promises, promises

a heavy sky yanked up by bare trees,

emerald knickers winter drenched,

for when January denies the lavender,

and February is on her knees,

the mad March hares will be comely wenched,

and from the pomander the pollen spills.

Gary’s a sport

Thousands dead ...

   Gary, sport.

Tsunami kills ...

   Gary, sport.

Global warming threatens ...

   Gary, sport.

Seas threatened by plastic ...

   Gary, sport.

Murdered ...

   Gary, sport.

War erupts, women and children ...

   Gary, sport.

Epidemic threatens worldwide ...

   Gary, sport.

Nuclear winter ...

   Gary, sport.

No cure predicted ...

   Gary sport.

End of the world ...

   Gary sport.

Gary? Gary? Gary? 

Anyone there?

Oh well ...

   Gary sport.

The prospectors

the prospectors 

Audio

and did they come but by three by three,

borne on their sad sighs to photograph me,

and did the filming seem

like the stuff of a dream within a dream;

and although the drones

droned on, and on, and on, upon 

the drizzled beach-ward walk,

their story bowed before the thrones

of the queen of the sea and Davy Jones;

and through the graveyard did they talk

of times gone by, where the angel points

to the tides of time, to the state of the sky and sea;

and what awaits these three king’s of film,

and will they get the story of him,

who walks alone to the sea each day,

with lonely feet on patient grass,

to the grim sea spuming and his swim,

and will they get, with each drone’s pass

the feeling of w hat just may be; may be

the spirit of grey hot blood in a stormy sea,

transfused in a pushing tide at flood;

for their sighs have been stung away, in eyes

that glisten of salted tears upon the raging wind

across his sea, they see their horizons expand,

and the stinging spark of creativity rekindled,

for what was mundane has dwindled, dwindled;

to be replaced by a vista so grand

that the Alex, Cerith, and Henry team 

are dreaming in Jim the Swim’s own dream;

for they have pinched the sleeping dragon,

the Celtic ghosts out in the bay,

and while the drones, drone on and on,

they have reaped the treasure in their film,

which will forever tell of him;

of Jim the Swim in all his glory,

now was there ever such a story,

told with such perceptive purity

and by this team on film laid down 

for everyone in perpetuity.

Was there ever such a productive dream

as the Alex, Cerith, and Henry team?

that time

when the tide divides my day

  and the sea’s height upon the rocks,

and the strides of sand within the bay;

  when she, with condescension lifts her frocks,

and I, seduced by her horizon eyes,

  breast forward into the waves,

asunder and brought down to size,

  this lust for the tides I crave.

earnest of breath, teeth a-clench,

  my desire is by eye to eye

well met by my spume milked wench;

 once bitten by your waves that I might die,

drowned heavy in ardour, 

  for you, my very own,

my lady of the lichen sea,

  my very own, 

la mort, la mer, l’amour.

  

  

the copulation of all the times

contoured by her hips, within her labial lips, 
lies all the existences of a man and a woman. 
from the first replicator to the final extinguishment of the flame, 
the flow of life burbles there.
the falling into the attraction of features and personality, 
all down the synchronicity of the torsos dance, 
they float together towards the always plateau. 
that is why there is comfort in the breathlessness there.
why eyes close and thoughts are suspended.
both are giving, both are taking. both
writhe with their terrier bite on eternity, 
then flocculated flaccid after the twang of elastic copulation; 
when the tide ebbs and flows, 
when the giver takes and the taker gives, 
becalmed at full tide their roles merge.
minds are suspended in mirror images
misted at the centre of physical love.
then time stands still 
for every man’s and for every woman’s lust 
for that blurred anatomy at the androgyny of the moment.
all sensuality is the long kiss goodbye, 
from the now moment, that straddles the warp
between ancestors and progeny, 
is the why in the exquisite torpor of the moment that 
brings into existence the virtual history and virtual future 
of all life, until all life is ended.
it is surely eternity in the singularity of the moment, 
when the sexes meet as preordained.
it is that fire in the heart from birth to death, 
that masquerades as love, 
camouflage for the pheromones, 
for the hormones bequeathed by evolution,
that, at the moment of copulation, suspends everything, 
the moment when
the moment is just aware of the moment.

the darling sheds of dawn,

the darling sheds of dawn,
where the spiders yawn,
where the wee light spins
the silken web of day begins.

