it’s the sea see

it’s the sea see

the spume on the sea 

a whipped dream for me

when it floats away

on a windy day

i dive deep you see

and surface on a new dream

for me 

it’s the sea see

Dementia

                   Dementia 

The florid presence of absence.

                      Don’t I know you?

The florid presence of absence.

I know you, don’t I?

                                 Know you?

lazy days in suburbia

lazy days in suburbia 

the plum family are pleased to announce

the white wedding of spring and summer

bridesmaid petals waltzing upon the air 

a chill breeze momentarily considered

just cause or impediment but

decided to forever hold its peace

over the hedge

the mad man is barking at the mad dog

at the light aeroplane grinding up the sun

at the motorbike angry with everyone

the sun is burning the black table

mowers hesitate

strimmer men of england

now that april’s here 

whoever wakes in england finds

some creosote on the air

a sunny thought just occurred to me

the sun on my eyelids is

the colour of wallflowers there

the cuttings have been potted on

the greenhouse oven is humming

summer is in the air

pinch the mint 

pinch the bay

smell the shadows

at the end of the day

a feather on a cobweb

on a moonbeam

a creaking door closes 

on the day

the cat haunts 

for the night is young

Talking on air

Talking on air

High above the sparrow hawk,

above the gossiping sea;

a lichen seat, a spooning talk,

when my love sits with me.

High above the long bay,

is a field where rabbits play,

and mole hills sleep all day;

and seaward through the gorse we walked,

and of fine times, just like these, we talked, 

      and we talked

             and talked. 

the blues singer she

the blues singer she

the blues singer she the

hologram on the air in

the tiny hours there where

my tears hang to dry while

I slide back listening

sobbing as

her red lips place

a blue kiss upon me

silently

falling silently

silently

the blues singer she a

song upon a memory

bled upon an ache

for no sense can I make

of why she sings to me

this way so late in the day

in a way that I can touch

nothing more outside of

the silence in her voice

holding me

holding me

holding me

Saturday night and Sunday morning shift

Saturday night and Sunday morning shift

One foot in front of the other, well not quite,

for the sleepers slip frosty and my brain is numb;

too much to drink with the boys last night.

The rail is snaking away like the serpent that

shone so seductively in her smile last night across the

dance floor, spinning under the ballroom light that

sparkled like the hoar frost beneath my feet.

I walk on autopilot towards the Vale works,

stacks smoking in the slow straight dawn; 

oh yawn, yawn, I need a mug of tea mun.

Boys, boys, never again.

Clock on son, clock on.

Never mind the dog woman, get the fucking heifer!

Never mind the dog woman, get the fucking heifer! 

We had raised the invisible fox,

down by the lower stream,

my cousin and I,

or as we would say, 

me and my cousin.

We had raised the invisible hare,

and lost it in the hay field.

Me and my cousin

plodding homeward 

along the lane to Boyd’s farm. 

It’s OK, it’s OK.

When, here they come:

Boyd, his wife, the heifer, and the dog,

and a stick. 

It was then that the dog pinned us, 

atop the bank, drool-snarled,

shrunk against the barbed wire sky.

Boyd’s wife moved to lash the dog with her tongue;

it was then that Boyd spat his bile:

   ‘Never mind the dog woman,

   get the fucking heifer!

   Get the fucking heifer!’

And they were passed;

cow patted, tattered, 

ragged and steaming. 

And we hung there, 

exhaled, 

exchanged glances,

and bravado smiled. 

In memoriam

In memoriam

Your poem at midnight.

And here I tread softly, dare intrude;

but it hurt,

your poem hurt me.       

How dare I say that! (I ask myself),

for the hurt is yours. 

The words undressed you,

driven to your knees by the cold stone wait.

Midnight stole my words off yours.

Look, I have no right to these tears;

here, take them 

for your child’s limp flowers,

the lilly’s dew.

The sun will be up soon. 

Yes?

