through the mausoleum,
wherein we all do dream.
Waltz me forever, tight to your bosom,
in love's long pirouette.
Down all the fastness of our time,
for not one minute do I regret,
our second-hand repose.
Monday, 18 September 2017
Great Brexit
Great Brexit
Britain, on the catafalque of lies before Europe,
Britain, on the catafalque of lies before Europe,
who, sitting around the empty, rattling tumbrel,
whisper of the Thuggee garrote. Tighter.
Britain, to be interred in the mausoleum of Empire,
by those so minded of the glory days,
that they forget the way back.
Their misty ways, now so irresistible
to the dew-eyed, dyed-in-the-wool
old Englanders of the viceroy plumes.
The flag is at half-mast. Going up or down?
The last post or the reveille?
Never before has so much been ....
Thursday, 14 September 2017
Wednesday, 13 September 2017
The frog
Look through this frog's speckled eye
and you will see black spotted spawn,
and all the wriggly tadpoles swimming,
in the well where he was born.
Why do you think he is watching you?
With his skin shinning wet and bright.
Perhaps he fears you will pick him up,
and stop his trip tonight.
For he is going on a long hop,
across the fields and dales.
Until he finds that same old well,
where he was born in Wales.
He is looking for a wife to marry,
so she can jelly lay frogspawn.
and all the little froggy eggs
will be shining in the dawn.
They will leave them there in a gang,
where they will grow little legs and tails.
Until they too will go on their long hops,
to find their own homes in Wales.
And big mister froggy?
Well he is living in a stream.
Eating worms and juicy slugs,
having forty winks, and a dream.
Saturday, 9 September 2017
Abstract
the salt pans of tears
flamingo city
the cat rolls upon the shoreline
high ho
silver
moon
stop
the snow falls
scarf
breath
on Christmas Eve
sing anolis carolinensis
of
the breeze
in one window
out the other
fire me timbers
safely gathered in
the wood pyres
the wooden cats soak up the sun
cooked in their fur
to sleep upon
the night
twiddle my rock-cakes
nash nash
nosh nosh
nash nash
nosh
nish nish nish nash
nosh nosh nosh
the sun explodes the horizon of infinity
at the back of the front of the black hole
such a very small t whiskey
down the highlands of your mind
bottoms up
the Who tore up the Sixties
did they not
as the red wall absorbed everything
and was gone
home
flamingo city
the cat rolls upon the shoreline
high ho
silver
moon
stop
the snow falls
scarf
breath
on Christmas Eve
sing anolis carolinensis
of
the breeze
in one window
out the other
fire me timbers
safely gathered in
the wood pyres
the wooden cats soak up the sun
cooked in their fur
to sleep upon
the night
twiddle my rock-cakes
nash nash
nosh nosh
nash nash
nosh
nish nish nish nash
nosh nosh nosh
the sun explodes the horizon of infinity
at the back of the front of the black hole
such a very small t whiskey
down the highlands of your mind
bottoms up
the Who tore up the Sixties
did they not
as the red wall absorbed everything
and was gone
home
Thursday, 7 September 2017
Always
Brittle boy girl lamplight corner,
glow chip shop darkened streets.
Night held breath, fingers sparking,
the knowing generation meets.
Where loadstone days embrace,
the itch of destiny unfolds,
then do faerie days, as must away,
for in bated breath - lo, and behold!
A child no more. No more blushes,
in church hall breathless musky dances,
tiptoe on eggshell furtive crushes,
shared in surreptitious longing glances,
winks the eye of the hormonal storm,
surfing the waves of angst and joy,
running stampede, heartbeats thrumming,
when boy meets girl, and girl meets boy.
Saturday, 2 September 2017
The mothering of the day
The iron thumps, mothering the washing
in front of the fire tales.
Night turns it's back at the window
where the ceiling light winks goodbye.
Clock tock, iron thump, tick clock.
Cinders tinkle, the grate clinks.
The radio thrums the world
to sleep, eaten deep of the chair.
The stair curtain ruffled by ghost's
cool hand across the room.
The doors are closed,
the fire guard in place,
the ironing piled high
way up to bed,
out of time
out of day
out of tock, tick tock, tick tock ...
Friday, 1 September 2017
Full pelt
On the adventure doorstep
of which way today?
Run!
Full pelt down a childhood morning,
warming to the sun of play,
forever fibrillating and wide in eyes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)