autumn

 autumn

why?

    no answer

chests rise and fall

it’s called the bucket handle effect

we call it the life of the year

       

and now a long sigh

that’s also nice

signal box

 there’s frogspawn by the signal box

i’ll collect some after tea

i’m going to pull a signal now

because the man he told me

that i could today

but the points were far to hard

he said     but

i could still spin the handle

of the old phone to the yard

the sunflower

 the sunflower

 

if i said sunflower

might you say vangough or

describe at length the fields at sunset

the ones that sell calendars

 

turn your head with the sun

raise this late september garden

when the sedum sighs in the downing

 

look me in the eye sunflower bach

turn this burning summer into

a quilt of gold

the days of a child’s sherbet

 

ah - but then   then

 

the spondylitic bending of the year

under the weight of leaves turning

your necks to nothing that harvest

can endure under this winter cloud

 

oh my dried bag of seeds

lie long in the just-asleep

keep your pocket of sunshine

fingered until next summer

 

oh dear god how it pains me

to see summer bent this way

the snow and the lowing

of a dream asleep in a yellow bed

 

my dear compound-eyed friend

i await your return

to your promise i will

says me too

if

 news

the third week in September

a chill coming down from the north

seven thousand lorries at the border 

more restrictions

yet little disorder 

the army is

what did it say 

i did not catch that bit

shit

i’ll wait until the later 

news

if

why do i re-read this?

 why do i re-read this?

is that turned corner stuck in my craw?

are the words vesiculating

in your / my / that heart?

so many question marks that

i have to re-read it again and again 

that turned down corner

stuck in this my crowing

 

