before he was my father my father was

before he was my father 

  my father was 

the man with the fag;

  in the desert with a fag;

in the war.

the man with david niven moustache,

  and tight curly hair;

in his uniform. 

in the war he was a man;

  a young man;

away from home.

in the war he was tough;

  him and his oppo;

tough in Cairo.

at home my mum

  sent the telegrams;

missing you.

at home my mum,

  remembers when they met;

missing those smiles.

in the photographs;

  jack the lad;

he knew.

in the photographs;

  the looks,

you know.

with his brothers,

  in their suits;

posing for the photograph.

with his brothers,

  in their uniforms;

posing for the photograph.

down the pub,

  lifting a pint,

over a hand of cards.

down the pub,

   between youth and manhood,

on her hand a ring.

my mum;

  in his eyes;

always.

my mum;

  he was in her eyes;

always.

that’s all he was,

  before he was

my dad.

that’s all he was,

  before i was his son.

now he is

my dad.

  sad isn’t it?

he was his.

my dad.

 sad isn’t it?

now he’s my dad.

so where is he, was he?

  my dad.

here or there?

where was he is he?

  my dad.

did he make it home?

i have him at home;

  but did he make it home?

what does he think?

he has me at home;

  but has he made it home?

what do you think?

  

hospital city

hospital city

“the enemy’s upon us”

said the enema saponis

"high hot and a hell of a lot"

said the nurse who’d lost the plot 

“just a little prick”

said the nurse without a dick

“no need to panic”

said the bedpan mechanic

“roll on your side”

said the doctor’s bride

“big breaths”

said the lisp with the yeths

“are you awake”

said sleeping pills take 

"i’m boracic lint"

said the nurse who was skint

"going to take out the stitches"

said the nurse in breeches

"out comes the pus"

said the nurse with no fuss

"well and truly plastered"

said the nurse who mattered

"time for discharge"

said the nurse in charge

summertime and

summertime and

the washing flies on a summer breeze,

cat on a sunbeam under the trees.

flowers of every colour under the sun,

the sort of day when i am the only one,

to flare of nostril, eyes and skin,

to feel that the whole world is my next of kin.

stop the sun! stop the spin!

let me hang here for evermore;

but no, 

             but no.

a painting

charcoal and chalked;

time hanging in this painting

of a muse lost on the tides of thought,

reclining with a sensual sadness,

in thought of a past lover?

or an imminent assignation?

she is at that age,

you know.

see the fire in her cheeks?

beware!

she is in love with you.

