Sunday, 8 December 2019

the field

the field 

‪lying there‬
‪feet to the stream‬
‪fingers touching‬
‪under the blue‬
‪kissing grasses‬
‪forever

Saturday, 7 December 2019

nothing

nothing

is it big
or 
is it small
or
is it simply
nothing at all

Jim’s World

At the end of December - 15 years of daily photographs - Jim’s World

drawn in



drawn in


dawn over the wind farm

beating the clouds 

beyond the solar panels

the sea 

generates a sigh

will they awaken before the big sleep

will they ever see the light

again

every scream is carbon dioxide

innocent 

gas from the cycle of life

much maligned and overpopulated 

in our lament

for us

Friday, 6 December 2019

dare i say

dare i say

the failure took courage 
to get out of there

where what was an escape
was in fact a prison

breaking chains is hard
bloody hard

at the time there were chains everywhere
buried by rusty chains
wet rust cold rust

panic buried under a mountain of chains
forever it seems
climbing those chains with the spider racing

then there was the ‘fuck you’ side
of the fool’s gold 

in the way of the child kicking back 
against the man

the open open openness 
that they kicked against in fear of the lightness
of touch that they thought concealed a fist

the river that slowly bore the raft of time
over cataracts to the fall

a river that ran uphill - for god’s sake
to make the fall the tallest of them all
and on and on and up and up

the gold tarnished as gold should not
the rings turned into chains
the fool’s gold said fool

the box had no windows
the sides closed in
drowning in tears 
banging against the sides with fists of wool

smothering in the blindness of others
screaming at the deaf
running down the up escalator 
into the valley of the mountain

STOP!

the crash to the core of a world
of indifference in their ignorance

suspended animation 
catatonic panting low

the milestones on the mountain road
are counted in wretched breaths

the blind nails of the climb
hand over bloody fist over bloody time

and now

the view from the summit over the clouds
the joy to be above the fear
oh yes yes
and yet the long thin thread leads
back there

for there is no further up
is there
only down
and yet the sunshine is as bright as life

quiet now
i’ll wait here for
ever to arrive

Wednesday, 4 December 2019

after dawn

after dawn

of all the genes and memes in the 
goldfish bowl that is this world
how extraordinary the infinity of mind
given life by the atoms of the universe
the limit of which we cannot see
while imagination’s candles are
crying in every corner of my mind
and then the sun shines
upon my countenance 
and i think
well ...

how silly

how silly
looking for
precious time
on the barometer 
i found 
time’s pressure
on the clock
of depression

Sunday, 1 December 2019

red it

red it 

the book opened like a vagina,
page mark sliding to the floor;
and thoughts turned hard
upon on the spine, and the 
stain that said much more.

soon

soon

single footsteps in the snow
cold kissed by the honey moon
and falling over the horizon 
called - come home 
come home soon 

Then there were

Then there were

Then there were the cooling towers,
wooden waisted, corseted to the sky-
blue in their steamy contusions. 
They are still there, next to the 
unused railway arches that lead 
to the unused cooling ponds.
The works the stuff of long memories 
for the kids who dared their parent’s 
admonishment that where the ghosts be 
dammed and dangerous, tread you not!
There, where the grass snakes find
entrapment after Lucifer’s fall into
the concrete needled hall of 
water weed and frazzled frogs. 

Yes, we ran the nerves of dusk 
and the clattering corrugated sheets 
of youthful devil may care, running 
faster and, and, faster   until 
the breath of bravado stopped
us short of losing face and 
the wild laughs returned home 
to roost on heaving shoulders.

How the reeds breathed the wild wind on the 
wings on heels below dirty knees dried with the
blood of snivelled tear smears and
the wince of valour that is the badge of boys
on the run every which way they dare.

This is the grime under my fingernails, even
as my second childhood runs down those 
self same shivers on the road to my bed,
and the sleep of righteous indignation at a
curse broken short by the call to alms.

Friday, 29 November 2019

missed

missed

grizzled white drawn back
and ghosted grey 
across this pebbled shore
never no more this way
this hackneyed spirit
will sit or spit bombast 
but slipped away on this day
in a dusky ghostly roar
say that he went at last 
i saw him go
no more say
he is no more
just the roar
through the door
ajar to the tide 
of his last ride 
ahoy there
langland boy

second sight

second sight

who will look at us when we’re dead?
i don’t mean look at who we were,
i mean our body - left by us
somewhere;
but where will it be?
neat in bed or exsanguinated bled
or in a crump upon a main street 
somewhere?
who will look and think
and what will they they think 
i worry about that

sometimes 

Thursday, 28 November 2019

perchance

perchance

upon the lay of time lay i 
levitated on a night’s weary
nearly very nearly dreary
dreaming down in breaths
so slow upon a thought
of nought but that would hold me
here above the oblivion of
a night’s tomorrow dawning
there - you see - it can
it can it can

consummate

consummate 

madam muse
how can i refuse
seduce me
how deep 
   you seem 
       to be
my darling darling sea 
i drown in thee
believe me
do not refuse
although 
   do 
      amuse
consume me

vertex

vertex

stranded in the col of life
between the summits of my being
birth on the one 
hand
death on the other
and
all along the way is strife
no other way of seeing
it

Tuesday, 26 November 2019

turbulence


turbulence 

going in
meeting the sea
coming out

going out
meeting the sea
coming in

coming in
meeting the sea
going out

coming out
meeting the sea
going in

the sea and me
halfway
me and the sea

never will i ever
own the sea own me
never 
   ever 
      will

Monday, 25 November 2019

i - am a poet

i - am a poet

to be a poet
              just
 write poetry
call yourself a poet
let others disagree 
you will
           but
if you say
‘i am a poet’
then
       you
            are 
a poet
a poet 
           writes
poetry
QED

Wednesday, 20 November 2019

morning 

‪the ink on the trees is dry‬
‪on the blotter of the sky ‬
‪Colin the dog walks past‬
‪one ear black one ear white‬
‪one for day and one for night‬
‪one ear up and one ear down‬
‪morning can be such a clown‬

Tuesday, 19 November 2019

liaison



        liaison 
in the Co-op where
you showed me your lumps
and I showed you mine
(on our thighs)
by the chewing gum section
(try that for size)
after we met 
   after we swam
        in the sea
on that cold autumn day

isn’t life strange
when you write it down
to experience 

Sunday, 17 November 2019

uh?

uh?

soul?
what the hell is soul?
heart?
what the hell is heart?

memory mories
lies lie
life is a crude prude
poetry is a  poo ahem
excuse me while

the dusk settles
on sunny days and sad days
as sure as night 
follows day
the ratchet a condescension
to the rise and fall

the helter skelter
we love to climb
we slide to fall
that ends it all
when the ladder has rotted

ghost?
what the hell is ghost?
death?
what the hell is death?
come on tell me
tell me
come on
  come on
shit!