the last bus home

the last bus home

glowworms quiver in all colours,

drooled behind the wet windows

of winter that just got on the bus, and

is sitting somewhere behind me now;

and the only warm sense is my inner world.

hook the hookworm out of the night,

depart on the chance

that it would carp no shoulder,

or the wet spell of the necromancer.

akin to which footfall to chose 

on the wet cobbled way of a 

day sapped sherbet rare

upon a street of gardens 

de-dentured by their shinning cars.

still on the last bus home,

emptied of hands the bells

hang pink and waiting for the stops 

that will never be;

and me? i wait for the fogged 

stop to appear through the window

wiped sleeve sleazy, and i will alight 

and say good night to the driver.

I’m home!

the storm

the storm

leaves fall upwards

and were last scene

running away from

the seething sea 

leering tooth white

and snarling

for the sun has run

away with the baton 

sunday morning

sunday morning 

slowly, morningly, stirring slow,

slowly flow the dreams and down

in the sun pale creeping 

through the autumn leaves,

that sleep on their sundry beds;

that sweep along the long 

slow shadows shortening, 

as the day stirs knowingly,

to ask why we ask:

why are we here at all?

see it’s the sky sea

see it’s the sky sea

    morning swim

just look

    and look

look at how the

opal sky pools freckle the sea

pools ivory under the sky sea 

pearl clouds all over

just look

    and for ever and ever

never will you see

anything to compare

to the skeins of this morning

the breath of an angel

curls wings around me

oceania i call her

on my swim from 

here to her eternity

haiku

the leaf street sweeper

ignores the insisting wind

the stones stay silent 

soars the boy in his full sap

     soars the boy in his full sap

(on kilvey hill above swansea bay)

soaring higher than the windmilled hill

sky larked up and high and blue eyed

above the fork-tongued piers

docked upon the sea of his morning 

flowing along the sun-arced bay

dazzling away on this hazy day

heather bees nit-comb dusted

pouring over the warm rocks

lizard-lichened the low fallen walls

and so it turns this boy’s day

young and rising and bursting 

just this one time of his life 

it goes running of his full sap

Swansea Bay sands on a winter night

Swansea Bay sands on a winter night

Roosting crows, a black blizzard blowing,

November the 5th_ing down on this winter day;

across, along and darkening, lowing;

darkness falls across Swansea bay.

Enveloped in that velvet blanket spotted
by the baubles of Townhill and Brynmill lights.

Dockside the piers, red and green lamp-dotted,

with Mumbles lighthouse bookmark the night.

The lace-torn spinster moon, saddened, grey,

lies shallow along this night’s deafened spine,

between the sea, and the city’s murmuring way,

as insensate as the slow moon’s slow incline.

Over the shoulder, looking around, and arounded

for the presence - there behind you, now; and now 

the welcome crunch of shells ashore and grounded,

confirm that this is terra firma, n’er terrored brow.

Depressed under this black night on night;

dark down feel the salty temple pads,

electro-convulsive shocks the night light

bright, to reign supreme, happy, and happy glad.

Silence so deep where no silence is,

upon the wind-wink of a star;

we see there is no linear end to this, 

for a multiverse might be intersected far

down the Swansea river Tawe flows

the grey/pink clouds, heavy with snow;

rolling down from Brecon Beacons,

with promise to whiten this black bay right now.

Around, around, spin around; arms outstretched,

sketching in white on this black palimpsest of memory;

Swansea bay on this night be so there etched,

that you know, you just know

that this is where you are meant to be.

in the dungeon of depression

in the dungeon of depression

no one wants to be there

i hope you are from there soon

but while you are there

keep tapping the mosaic into place

you will rediscover it one day

in the archeology of your mind

and in a strange way it will shine

there there

there there

stare into the distance 

there is no pain there

but here

every doorway a goodnight kiss

shadowed in rapture

every bus a departure

a fracture

see the snow swirl 

the lamplight closing

off the way 

closing closing down the day 

closed                                and

you are left standing there

there is pain here              and

there is pain there

on the departing bus

tomorrow is calling tonight away

tomorrow is another day

isn’t that what they say

when there is no reason to stay 

isn’t that what they say

there there now

there there

there there

remember

remember

to an age before age

we turn back the page

but the wind from the grave

turns it back - queue up and behave

up the down escalator of mud

our eyes filling and filling with blood

the glamorous adverts jeer

going up cheer up cheer up dear

for the ghost of christmases past

has unwrapped the last parcel the last parcel at last

the perfect gift for the end of my days

a diary of blank pages and pages that says ...

the barking              the barking

                    so light

       upon the scree of night

black           crack          window

     head laid back 

        the idle book

          the outstretched hand

  the slow breath of a thought

i ought                              i ought

                    but no

the barking              has stopped

Article

The Mirror: Is life on the coast better than in a city? 7 writers from across the UK explain why they love living by the seaside - Mumbles, Langland is one of them ...