Lanyard

There lies Laugharne
at the tide turn;
full flow over bloated 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.

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.

Chip off the new book

 I sniff the pages,

this new book of poetry;

fish and chips!

  Salt and vinegar!

What the?

Hell,

  it’s a new book.

I read the poems.

They’re OK. Not great,

  but amusing.

Then I turn back to the pages;

Yes,

  definitely,

chips, and they are going cold,

the greasy poems turn translucent.

Finger lickingly good.

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,
tomorrow,
yes, tomorrow,
we will.

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

    eh

I am because of what I did

and I got here

  your turn to be somewhere 

just not here 

so don’t ask me 

again

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

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.

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?

To who

the owls are insisting
down the backyards of the night;
the tram wheels are zinging
on metal corners shining bright.
carry the last ones home to bed,
carry the day down, day down light,
for the owls are insisting
it's death to who? to who?
in the darkness of their night.

A mist this dawn

The morning sun is waltzing

with a gloaming mist this dawn,

lost somewhere 

between winter and spring,

and now, and now

I see a cobweb, 

golden in the breath of God, 

with the blue sky and the mist

as through a revolving door,

lamplight, brass - lamplight, brass,

upon a hedge that’s steaming, 

surely I must be dreaming? 

This cannot be summer,

and alas no, it’s just

a January joke.

Decades

The decades

When we think of the decades,

  the 50s or the 70s,

  for example,

or any act in the program;

we talk up a backdrop for the stage,

with all the players frozen

in time. 

  Costumate.

  Dressed for their roles.

We know who “did it”, of course,

and why they did it, and why we did 

what we did, when we did it.

  Of course.

  Not in boredom, but by a renegade

rectitude after the fact.

Our life, paragon in each chapter,

in our book of life. We 

could have done it no other way,

although we sometimes question

if we could have;

but no, no, of course not.

  In decadence par excellence 

we assume that our tenure of each ten years

to be, or in retrospect, to have been 

preordained.

Do you see my decades?

Or do you see your decades?

Which of us, being in the other’s decade,

are painted on the backdrop scene,

or maybe one of the main players?

  Decades.

The first decade is,

no doubt.

The middle isn’t until the last is.

Then it will be too late.

  Until then

the beautiful collection of linen bookmarks

strike a decade deal with us.

We reverse the opera glasses,

and fall down the well of time,

bouncing on the decade-dented steps.

We see flashes.

  We see scenes.

      We see the bruises of

the decades glow again

powdered by the rouge of I’m,

  I’m content.

And so we are.

At the sunset of the fishes,
upon the pyre of the world,
my: I told you! I told you!
Will wash no more dishes,
when the half-mast flag’s unfurled.
Adieu, adieu, adieu,
my beloved Gaia girl;
for we are floating down the Acheron,
upon the pyre of the world.

Someday

The dreaded "they"
can take every thing away,
even our lives;
but the eternal "someone"
will write a poem that survives.
Will turn the darkest night
into the brightest light,
someday.

Stormy thoughts

There’s a storm brewing,

and the sea is calling me.

To swim with care

in the gale force air,

where thoughts tumble,

and slew upon the pebble words,

churning in tides of thought,

so that I may write, 

that all’s alright,

once more

upon a time.

Degeneration

In a knot of anticipation, three generations 
thread through each other’s New Year’s Eve.
Three extended families, the children's gene pool.
Each sees their togetherness separately.
The insistence of their conversations running
across their ages, voluble, and unrelated
to their belonging inside of each other,
but related more to their insistence on their 
individuality; that they are the atoms 
in a molecule on the verge of
a reaction threshold.