alpha to oh me god

 

alpha to oh me god

to poor to drop out

to poor to fail

needed the money

there on the nail

never went down

did not exeat 

never went to college

i was what they called a twat

language language 

mother always said

neatness counts 

earn your daily bread

to poor a reader 

to read this or that

a bit of school poetry

a proper twat

mother mother

language said 

but i was out with the boys

or sleeping it off in bed

i was going i am going

but i knew not where

time passed in a blur 

without a care

in the world of work

thoughts stood on the brink

the days passing 

no need to think

for out with boys

was a closed world 

and then there were girls

an opening world

now a long time as passed

and i am there at last 

looking back over it all

it’s all in the past

there was no future

in the future of youth

now there is no past

at this moment of truth

and the moral of it all

i still do not know

i knew not then

and i know not now

you silly cow

you bloody twat

is moral enough

and that is that 

or that was that 

for what else there was 

i never discovered 

but I bet someone has

to poor to die

to poor and pale

still need the money

there on the nail

to bury me right 

to bury the past away

for on this last goodnight 

there is no more to say

rain cat

 rain cat 

my cat is an arsehole

sitting outside the door

it’s pissing down

i told her not to go

but you know what cats are

the way they know what’s best

and now she rushes in

and muddy paws my vest

the sea

 the sea

forever slipping through your fingers

taste it again

the salt is always stronger

but of course you take some home

every time you swim

it comes in further out

the ferry light

 the ferry light

then came the light

and i said no - let them follow

i have come too far

too far to turn back

and at this 

my fibrillating heart

stood

still

following a line

 following a line

in something it holds the night

this thing of the cat and the wind chimes 

from somewhere left of the rising moon

the furtive leaves of all autumn’s denouement 

the book closes upon a new book’s opening

as one poet sleeps the night shift takes the reins

riding the storm of the black steam it boils

as a liquid colder than absolute zero

atomic clocks frozen at that point

when emotion suspends belief and

what is wished will be 

and will be until the sun of the neap tide

hides all in the hollows of the deep rocks

waiting for the turn of phrase that will

reset the clock and walk over the grave’s stirring

and all hallows might be

well just might be

tonight

the welsh adopt that quizzical look

 the welsh adopt that quizzical look

when struggling at the lock of the profound

they think that voice has to be enabled

to be able to catch the past, present and future

as if it has always been their hereditary right

are they not their mountains their valleys 

their always their

i simply cannot did not

 i simply cannot did not 

finally

in this book of chinese poets 

ancient to modern i find

one born the same year as me

and still alive

i feel vindicated 

but why 

for we are worlds apart

he is on a mountain 

i am still in a dark valley

for i have not swallowed blood

the poet seeks gold

 the poet seeks gold

when the key is bored

try a few more locks

behind one there is a treasure trove

but the sleeping dragon of haste

asks you tiptoe 

and close the door

behind you

it’s behind you

stupid

glowing in the dark

take it slowly

then run with it

run and run

and run

this way or that

 this way or that

are we looking at the same horizon from different sides? 

and if we reverse directions do we change sides of the horizon or find a different one. 

just asking for a friend

who has feet either side of the horizon;

is that a statement or a question?

if we pass be sure to say hi

the password is horizon.

each fallen leaf

 each fallen leaf

replaced by a memory of summer

if you get my drift

are days that hang undimmed

even when the snow underlines

the bare branches of the year’s journey

to where any statement is overdrawn 

every account the number of deposits

on the grass banks of promise

for in denial never truth were told

 for in denial never truth were told 

so strange this vicissitude to behold,

that these times now are falling overdue;

for in denial never truth were told.

when idiots rule the streets be bold,

and say ‘no! not now’ to these fevered few;

so strange this vicissitude to behold.

dying alone, no comfort hand to hold,

just the distant digital image of you;

for in denial never truth were told.

around this fear we must remould

a life stronger fairer resurgent new;

so strange this vicissitude to behold.

fiscal change can now be social gold,

revolution in these fraught times accrue.

so strange this vicissitude to behold,

for in denial never truth were told.

sea and understand

 sea and understand 

do you hear it

the morse code

bursting from a misdial

the brass crescendo 

from a downing sky

that single momentary sunbeam

icing the cake

sea and understand

the understanding is nigh

impossible to describe

but there it is again this thing

bursting from an almost black greydom 

seething they say but they

don’t know like we know

this is a moment

a moment that is gone

before it becomes a moment

and we move on and out

sea and understand

it is just the sea

where’s the difference

 where’s the difference 

where do i go to be different

where are the different people 

that i can be different from

are you like me wanting to be different

then what is the difference between you and me

and are you following me to that place

where we can be different in the same way

or shall we go our separate ways 

to the same different places

the trout stream

 

the trout stream

remember with me the trout stream

that came down from heol las

fishing with peter and phillip 

grass-banked on a dampening arse

running beneath grandpa’s churchyard

where he rests in llansamlet church

trolling a lobworm under the bridge 

from an upstream hidden perch 

on down behind the slaughterhouse 

that sits way back off the neath-bound road

busying itself to morriston tabernacle

bible dry as a dusty toad

then tight flumed duck-weeded

and running alive with trout

the colour of that rusty gasometer 

with no trespassing inside or out

down and dying behind the vale works

heavy metal grey and much polluted 

it slimes into a slag sinter culvert

dying of dirt and effluent diluted

sad the a walk home is viewing

its dash into the tawe at spate

and from the excitement of trout steam fishing

we spit at industry’s gate

but all in all it’s been a good day

as walks up the stream often are

fish in my bag for supper

happiness safe in the jar

how many mornings

 how many mornings 

does the light say apocalypse 

when the colours of the autumn trees

freeze mid fall

glow like needles through the window 

into a darkening room

tomb-like in its rapture

frozen mid thought of

what if ...

