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 

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 

i 

   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

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

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

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

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 

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!

they did?

day died the night day died

night died the day night died

when day and night died

when night and day died

there was nothing left to die

on that day or that night

or any other day or night

alive

RS Thomas

his words are the tears‬

‪in a rainstorm of verse

ask of the last page‬

‪was he eventually revealed

on his mountainous pique

to swim perchance

to swim perchance

in the sea, flowing down the memory ways,

you will see forever and a day resurrected along

the ages of the likeminded; those who cast aside 

the absurdness of modernity, to tread this 

daily pilgrimage to the adoration of the briny,

in all its naturalness, screaming at the rainbow surf 

of an easterly wind, that in its rage swallows 

my cries of awakening; sinking under the waves

it can never be overstated, or understated,

nor understood. for it just is.

how can these neurones

how can these neurones 

fire up a poem that will serve

the meal of a thought upon a willow pattern, 

or pass the port of contentment to 

the left of a just dessert. 

synapse me that? 

how? 

then he too died

then he too died‪

death, here is your dominion,‬

‪where the quick remember that‬

‪they too will soon be dead,‬

‪and the word dominion‬

‪will have no denomination ‬

‪in the hallows of never‬.

Paddington station

Paddington station

when you arrive‬

‪   you will see‬

‪the pigeons there‬

‪   are filthy dirty ‬

‪they have club feet‬

‪   it is all so sad‬

‪so sad        so sad‬

‪so I’ll say no more‬

          capital

‪I sleep upon the shavings of the day,‬

‪tomorrow, what will it bring? A soft bed‬

‪or a hard luck sharpening stone?‬

dusk is slowly descending the ladder of the day

the moon is slowly climbing the ladder of the night

and stars in the heavens are the tears that might

soon be drying upon the windows of another golden day

a sojourn in catatonia

a sojourn in catatonia 

long, upon the ladder of this day’s mourning, lie tiers 

of raindrops, each coded, each hung upon each rung,

divining from the sky’s melancholy all the tears that rail 

against the wind’s denial of dawn’s desires sung low. 

us

how can i find the words that

will contain all of you, when all 

the time you are all of my being 

in the firmament that is us. 

OK OK, so yes, I too will fly.

OK OK, so yes, I too will fly.

OK OK, so yes, I too will fly,

when the days of days their ways have done.

But why, oh why do famous people die?

Actors who upon the stage of life do ply

all the ways where life’s love is oft forlorn.

OK OK, so yes, I too will fly.

Poets who with their words do try

to find the lines where abide emotions won.

But why, oh why do famous people die?

Scientists who’s thinking is oft blue sky

who held out hope in the complexity we shun.

OK OK, so yes, I too will fly.

Doctors cure when life’s bloods runs dry,

allowing mine and your times to run.

But why, oh why do famous people die?

Greying rockstars who the past to future tie,

living my past in their wicked wrinkled fun.

OK OK, so yes, I too will fly,

but why, oh why do famous people die?

gravitas

and so, walking through the cemetery to the beach,

i think to myself, you poor sods, i bet you wish ...

but of course they can’t; for they are dead. 

and i think, they are not poor, are they? they are dead,

and then i think, oh yes, how lucky i am

to be walking with salt in my veins, and

salt in the sea waiting. oh yes, i am not dead,

for yet a whiles, yet 

in there, in the sea-mightery, as i often 

call it, I am more than alive, for

i am dead sure that i am not, 
and that this is not, 

a pun-ish-meant.