Sent from my iPad

high summer

hot and summer

front and back doors open wide

and then a cool poet’s breeze

across my knees

sighs

i sit still

for more

summer hot

the cat tires of chasing the poets

and sits beside me

she can see them

and purrs

we sit still

for more

summer hot

a fly buzzes in

the cat’s head swivels

it settles on a line of poetry

we all doze

poetry

i am the cavern into which all poetry flows

paged as white as a blind cave fish 

swimming in a cataract of words

flowing from where i care not

into the heart of the world i dare not

i cannot see the cathedral caves

but i can feel the golden walls

if the flow of poetry stops then

this blind fish may never see

the morning dew

the cat has eaten of the morning

and is washing over her ears 

there’s a breeze at the breakfast table

and the sun is sniffing at the trees

frogspawn on the chickweed days

stop tickling my childhood heels

drink now of the magic dew

and see how summer feels

the word is

the word is

the poets are pillow fighting in my mind

their torn dictionaries spilling feathers

to fall as snow upon my lines

as i fly around grasping at straws 

to build a huff and a puff castle

in which i screech scared that 

a real poet will burn it down

and leave me with the ashes of a dream

of a poem on a pyre 

a nugget of pyrites 

that doesn’t even warm a fool 

powerless

power-storm an idea

power-up the word conveyor

power-wash the poem

power-strim the words 

power-blow away the detritus 

power-roller the rhyme

power-up the presses

power-promote the ego ergo 

power-shortcut blows a fuse

power-less the words

power-hole as black as ink

anyone seen my pen

Lavender

lavender 

all the blues of winter

nodding in prayer

to the bees and the butterflies

in the summer sun

sunday on kilvey hill

sunday on kilvey hill

every shushed sunday morning high

on kilvey hill under a skylark sky

duncan and peter his corgi and i 

heatherward upward until lunch is nigh 

old walls lizard-stoned and grey

or tussocked white with grass and hay

there often in statue the hare did lay

or a fox curled up sleeping off the day

past the soggy-sock marsh in reed

past the suck-shoe marsh indeed

first bomb-hole pool bound in weed

second bomb-hole pool scarfed indeed

every hushed sunday morning high

above the village that smoking sty

where the industrial psalmists rumble and i 

and we knew anon the end is nigh

but ne’er say never ne’er say nay

for cometh the hour cometh the day

when we can stay and stay

and mature of youth we will say

that we cannot of this sulphur bleed

or over the glassy slag tips indeed

spill youth’s angst or take a heed

for tomorrow in its numbing greed

we under these heather walls and sky

we will overstay and overstay 

and as any two boys in their need will say

we are off home full-pelt for lunch is nigh 

lunch under kilvey hill

the poem

the poem insists we write it

it asks us to fill its pockets with

the child’s treasured things

the old man’s tobacco

the lady’s damp handkerchief

the whole of the sea and sky

and when we are lost it says

look

look and remember 

this is who you are

languish in anguish

a blue jellyfish bruising memory

 stinging at a lonely heart

red as a claw buried in the craw

 down where the tears start

the tunnel has been tolerated 

 look has arrived at tomorrow 

where pains are pinned like butterflies

 camphorated in drawers of sorrow

stripped bare of a tomb-like lethargy

 and shivering with thwarted desire

we drink of the spring of sunshine 

  that sets the uplands afire

then the memories sleep 

  ayes close eyes

if only says the past

  we had smelled this summer rose

haiku

torrential rain

my tears

i can lick them

high tea

dew-eyed and streaming golden

from an old black-hearted pot

assam or maybe darjeeling 

brewing yar thar brouhaha

on a thousand summer days

high-tea on the foothills
of a cake-stand’s doily sky

basket chairs tilted straw hats

and bees that jam 

and jazz and jazz and then

zzz and zzz and zzz

while all the afternoon a while

the dandelion clocks 
tick tock tick tock 

still sitting still

i just made friends with a hover-fly

who landed on my palm

then he sat upon my knee

we meant each other no harm

and of course he saw off all the other flies 

which was very nice for me

i like these nature stories

when it’s warm and summery 

but he’s gone now

he’s gone to die

pity

the thrush

what was it that sang

under a foundling moon

that when i answered back

all hell was loosed

and prerogative strode

down the throat of dusk

until the silver birch all defused in lullaby 

and the sleepy stars tinkled down the day

until silence reigned in the owl breath night

and the door closed

girls

look at this photo in the album,

you petulant pubescent girl.

mum, dad and 

a teeny weeny baby. 

we’ve come a long way,

together;

don’t spoil it.

tomorrow is yours,

we don’t want it;

we won’t change it;

you can have it your way. 

but don’t spoil it - eh?

luncheon is served

could i order 

a wild garlic and dew starter

followed by

whoops a daisies with a buttercup melt

dressed with a breeze of bees

a mixed grass sneeze

served on a bed of sea thrift

a side dish of warm sea mist

and a glass of valerian rosé

some bluebell fountains as a desert

a sea and sand of witch and lavabread 

periwinkles pinned and sunset

in an indigo sauce

spume poured in waves over

a sparkling tiara horizon

strings of golden clouds in sundown ice

slide off a full-bodied full-blue moon

a whispered i love you 

across a chasm of clotted time

lingering in entwined and treacle eyes 
and a cool glass of you are mine wine 

oh my

oh my

dear planet

we did not plan it

but death came anyway

you did not plan it

dear planet 

oh my

oh my 

oh my

a poem is

a poem is a stream of thought emerging from a cave

flowing golden over the bowdlerising words 

in a flash it’s gone

and here’s another

and it’s gone

but the flow goes on and on

run me a jig

but of course, it is the secret ways, where

  to be on your own, down the tell-you ways,

is to walk down there, to go that way,

  to be where all the long-ago times lie.

castle cloistered or cemetery interred,

  beach cove coasted,

or down the wooded childhood ways,

  where, fun-sunned and roasted,

or running cold down derelict lanes, is

  to be where all the long-ago times lie.

  

and running the heathered hills again,

  or fishing through the night, or

running rings around the park bell parkie,

  when all the naughty boys are set to flight;

then, and only then, is every village lane 

  a minded, to write about today tonight, and
to be where all the long-ago times lie.

and so we were,
  we were,
and so we did,
  we did,
and so we are,
  so there you are.

pearl

all the words of all the songs

are the mother of pearl to

a grit of a thought 

in a pearl of 

a poem