Haiku

sunned in siesta upon a

basking breeze

wasped with hatred

well?

well?

do you know how many?

how many died in the great wars?

how many died in the great plagues?

  wait! wait!  come on,  read on a bit. 

and, yet, the world is now overpopulated.

do you know how many?

  we need

another war, or another plague; no!

no more! no more! i scream at the moon.

 - it’s always the moon isn’t it? -

it changes nothing, 

nothing changes,

it changes nothing, 

does it?

global warming, yeah, yeah, boring, right?

droughts, wild-fires, famine, water-wars?

epidemics? but, it’s always been like this, yes?

  yes, yes, it’s always been like this,

down the ages. but mutual assured destruction,

what a cabaret show that will be;

what an unusual permutation of

football results, or lottery numbers.

pop another pill, not in our life-time, 

  sighs;

but our children?

  our grandchildren?

silly old bugger! There he goes again;

he could worry for wales, that one!

ha, ha, ha; that is so funny. 

and now the cat has peed in the cat tray, and missed!

please, 

  laugh it all away; 

please?

"the end is nigh" "the end is nigh"

ha, ha, ha; how we laughed at that;

  yahboo sucks!

but we all have our end - don’t we?

  ahhhhh

these thoughts going around in circles,

and i am so tired; we all are so tired.

are the bugs and beasties waiting

for us to exit stage left? so that

they can take over the world?

it might be for the best? not for us, 

of course, but for the world. 

but this insensate blob

of rock and molten iron. what does

it know? it is dead sure.

so what am i to make of it all?

what am i trying to say?

do you know?

i’m buggered if i know!

phaw! phoo! stuff it you!

i’d rather have a cream cake any day;

i’m away to me bed.

just one of tide’s many of days

just one of tide’s many of days

the wind in the trees, and the seas that roar,

pelting beach-ward and slipping, that lanyard deride;

and whistling, and rattling, and pebbling in shells,

fall exhausted and star-fished on an ebbing of tide.

the secondhand poetry book

i shake my upturned secondhand book of poetry 

and the sighs fly out like bats from a cave 

with their long years searching for the moth-moon lines 

to hang a thought upon

and the ghosts of previous readers scurry up the sand dune pages 

dislodging a scree of words

the sea swimmer in winter

a video with voice over of one of my poems

youtu.be/qxkDB-G3Q1k

the writer

writing is the lightening 

in the humid air

the writer the kite flyer

who puts the words just there

and when they are dry and done with crying

the writer says "look here"

i am a writer now you see

it was me who put them there

but quick as lightening the ink winks
and thunder slams the book

the sensual beauty of a woman’s body

the sensual beauty of a woman’s body

is placed before you for her child

for gene’s tender trap

is designed to send you wild

with wide-eyed anticipation

two honey dews collide

and the web is spun

the deed is done

as you take her for your bride

you are now the rock of daddy

and she is mum, mum, come quick!

and now the beauty of a mother’s mind

will bind you to her child

the rocking of ages

you might fling yourself upon that rock

like the sea 

                      like the sea

and then draw back 

   then draw back

 to be and be 

baptised 

unto your deity

so now you think 

  you understand 

but "it" is one step ahead

  one step ahead 

it has just left the room

  just left the room

just around the corner

  around the corner

so turn back now

  and turn back to

this your daily bread

for reluctantly 

   the reluctant sea

has seen it all before

has seen the tides 

of humanity

ebb and flow

  ebb and flow

so now you know 

   so now you know

      now you know

the 3a

the 3a

the voices on the bus an esperanto 

of hermaphrodite tongues that ignore the

passing scenes that blend

into a never-never land

that and that 

the wind cannot get out

of the window it came in through

because when the fresh air

gets into your lungs

some soft apeth slams it 

   shut

oh yes all human life is here

alright

let me off

ding

      let me off

ding

music returns to auschwitz and a lone voice sings

music returns to auschwitz 
   and a lone voice sings

YouTube

such longing, such an aching lamentation.

why do you not scream out, or 

laugh in an inconsolable madness

and release me from the gibbet 

of your anguish?

that i could manage,

that i could cope with.

and, no, i do not want to forget, 

but there is beauty in the purity of the 

voice that impales the pain;

it holds me spellbound.

i weep now for all mankind;

doomed, doomed, as we are, 

doomed to relive a myriad deaths 

and shades of suffering

before the end. 

oh, i bleed down these ochre walls,

as i relinquish into a sea of wailing

all of my sorrow; 

i dread what yesterday will bring 

unto the ‘morrow;

it lacerates my sadness 

to hang empty upon the night air, 

and i wail and wail, but to no avail;

for alas is never enough;

is it?

kara

kara 

     tarrah!

she is only twelve, and yet she is already

a seed bursting in a summer pod. 

sometimes she may be as bitter as laburnum; 

but taste it you will. 

she is fired in the yellow of tomorrow’s dawn;

she has her chin upon the clouds;

she is going there, stop her if you dare!

cage the spirit and the bats will beat the bars; 

can you claw the air back into a cage? no! 

so let her breathe, say goodbye then she might tarry; 

spinning at the other end of the skipping rope, 

head in the stars that orbit her sun. then whoosh! 