flashbacks

 flashbacks

to slowly uncoil in the cold bed night

is to be born again

the ice sculpted windows

a japanese art form

smell the morning toast 

of your father’s obituary 

the fire iron-thump on

the starch of your mother’s being

Woodburn bags lay a mouldering on the kerbside of the road

Woodburn bags lay a mouldering on the kerbside of the road

The Woodburn bags lie a mouldering on the kerbside of the road

The Woodburn bags lie a mouldering on the kerbside of the road

Because they won’t collect our bin bags any more

Oh Swansea Swansea Council

Swansea Swansea Swansea Swansea Council 

Swansea Swansea Swansea Swansea Council 

They won’t collect our bin bags any more

Woodburn bags lie a festering on the kerbside of the road

The Woodburn bags lie a festering on the kerbside of the road

The Woodburn bags lie a festering on the kerbside of the road

Because they won’t collect our bin bags any more

Oh Swansea Swansea Council

Swansea Swansea Swansea Swansea Council 

Swansea Swansea Swansea Swansea Council 

They won’t collect our bin bags any more

what is this beauty that if stretched

what is this beauty that if stretched

taught and tighter down the years

across the years to snapping point

in recoiling part without tears 

although soaked in tears as such memories were

and yet are we glad or are we not that

the snap is now at last is done

or do we long for the whole continuity thingy

that held the past together upon which we stand

where the death of death dare behold not what is done

that now if snapped can never be undone 

for a change has come and the recoil sits 

still at last and done we are moved and move

once more into our sun

this virus

 this virus

Michael - stop pulling your hair

WE are the Government 

and we don’t care

so there you have it

or you had it 

guffaw guffaw

if by law we could stop it

we would break that law

guffaw guffaw

ask about masks

as often as you like 

we’ll decide to change it

when there’s another spike

social distancing responsibly

on this we all socially agree

but you lot are off grousing

there’s no such thing as society

for thee and for thee

so back to school you force

us to learn to make PPE

for the last test you have failed 

and I say this with no glee

you are no good for us at all

with your back to the wall

so

do better or be gone

for a virus has risen in me

if things don’t change 

there’ll be anarchy

never have i marched

for this cause or that

but i am ready to revolt

against your diktat 

i am ready to revolt

against your diktat 

tell me the story of a grain of sand

 tell me the story of a grain of sand

tell me the story of a grain of sand

not this grain - that grain

but on the other hand

not this pebble - that pebble 

but on the other hand

not this shore - that shore

in this sea - or that sea

a rock is surfed and is suffering 

is ravaged by storms that

pound the mountains 

the rivers and the cataracts

the mesolithic bands

down the eons of the ages

but on the other hand

dredge up the sand

the memories and the fossils 

and mix in cement 

build a sea wall 

that will crumble 

now that was not meant

and all in good time

time will repeat time

becoming the history 

that we seek to behold

but it’s crumbling to sand

here in our hand

as we try to behold 

but no

or is it yes

but on the other hand

this poem - well i mean

 i get that i don’t get it yet

it’s not a landscape i know

or a destination planned

or even recognised even

in the way that is passed before

it starts nowhere

and ends up nowhere

the scenery is nice

the lie of the land so comfortable 

i get that i like it now

what else is there to say

remembering the ephemeral childhoods of summer

what words have ploughed the furrowed sky

what eyes have widened with the why oh why

did i not see the end was nigh

did i not feel a cold damp sigh

that warm suns slipped away the days began

down all the lanes of childhood shrieking ran

bird nested egg shelled the colours shine

for every summer that said that it was mine

forever mine and never so to end

forever blue and warm and so my friend

i gave my heart away that summer’s day

to fishing the running trout stream ere i die

of chasing the chasing of the cuckoo 

of the cuckoo again across the way

the copses in the reed beds seem to say

that they cannot get me in this marshy goo

and do you know how the skylark flies

so high that the sky is all there is

the blue so blue that eyes surmise

that there is no end to its song of days

spent hovering across the moorland 

purple pollened and lizard ran from

the bravado fire at the children’s hand

in the land of the chasing man

in the land of rivers run

the land of the fox and hare

of beetles grubbed in fun and

here and there and now and then

there is always tomorrow

when the bloodied knees have dried

and the i didn’t i didn’t cried

and all that that implied

when the moon sheets tight

wrapped a candle’s corner

sliding to sleep goodnight

at memory’s border

until the bickering of the morning birds

bids fly on heels across the glory fields

where transience in infinite seems in order

a smile in memory of the squirrel hoarder 

and then summer to autumn finally yields

and ephemeral says it’s long goodbye 

as childhood’s shortening summers fly

a stroll

 a stroll

a hint of autumn in

late summer leaves

it’s nice this time of year

says the same breath

that fills the footsteps with sand

paul gold

paul gold

as good as gold he was

rocking from one foot to the other

to the other one foot to the other

  1958 it was

  nine we were

the year we had a man teacher

for the first time 

but not the last time did he say

stop    STOP

you’re making me seasick

  that stung more

than all the canes

 

that last year

before the big school

our childhood in ruins

in a dream’s dream

in a dream’s dream

in my dream

a dreaming poet

dreams of me

and she writes

he was dreaming

of me 

dreaming of him

in my dream

stay - don’t go

stay - don’t go

there’s a half of a half of a half

of a degree of sadness

in the cooling of a warm breeze 

of a september afternoon in a

garden forgetting the time of year 

for how can the cat roll on the warmth

of a day like any other summer day

except for half of a half of a half

of a degree of sadness

not for the fat spider eggshell colour 

spinning the caught day

under the garden table  or

the grass cut short and still

some runner beans on the pole  or

some tomatoes in their salad sun

and apples falling with the pears

the daisies yellow red and yellow  or

the sedum lunching with the bees

wasp wind up an down the upside

of a day or two past summer’s best

and yet i say to a butterfly stay

just a teeny weeny bit longer if

it pleases you as it does me

to stay the execution of the poppies 

that rattle in surmise that next year lies

the other side of winter’s long-forgotten 

ways and ways and ways we

forget that today’s today and all the way

and yet this hint of sadness refuses to abate

for it is late

in the day this non-summer day

as if it were halted in the coffee steam

in a dream a warm dream

tell me that it is not so 

that i am mistaken

but like all my remembered autumns

it always started this way

and refused to stop    stop

until the origami folded

as a pressed leaf in my book of life

no don’t say it is not so

for i can feel in in in my bones

one inch deeper into my grave

for that’s the way it is

half of a half of a half

of a degree of sadness

in a warm smile

breakfast

 breakfast 

it’s usually muesli

the poet said

alliteration is a great tradition

but it’s usually muesli

followed by toasted bread

oK

 ok

ok - pull me a poem

there from the black night air

or there in a silver tear dear

me is the closest you will get

and yet you hold the question

over me - pull me a poem

from the chest of breaths

held long in longing thronging

illiterate in alliteration a little

more to the point is why

should i pull you a poem 

am i owing you summit like

summit like a mountain to

climb blind in the sun blind

blindly climb for a mouldy dime

is that it - is that all it takes

to stay awake slake 

you’re bloody thirsting for

a bloody poem in the artery

exsanguinating to order 

oh - why do i bother at all

pull the plug - pull the plug

i’m outta here

no further than this

no further than this

my father’s hands

callused

  cracked

    cement lined

  resting quietly

on his knee

sitting me

~

my father’s boots

coughing

  along the concrete 

    after work 

  arriving home

for tea

hugging me

~

my father’s dungarees 

denim

  buckle strapped

    tobacco tin

  top pocket

ashed 

lifting me

~

my father’s tattoo 

love jean

  well i mean

    it was in the war

  in egypt 

demobbed 

it suited me

~

my fathers curls

shinning

  pencil moustache 

    david niven 

  handsome

days

in my dreams

~

in my mind

    my father’s hands

  my father’s boots

my father’s dungarees 

   my father’s tattoo 

    my fathers curls

my father’s me