Come and sit quietly with me,

and let me put my arm around you.

inkgot

inkgot 

feel before you write - but write.

desist from skimming the dross 

to line any old mould. Rather,

pour the gold and

let the ingot verses shine

in the treasury of all the wrinkle-

handed books leathered in time. 

write your name in gold and

they will say, this is what he thought;

and although the margins for error will be blank, 

they might smile a watermark of their own.

dong on target

dong on target

the enamel inverted cone tapers white

where the opal bulb sins against the night  

and so it flies the   the    the 

slingshot                           poomph

and in a whoosh of white dust it dies

drowning the night down from the skies

around the swan necked lamppost dark

and boys oh boys what a lark we planned

when crump the night sits heavy and

in that instant   in that instant 

the boys run for their ‘morrow 

is tomorrow and tomorrow 

and tomorrow's

‘morrow

roll your own

roll your own

pick up the

golden pebbles of the found words

throw them   see them

ripple across a still pool of thought

see them 

on the bottom of the lake 

glowing where the poem fishes spawn

kingfisher words iridescently flash

trout words twisting fast

up-stream words

down-stream words

deep words for shallow thought

thin ice words over profound thought

under fingernail dirty words

between the toes muddy words

slimy frog words

coarse slow toad words 

Larkin lurking - sorry son

who left the foundling words

what is their parentage

who will adopt these orphans

and teach them to talk 

send them over for tea 

and upside down cakes 

and they can tell me all about it

i’ll lay the striped tablecloth and

call the page to serve tea from the

everlasting pot and we’ll snooze

rocked by the sighs of the prodigals 

brought home again for a big hug

THE PLANET

THE PLANET

In my poem I mentioned ‘THE PLANET’

I didn’t plan it, but

when I mentioned ‘THE PLANET’

I was bestowed with the wisdom

of a modernist soothsayer.

When I mentioned ‘NO CARS’,

and I did plan it,

I was called ‘Arsehole!’

How can we do without cars?

‘Arsehole, Arsehole!!’.

When I mentioned save ‘THE PLANET’

I was applauded, and that plaudit

was for dropping the word ‘plastic’.

They brought me flowers wrapped in plastic,

grown in heated arguments.

Why on Earth 

does ‘THE PLANET’ bestow 20-20 vision

to the blind visionary who sees

the mote in our eye?

Who will be the last gravedigger?

Who will carve ‘THE PLANET’ in alabaster,

and put the cemetery moonlight out?

Lay a fresh tablecloth over ‘THE PLANET’

prepare a banquet for the hyperthermophiles.

No crumbs of comfort.
The last supper of Homo sapiens is over.

THE CHILD IN HIS SHAWL

THE CHILD IN HIS SHAWL

His beauty sends the river dancing,

a golden pebble deep asleep;

could it be his dreams perchancing

gift this river his to keep?

THE CATARACT RINGS

THE CATARACT RINGS

the cataract rings 

to the rhythm of the words

bouncing         off

  the stubborn rocks

 that

dare break the rhythm 

but the spell is strong

the words in spate

will slake the lake’s

rhythm   rippling there

flowing from the rarefied headwaters 

(of the poet’s mind)

they will reach the paddling deltas

of their genre     and then

they will look to the mountains 

and read the words that soar

high on the thermals 
(of the poet’s mind)

        and they will say       look

look at the meter of the headstones

running wet with the tears 

  of an angel with a pen

TOO MUCH OF NOT ENOUGH

TOO MUCH OF NOT ENOUGH

 The darling buds of May

The consumers of cosmetics eye

   Not enough nurses

 The birds at their young in the nest

The footballers at their bank accounts

    Not enough police officers

 The flowers in their fields

The consumers of their fashions

   Not enough food

 The sea pebbles roaring 

The cars metal boxed

   Not enough housing 

 The dawn and the dusk

The latest fashions be damned 

   Not enough teachers

 The sunshine behind closed eyes

The holidaymakers who need a holiday

   Too much loneliness

 The children of the buttercups 

The world wide cobweb 

   Too much aggression

   

How many too manys

Before too fast is to starve 

  Too many distractions

 Too late

 It’s too late

    

 WHEN WILL ENOUGH BE ENOUGH

THE DAYS

THE DAYS

so much left back there’s

barely a muscle thread 

to hold today

the scree days scatter

the thoughts

barely a foothold on

today                   yes

there was yesterday 

before yesterday 

barely

a breath to taste the tears

but a waterfall falls falls

into the chasm

there it is past emerging 

there it hands off

not this way 

FORBIDDEN 

today

yesterday 

before yesterday 

barely tomorrow 

and you tell me

to hold on