so be gone my lovely, wave back now and then?

please,
          please.

multiplication

multiplication 

damp is the crooked valley of that smile 

the dark musk road to procreation 

believe unto belly into belly

for mile upon mile of the time

when the footfall along that road

set the future from here to year

love is such a strange desire

don’t you think

under the mountain of that smile

in the sighs between the thighs 

while all the time

it was and will be 

for it is preordained

and so it was 

       and so we did

              and so it must be

eventide

eventide

he is custard-suited, sun-seated, on

the promenade-smiled bench. 

oh,

these newspaper days. when he can say

that he has seen it all before and lived 

to tell the tale. to tell it to the breeze

that brings the tears that dry as

quick as they are cheek-borne.

how this late summer is to be savoured,

just beyond his flaky fingers

that lean upon his silver cane,

to tip the day bonsoir, au revoir;

tomorrow will be straw-boated

once again,

and the sun will shine.

my mother used to say that

the things mums say are

forever tattooed in your mind

they never fade with the years

tears make them shine brighter

they will die with you

they are the pillow of

your last goodbye

the doldrums of dawn

the doldrums of dawn

the bees are sawing the morning,

as the flowers flute come on;

  then the sparrows tutt and tit tit it,

  but the great-tits have flit and gorn;

and the cat? well she’s stalking the breeze,

that clacks the crows to clack back, "black-cat"

until ...

the wood pigeon (l’m a big bird don’t you know)

soothes "who wants a second cup of tea?"

"me! and how perfectly purrfect" mews the cat,

and so - hi oh - another morning moment,

goes yawning down the fair dews of dawn.

laverbread (bara lawr)

laverbread (bara lawr)

give me your ebony tears,

my darling sea;

spill your black maidenhair,

over sea’s rock and chair;

this laver bred, 

from the menu of the sea,

so deliciously a minded.

the sad blood of dulse is moaning

on the battle-tides of wales

rumplestiltskin bladderwrack

is swaying on the loom of the sea

the booming sea-sky a gloaming

above the haunted forests of kelp

on and on the sirens call

come on, come on, come on.

long in picking,

under the chiding sun;

long in washing, 

until the moonshine;

long boiled down

in fond anticipation.

in oatmeal faery-dusted,

fried with bacon and cockles;

this breakfast from gower

fit for the king of neptune.

wide eyed,

welsh-hat black,

black as the coal in our veins,

the steelworks at night.

       ours 

    it is,

  in our way,

eaten by us welsh,

swansea market stalled,

a memory in taste

of the sea, 

 for you,

   for

      me.

for john guzlowski’s mother

gritted, her words

have sucked the sadness from the earth,

so all that’s left is mirth.

time’s up death, down time retrace,

and wipe that smile from off your face;

for this is my rebirth.

cat o the morning

as i smooth my cat

she opens her soul to me

then a bird alights

there - it’s gone now

sounds of the sixties;

an old song slices my heart.

who was she?

where were we?

who were we?

there! it’s gone now.

a sea of emotion

as the cat’s paw pauses

above the other paw’s spot

so my toes in the ocean 

stir a sandy plot

in the drawing back

of a tide of emotion

what was long forgotten 
suddenly overwhelms

my fortification

spider spider

spider spider

a long trough of milky sibilant satin

breathless in hanging the dusty way

our gaze hypnotic along and into

this fate this fly on his fateful day

wriggling waiting waiting wiggling

tiptoe-eyed it seems belies

that presence is resident here 

as we in turn this wait denies

once again the dark childhood corners 

eye what the dark in darkness hides

for exploding across this mithril meadow 

a belly on eight stilted legs in rapier glides

the spider jumps and we jump back

ancestors scream quick hide and hide

as "got you" is pulled back quick as a flash

it’s fangs remaining chew on our insides

timeless each time

where have all the maidenheads gone

 long time parsing

where have all the maidenheads gone

 long time aglow

where have all the vestal virgins gone

 long time falling

where have all the vestal virgins gone

 long time a bleeding

they’re collected in a silver jar

 long time shrivelling 

collected with the puerperal prepuces

 long time shrivelling  

where have all the maidenheads gone

 at this time of asking

they’ve fallen to brave hearts everyone

 multi multi-tasking 

when will they ever learn

 when will they ever learn

that it’s on your tube now

  that it’s playing

a golden disc for a golden gate 

 to a very secret garden

when will they ever learn

   when will they ever learn

the ages of a book

a prequel said the squirrel

 i’ll bury it in the pages 

a sequel squeaked the mouse

i found it under the leaves

a postscript said the cat

pouncing on the words

as the pages of the book of life

turned over in the breeze 

the air show

the air show 

it’s that they are killers that kills it;

these beautiful killing machines.

and will they crash? maybe they’ll crash?

wills the crowd of cannon fodder.

the wow wows of engines

wow wows the crowd;

but it was only yesteryear;

that their mums and dads

said "we can take it",

as the bombs rained down

upon this town.

there have been air shows,

there is this one, 

there will be one next year;

unless there is another war;

and it’s that these killers will kill again

that kills it;

it’s what the bloody air show

is showing you.