refractory

‪refectory

i asked the neurones‬
‪is that all i am‬
‪the neurones replied‬
‪you poor soul‬
‪that’s not the spirit‬
‪is it‬
‪oh god come on‬
‪you’re fired‬

lockdown

lockdown 

‘you moved it’

‘no i didn’t’

‘yes you did’

‘well, it’s your heart’

walls

walls (Mount Pleasant hospital) 

at first it was the walls

high of dressed stone 

and then the small windows

workhouse windows #

that’s what they were

see

down in the kitchen how small they are

the cooks looking up through the steam

to the balcony around the down

see now 

there are nurses in and out of these doors

where the old still remember the workhouse 

although they know not the day

or why i am not their mother

but the stigma - yes the stigmata

god - the stones are hard

and toil’s dried tears resides in mortar

between the stones

and the night light flickering

where the nurse’s station hums

the tune that ages have imbued 

with just enough care for the days ahead

the arrival of the iron man

the arrival of the iron man 

they’ve brought in an iron man

that’s what dad heard the old men say

when he was a child

taking the bread and dripping down

to his grandpa in the tin works

it took two men to throw the tin sheet

over the rollers and the hammers

but now the rat science had sneaked in

and bitten off one of the men at the

knees that poked through the dungarees 

and brought those knees to unexpected prayers

and angry tears that would never roll further

than the dust 

no further than over the doorstep

no further than a slump into the fireside chair

the shift hooters laughing from the vault doors

of the iron master's ruddy cheeks brandied 

and bred in the west side’s sweet sea air

fed by the sweat in the smoking man hours

whose only collegiate clubs were the pub

the pigeons and lurchers and back gate

philosophies of the futility of hope

the iron will being annealed in those very tears

quenched in the damp graveside nodding at

another life run its short span

buried in the drab sarcophagus of the village

pinnies and scarves and shinning doorsteps

of pride and injustice polished to a sheen that

history would reflect down the ages of oppression

and pride at what muscles and mind can sustain

through human resolve and the restitution of time

a memorial

the writing shed

storm

and then they roost‬

‪on another of his lists ‬

‪stub pencil lines thick upon‬

‪the crinkled sheets ‬

‪the words queuing ‬

‪for another fag‬

‪for another cough 

another drink‬

‪until final arrive‬s

incongruously

‪all wiggly fingers and toes ‬

‪the poem is born‬

a cry without tears

‪for the poet it is‬

‪smiling‬

‪through all his muddy lies‬

a glint

snow goes

blossom comes

spring goes

summer comes

flowers go

autumn comes 

leaves go

snow comes

here we go

again

dawn chorus

dawn chorus

‪a circus of great tits visits and is gone‬
‪the sparrows titter at their antics‬
‪as king blackbird struts his stuff‬
‪the good queen turns the eggs‬
‪as the magpies turn their backs‬

‪time for coffee‬

Albums

albums

‪we look at the photographs‬
‪of the ones we have lost‬
‪then‬
‪we look at our photo‬
‪hovering over the album‬
‪like a stamp on its hinge‬
‪and we wonder‬
‪is this my best side‬

‪but of course‬
‪they will decide‬

back away back

childhood memories

unlocked untangled

back steps away from the edge

down the lifeline 

hand over hand

down

the ascent towards the light

it is a dream is it not

the teardrops shawl dry

the sequins on mummy’s dress

ahh remember when

there were no edges

to back away from

early summer

early summer

and also did the rancid sun

the daisies spill the piebald lawn

and every blossom known to man

wrestled dark thoughts brightened dawn

for it is late april once again

again all the clichés bloom anew

and all our tears dry even as they flow

as dances dancing across the dew

with you Leander across the bluebell lakes 

the forget-me-nots the potted plants

the ladder buds of these days of haze

when grown men wear shorts and not worsted pants

and old couples kiss like they used to do

and walk down memory lane’s cliché

may it never end as they say ‘i will’ again

and their wrinkled skin colours to red maché 

one breath of pollen

one taste of spring’s bouquet 

and the clat of the hammer

slow score an evening’s crochet

where the Cam sails past 

on gay punts with boaters

swallows skimming over the

pond skaters and the floaters

rest aside a poem written half

or a book of poetry laid aside

as eyelids heavily under buzzings close

and float away on the day’s repose

for dusk is spooning the lovers hearts

as hand in hand the couples depart

for now the rancid sun 

is cut to the chase by the cheesy moon

and blossoms merge with nighttime stars

for the maypole has run away with mars
and our salad days down to evening run

as we float upon Halcyon’s blue lagoon
and let slip our brightly coloured balloon 

covid dawn

‪covid dawn

the light is the same, it is‬
‪we who have lost our innocence;‬
‪hit in the solar plexus‬
‪while the sun still shines.‬
‪breathless we contemplate ‬
‪darkness ‬
‪breathless we count‬
‪our blessings‬

the well of words

‪a pail full of pale words‬
‪blinking in the sunshine‬
‪then they open their wings‬
‪and fly‬
‪            and fly‬

easter hard reset

easter hard reset

the tomb closes again

god has changed its mind

the thorny corona

of dried blood

on the road to

don’t make us

again

the pain

is just too great

Lockdown?