https://www.mirror.co.uk/travel/uk-ireland/seaside-great-britain-beaches-coast-13589916

lance the abscess of an absence

lance the abscess of an absence 

kiss the lonely throb away

bind it tightly with the essence

of your only love who is here to stay

it is all in the mating mind

it is all in the mating mind

in all the world 

                        the womb is all

for all mankind is

                        the mating mind

whatever permutations of gender 

     are by gender so preferred 

the algorithm holds

for in all the world 

what else is there

for whatever you think there is             

it is all in the mating mind

bring it down upon us all for this i know

bring it down upon us all for this i know

that poverty does purge all decadence of mind,

and so annealed in this village way resolve

to draw close all such kindred kind,

and, with all of those that we love,

will relax the penury of imagined richness,

and replace it with the richness of that penury;

where such as i have i will share with thee,

as thee would do for me i know.

such largesse bring down upon us now,

but dare not call it poverty, 

rather, call it the hardship of love true blind,

that once pinioned, is in and of itself eternity.

love me sea

love me sea

such a moment to behold,

eyelids suffused with morning gold;

the cat is curled up in the sun,

for our day is only just begun.

such a gaze floats mused away,

to where the tides tirade the bay;

and i am off to taste the sea,

to bite the surf that surf bites me.

such a blue-cold grips my core,

that one could easily say no more!

but where else is the sky is so high?

and where do tumble-gulls cry and cry?

such an horizon calls you longing lay,

and give your heart to her this day;

madam sea i plead my love to thee,

and i will devote my life while i am free;

as such i plight my troth when each day i swim

that your minion sands say this is him;

the lover that you have timeless sought,

and that your siren smiles have caught.

such time now to take him on the tide,

for he has pledged to take you as his bride;

and down in the depths of love lay deep,

to dream the tears of salty sleep.

but, as you guess, all is not as it may seem,

for i awake from a dream;

and as i sit at my breakfast table,

the sea is but an ongoing fable.

but ne’er the less, it is all quite true,

i love the sea, and of this i can assure you.

swimming in the waves

swimming       waves                in the waves

                  in the        swimming

there’s a wave coming

do i 

dive under 

                  and hook my fingers in the sand

dive over

duck under

turn my back on it

stand up

body-surf it in

shallow dive through the surf

swim towards it before it breaks

arms up and take it sideways

float on my back 

                             and let it cleanse my brain

make the wrong decision 

                                            and 

it will slap you in the face

but hey                 that’s life                right

       and here comes another one

               and here comes another one

                       and here comes another one

yessssss   yesssss   

fun  dive  fun  dive  fun

black body

black body 

festering night; 

such a stench from 

the wound in the

steaming neon-slashed rain.

much has streamed astray,

in the way footsteps falter

following a falling star.

rue the night that

wrapped the day away,

and bid our souls slip down,

to beat upon the testament

of the damned. 

the artist in his garret

the artist in his garret

the artist in his garret studio

flooded with the light parisienne 

falling across the chaise longue.

garbled table coppiced with brushes,

leadened with swirled tubes of paint;

empty wine bottles, stale bread,

and canvasses stacked 

but every which and where;

and there i would love to rest,

to write the whole day through;

it is where my mind is now

as i sit here next to you;

for it is free to roam,

to find itself a home,

where the cookie jar of great poems

sits aside, to be plundered

by the poet who’s days are numbered.

Who will bequest this loft to me?

haiku

cat whiskered sunshine

staring at the wren that has 

already flown

dad

dad

in every marionette sinew

he mimics me in perfect 

mirror symmetry 

he sits in every leaving room

that i leave as the me he is

and he stays with the me in he

mimicked in imperfect

broken symmetry

100 years 11/11/11

100 years 11/11/11

The snarling of our genes prescribe it,

  even as our minds proscribe it;

the self-immolation goes on and on.

Be quiet!

  the bloody war poets 
  are mad hammering on the door again.

A minute of silence please!

lock them out,  lock them out,

they are drowning out the playing,

as our military bands go marching off

to prevent another war.

We hope to plug the volcano

upon which migrant words astir,

but the dry staring eyes

of the aching the dead

do not deny it;

although they scream to prevent it,
a hundred years of turned deaf ears
ensure that it is true.

They march heads held high,
asserting, it is death that will die!
Yes, and pigs will fly,

I respectfully do aver.

pangs of angst

pangs of angst

the angst of a teenager 

is as raw a nerve

as ever went blind 

on the retina of

a blurred rainbow 

those

tunnel vision days 

spent searching for

the pot of gold   oft told

but never found

not without the love of this muse

not without the love of this muse

i have a date tonight under the snow light 

with a poem i locked eyes with

in my sleep

she is late and i hope she has not stood me up

because she looked like no other

here she comes 

in rhyme on time

i will make her mine

if she will have me 

with all my imperfections 

see how the light in swirling snow throws 

her shadow on this page of snow

i will trace around her 

with this twig of a pen 

and she can throw snowballs at

every cliché i trip over and

she will laugh and laugh at me

and with me as i stand up on the ice

and learn to skate around the grit words

and the thorns beneath the snow

and she will kiss my bare footfall blue

and massage the frostbite from my toes

and hand in hand we will skip through my poem

and play with the damsel flies above the water meadows

of the long and golden summers she saw

form the beginning in my eyes 

and i see now her teases were love’s dew

on the young shoots of an eternity

that was promised in my halting words

that are now sleeping under our tree

as the shy sun slowly sets

embarrassed at our union

in front of the whole world 

who will read these words 

where are we now

i ask you