but of course the sun comes out

it was only a shower

i know that spring follows winter

the breeze stirs

the sky lightens

and i return to thoughts of the sea

toadstools deep in the wood

 toadstools deep in the wood

red

neurotic transmitters 

that poison feral minds

who wander in the forest deeply

and run from wicked finds

while flies 

the SSRIs

of putrescine

do lie 

leaf moulded

just by there  where 

the dark thoughts are

but so very rarely seen

ultimately we are on our own

 ultimately we are on our own. 

there are delusions of course,

oh yes, there are delusions. 

love is a delusion. 

hate is a delusion. 

delusions are a delusion. 

until

.

.

.

what?

         what?!

you think that i have the answer?

now you really are deluded. 

 

it’s sigh tide

 it’s sigh tide

the doggy dumpers are meeting

on a crowded beach

i am only just saying 

because i believe in free speech 

but the corvid tide is rising

and soon they’ll be high and dry

and the ventilators will be switched off

after one more final sigh

WHY

WHY

caught in undulation

a sand wave of the sea

bathed in sky and waiting

or so it seems to me

wild in ululation

the children footprint the way

the the sea at bottom water

way out in the bay

why is the sand so blue

the sea spittle sit so white

the rise and fall of breathing

for the moon has left its night

happy sad  / sad happy

depending on / its your mood

as each day you walk / retreat

when the sea is at ebb / full flood

be it at slack water 

or be it at full flood

the sea is our blood

she is our feral daughter

unbounded by sand or sky

or our eternal question     WHY

they dug this ‘ole

 and why did the wire deviate

or the water pipe levitate

or the gas main bend this way

under my tarmac walk the other day

did the world above ground say

please bend the pipes this way

or did the earth quake and make

all above ground hesitate

and shake hands and walk this away

late after noon

 late after noon

and now a fading afternoon

darkens into raining heavier see

the shrubs the trees in darkling swoon

october’s leaves dead upon a midden’s final flee

mellowing the shine of a chilled harvest moon

and by pattering increasing will for ever be

that very last leaf said to be falling soon

and soon from frosts in bedding flee

although it seems so far away that bloom

that ice upon the windows frosted tree

as now in this afternoon’s fetid room

we sleep the sleep of a desiccated bee

window halted in a last mid buzz boom

settling as thoughts that once were free

to zoom no more into autumn’s gloom 

for all in all it is as it should be 

late in this long year’s tiered cemetery 

a sun blue morning after snow

 a sun blue morning after snow

a sun blue morning after snow

hushed in this painting the oils 

are as aged as time itself as

aged as every gaze that alights

bird-like upon life’s fence held

forever is stilled here now before

a held breath mists the morning 

to move forward and it’s lost

touch it fingerly

finger it touchingly

ribble the smooth

smell the oils 

long-dried

fresh as a new fall of snow

just lines?

just lines

golden syrup and lemon juice

the smiles the grimaces

the pallor the puce 

they are all aces           aces

all the writers’ readers

reading through the night’s

long song book of verse

those are the words

are they not

Welsh lockdown

 Welsh lockdown

sixteen days and what do you get

the R number is lower but we are deeper in debt

lord don’t you call me because i can’t go

i owe it my soul to keep two metres or more

eastwards falls the tears

 eastwards falls the tears

on the soft bed of the chinese poets

feather light the quill of my repose

i should write this comfort into words

of comfort but i am too comfortable 

to play with the sunbeams or drink at

their iced tears their disparate loves

separated and desperate and inconsolable 

no imagination could replicate the years

their winsome days where i float

tasting all the spirits of the mist

the hermitage of time gone cold

 take this out of me

for i gift it to thee now

wary various weighs

 the hands that reach up

to all the hands that reach down

just one tear apart

all the while the violin

tears at the strings of my heart

womb with a view

 womb with a view

back in the womb of the laundry room

the washing machine all sloshing and boom

the duvet downs the colds undone

re-entry countdown just begun

the waters break

in tears for goodness sake

the tumble dryer

the breathings higher

and higher things

the mangle brings

as down you slide on to the floor

no more no more

i just can’t take it any more

gas and air

and then you’re there

the boiler ignites

everything’s all right

it was all just a swoon

in the womb of the laundry room

noise

noise

 

 all my poems are noise

     (de-?) cerebral noise

constant not-stop noise

they pour out continuously 

     the more they pour 

         the greater the noise 

that  remains unstoppable

only by noise do we recognise silence

     listen to that

           the longed for silence

                  that never arrives

until finally it does

but by then it’s too late 

read that again - slowly

autumn

 autumn

where the seeds are blowing to the falling still

and sunlight spiders the pine cones fill

upon the limestone in a lichen sun

all that salts a coastal walk begun

step the fungi lightly on october’s fields

where inquisitiveness wrapt in hushedness kneels

and dry grasses to the thistle rosette yields

the joy at the fullness that autumn feels

long-beamed the cooling setting sun

a crimson lancet across the calmest bay

warm rocks lament unrequited fun

as with tears in our eyes we swim away

hushed shadowed long and homeward bound

what was lost has now at last been found

and down all winters frozen paths

we will think of spring around glowing hearths