Lockdown?

Feeling guilty when all of you can see,

That at seventy one when most at risk,

This lockdown has not much affected me.

Even my walking is still spright and brisk

I take my daily walk down to the beach,

To swim with my mistress the mighty main.

And never does anyone rise to preach,

Social distancing there to see is plain.

But look you now, no way I want to catch

This Covid nineteen killer thing-me-bobs;

For all of poetry cannot dare match,

Hearts brave plighted to their caring jobs. 

But then I read about their deaths and cry:

Oh why, dear God, oh why, oh why, oh why?

but alas

but alas

ultimately, at the threshold, we are, of course, alone. 

except there is no threshold 

and you alone won’t know it

and will not tell

so we are left alone

with our shared thoughts

birth and death

what an oxymoron 

it is

soft soap‬

‪soft soap‬
‪lifeboy in the zinc bath‬
‪sandy grit in the bar‬  that 
‪jarred my finger’s nerves‬
‪out tepid‬
‪in went the scrub a dub dub‬
‪as mum did the washing‬
‪board shuffle‬
‪not a snuffle now‬
‪for those days are gone‬
‪yet linger damp in crevices‬
‪like a lost kiss

listen

they dare to say that

the sound of the sea

is the sound of bubbles bursting

as the waves break

i prefer to think of it as

thoughts breaking along

the long shores of what if

the next time

the stones

the stones

the blind stones are watching 

        over lifespans over years

nothing  nothing

  the deaf stones are listening

  to the running of the stream

 nothing  nothing

   the warm stones are cooling

to the moonshine of the night

nothing  nothing

those dumb stones stay quiet

     at the pleading of my tears

nothing  nothing

NOTHING

NOTHING

NOTHING

I am undressing the nation

I am undressing the nation

I will not be listening to the Queen

I did not listen to Prince Charles 

I will be self-isolating in one of my palaces

Let them eat mistakes

like HM’s Government is

The PM said ‘take it on the chin’

What a glass chin that proved to be

‘poem’

‘poem’

what a redundant word

for

there are as many types 

as many missives as

there are worlds in the universe(s)

to call each one of those simply ‘world’ 

would be a redundancy

there is writing

and if that writing ‘moves’

(another redundancy?)

it needs no pigeon hole 

for it can fly and will not be netted

although it can fall predator 

to feed the pens of future writers

nested and ready to whorl 

in thermal stirring clouds

above this many worded world 

but to be called out as a ‘poem’

is to preordained as post dated 

canal you and i

canal you and i 

dark beneath the boat house

where the predator fishes lie

swaying in the canal weeds

where the currents gently ply

their way the pike needs solitude 

his evil to do or die

and where the communal rushes

whisper of you and i 

and when the walking day is done

then the curlew sure will cry

be up be moon for all too soon

the witching hour draws nigh

memoir mortis ‬

‪memoir mortis ‬

‪ventilators ‬
‪our last breaths have gone‬
‪mechanical‬
‪our last heart beats‬
‪but a monitor’s trace‬
‪our last words‬
‪our last smile‬
‪wide in eyes‬
‪that are dead‬
‪estrangement ‬
‪is now the norm‬

‪finis our epitaph‬

self-isolating in my head‬

‪self-isolating in my head‬
‪the poems start to shed‬
‪pages burn‬
‪ashes scattered‬
‪and ‬
‪things that never mattered‬
‪now do‬
‪and do you know what‬
‪i forgot‬
‪how short a life can be‬
‪on the shelf of history‬
‪this poem‬
‪is an omen‬
‪that things are going to be ‬
‪different ‬
‪from now on‬
‪i promise‬

clap clap clap the NHS‬

‪clap clap clap the NHS‬

‪so how much do the footballers earn each day?‬
‪  remind me!‬
‪and who is paying them??‬
‪  remind me!‬
‪it makes me think‬
‪how thoughtless you are.‬
‪i applaud you.‬

‪retweet if you dare to disagree.‬
‪cast the first stone - go on!‬
‪why don’t you?‬

mug shots

mug shots 

the poets’ mug shots

on the dust cover sleeves 

mainly smiling 
mostly smiling
  as the stiletto slides in

so when they write darkly

why do they smile brightly

  as the stiletto slides in

why do their eyes sparkle 

time and again 

is it tears of laughter

are they tears of pain

  as the stiletto slides in 

pick up an anthology 

and you’ll see them smiling again 

and again

and again
  as the stiletto slides in 

newts

newts

up to

the cefn 

to the clay pits 

where the newts sit

under the warm bricks

the ones with the cool holes

in the trouser knees of summer

jam jarred with wide eyes 

and the satisfaction 

of running home

to the best

tank