how much litter can

a litter picker pick

if a litter picker can’t pick cans

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

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 …

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

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

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.

her bum was as white 

as two blind mice 

cut in half

with a carving knife

the alarm clock 

not a #tanka 

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

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. 

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

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.

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 diverse 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

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