Friday, 28 June 2019

how much litter can
a litter picker pick
if a litter picker can’t pick cans

Thursday, 27 June 2019

the gestation of terror

the gestation of terror

a plastic doll with fluttering eyes 
in the ruptured uterus of the earth
the plastic caesarean scalpel tries
but fails to weep at another still birth 
in clingfilm wrapped
and so beautifully delivered
    another still birth
 in the oven that is the earth
      another still birth
        another still birth 
in the oven that is the earth

Thursday, 20 June 2019

man on the moon


man on the moon

man, oh man on the moon,
of all the moons, in all the universes,
and you had to take one giant dump on mine.
manage a small step over it,
bag it,
the pale blue dot,
on a clear night with a telescope
you can just see it.
from the moon, even on a cloudy night,
the whole world is a bag of …

Wednesday, 19 June 2019

Dorothy and Lyn


Dorothy and Lyn

Dot and dapper,
Smooth and sophisticated,
A linnet in a summer full of song;
The kind of kind people we treasure,
for they are pleasantly so like minded
as us.

Dot?
Can I have another slice of pizza please?
Lyn - No! … Laughter.

The spice on the plaza of Mumbles;
Promenading good morning to you;
A cut above the gardens of welcome,
rare flowers in their pleasure and hue.
Come, let’s clink glasses, say cheers,
for it is a pleasure to be dinning with you.

howls

howls

i’m climbing a ladder 
rung rickety with words
roosting with night owls
bright-eyed and glowing 
upon a morning that might

Tuesday, 18 June 2019

is it knot?

is it knot?

the past is a neuronal configuration
we are all neuronal configurations
slowly tying amyloid knots
in the dementia of being

i was now i am not
they were now they are not
we were so maybe
just maybe
you will be too

Sunday, 16 June 2019

Tomorrow

when I unwrap the parcel of today
I am long past caring what’s inside,
for tomorrow, tomorrow, come what may
that true pleasure I’ll ne’er dare deride.

Saturday, 15 June 2019

her bum was as white 
as two blind mice 
cut in half
with a carving knife
the alarm clock 

not a #tanka 

Friday, 14 June 2019

Summer!

Summer?

June and the sun’s gone yo-yo
go go  yes yes  no no
teasing teasing forever teasing

out when the tide comes in
in when the tide goes out
and in this heat I’m freezing 
looking back

70 years
  60 Years
    50 years 
        40 Years 
            30 years ...

this bloke
  he was a prick
    i mean - he was a real prick 
.
  .
    .
do you think
 .
   .
     .
i’ll ever change

this girl
  sweet sixteen 
  peaches and cream
snow white

she’ll never change
never change
  she’s still waiting 

for that kiss

what goes around

what goes around

eventually the spinning top
precesses
  wobbles
stops
and then
a child is no longer a child
for
those long coloured of life
lie dead

Wednesday, 12 June 2019

extravasation

extravasation 

Breathless, in the solar plexus 
of a black hole, two neutron stars 
spin in this pulsar heart;
drawing down our horizon of light-time
unto the edge of our insignificance, 
minuscule, and so very, very dark.
Spiralling in this milky backwater,
we may yet find consolation, 
even in the profound silence,
of the big bang. 

Tuesday, 11 June 2019

tidy like

tidy like

the ebb and flow of
an ambivalent tide 
says come and go
away and abide
bottom water
slack water
full deride
is it half 
way out
is it half 
way in
you decide
to swim 
or knot to swim
that is the 
horizon

Friday, 7 June 2019

RS Thomas man


RS Thomas man

Turn now to this man,
kneeling in his nothing night; pleading to the
silence of a cold atonement; this complex man,
ministering to the simple man, high in the fields
of a low field life; the stone church his fiefdom.
How we love this man wedded to their weathering.
How we love this hard-soft man of men, when
his words reign in the candlelight of their tears,
to cascade, drying down the lonely years,
staining his pages here and there, where
he questioned the dearth of his faith, and their
loneliness, stranded upon their death beds;
the people of his years, hardened in their land,
bowed under his dark sky; he under his question,
why, why am I still waiting for His answer?
What is my place in this, their place?
Forever on his knees he called repeatedly
upon the empty words, unanswered, gone to earth
in the wild hedgerows of his mind; and now, long
gone, way past this final peninsula, flying with
his birds, passing forever over the indifferent sea.
Now that he has released the hens from his wild pen,
We must ask for this man: was he not Welsh, he who
lived his days in the dereliction of their deprivation?
Had he not prayed for their indifference; forever asking,
what right have I to speak for them? At them?
When the crag trees bleed their black tears,
and the cottages crumble under my feet.
I hear the stones call, far away, in the black rain,
RS Thomas, man of the hills - come home again.

Tuesday, 4 June 2019

beacon

beacon

rough rocks turn into smooth pebbles
smooth pebbles turn into sand 
and the identity of the hand
that held the pen
when the long ink dried     may then
be lost on the shore of a terrible sea

so write as the eye in the lighthouse
whose beams all may see
and many averse in identical ships
will owe the life of their words to thee   
remember
even the grit on the oyster’s lips
can make a pearl shine in the eyes of glee

Sunday, 2 June 2019

the cove

the cove

every dream may seem
a mist upon the sea
for you and for me
and every one who deems
to have seen and touched
tomorrow in the deepest eyes
and vouched safe
that here their secret lies
calm upon the water’s breath
of a sigh so deep long drawn