Monday, 30 November 2020

RS Thomas

 RS Thomas


the splinter under my nail 

clawing at this howling wind 

paged as dry as fire ash

  take your foot of my pen your wait

off my outlook on the rain’s blear

the unscalable north face of your verse

my ineptitude at finding just one handhold 

on the crumbling scree of the people you

pain so elegantly in their inelegance

five poems in and i am sunk drunk

i wish you could have met me

and lent me your handkerchief 

today it is all too late

Sunday, 29 November 2020

pin up

 pin up


eyes follow those thighs

unskirted the vision

of what lies atop of a thought

in a flare of musk so minded 

at the prospect of procreation

temerity runs amok

Saturday, 28 November 2020

tell me something

tell me something 


tell me something 

i’ll tell you if it matters

most things don’t these days

actually nothing matters

except the urge to say that

nothing matters at all

even this re-telling

is as vacuous 

as it is


Friday, 27 November 2020

two glasses

 two glasses

she played music

as i lay upon a promise

that the waters of innocence 

were as thin as mist

that tomorrow’s sun would ride

all the way to the waters edge and

beyond hope would harbour no doubt

that love’s sunlight would redress all my fears 

unmistakable as it is

love is hiding light upon this moment

slow to pass

the wine of time uncorked 

only for two glasses on an olive bed

yesterday in thief

 yesterday in thief


there is a boy in this here head of words

stubborn he will as not say yesterday 

until the old songs drink tears 

he runs form shadow to shadow

glinting now and then in a laugh

that howls upon a full moon’s years

to chase him is to lose him 

to turn away a keepsake 

sleep again half-awake

for the dogs of the war run loose 

and time will bring to heal

all of yesterday in thief

Thursday, 26 November 2020

pre-booked

 pre-booked


nostrilled rhymes in times laid bare

down the ventral spine of this old book

read and reckoned and many a time

did lay deep inside its snooze

summer’s fireplace cobwebbed 

still waiting for the ignition of winter

the flake of a thought fingerprint

in the infinite configuration of neurones

that fire this one way only

this once and only once 

did that thought think that thought

before the book slammed shut upon the

awakening of a thought that a dream 

in dissipation had only a few spaces left

a few sun stirrings in the sunbeam

as hands turn and placings place

every thing just where it should be

an is until the book falls open again 

at sage page’s indifference 

as a finger traces the line



the poetry competition

the poetry competition 


24 hours now

the priested last supper

tomorrow the crucifixion of

the words at the feet of 

magdalene 

the empty pages

the covers torn

the curtain rent 

the dies cast

soon soon paradise 

the runners up and who

me or you

say your prayers and submit

fate is fickle

test it



 

Wednesday, 25 November 2020

then another time

 then another time


at the graveside we thank life

for once in our lives we think of life

i know the dead can’t 

stupid

but what i am saying is

we never have enough time to stop

think soon too soon this will be me

and we think why am i thinking this

what good does it do to the person 

in the grave

soil plonking down upon the coffin

with a sound that grates on the nerves

in a look away into the distance way

a way out for us sort of way 

this is fingertip close up to shiny shoes

graveside overlapping the sky reflected

in a turn away moment and be gone

had a good innings

blessing in the end 

sort of way 

goodness me is that the time

on looking through dawn’s window

 on looking through dawn’s window


in the jigsaw verity of this low morning

the cobwebs spindle to the blackbirds wing

and a lone geranium’s stance at autumn’s end is

a barley-eyed tear nasal backing a throat

the long screwed shadows of plumbed time

and never once did the sun rise over the hedges

all the while the cat and i are watching the birds

scrape their breakfast from the stone worms


highest patted the double cream clouds move

in the slowest churn of lateness warming

to the task of a day’s yearning that when 

diamond drawn the scabbard daggers pierce the dew

on every twist of a corkscrew hazel’s done

barely a leaf left clinging to the very idea 

that summer might overturn the last vote of leaves

but of course its done and dusted blown

and yellowing browning mouldering 

with my thoughts upon a blinking at

the steam of a coffee hanging urgent

i arise from my long repose with the weasel sun

blinded white every vestige of languid comfort

the games afoot the sea calls long and low

it’s time to go boy

it’s time to go

Tuesday, 24 November 2020

take the word loneliness

take the word loneliness 


take that lonely word

loneliness 

and sit with it quietly under the sky

in your field 

or run with it cliff top

torn to shreds by the sea’s breath

or under the midnight stars

tell them how it is

how you miss no one but xxx


plant the seed where seeds don’t grow

in the dark places 

walk away 

does it matter if it grows 

the lonely word drops letters

everywhere it goes with you

loneliness drops hints 

that every letter parchment bound

never adds or removes from the world

never blooms or runs to seed

but sits there with you friend 


a good companion early met

and true to the end

inside outside

the air is warmed in slow breaths

it hangs in a misted question

dissipates in the unanswered

halted on a ferris wheel at night

between moon and sun

as lonely as death

yet with all the promises you made

to yourself and no other

will ever know


 

Monday, 23 November 2020

thoughts as autumn leaves

 thoughts as autumn leaves


time it is to crunch them

to aid the wind and place them 

at the feet of the fungi hyphae

to moulder and to mulch them

to have them and to lunch them

to feed the buds nae nourish them 

a spring in your step 

that’s what winter wants ma’am 

that’s what winter hunts ma’am

leaves and more leaves and more leaves

and a heavy fall of snow

tomorrow 

Sunday, 22 November 2020

the simile is like ...

 the simile is like ...


the simile is the simulacrum of a smile

the simile is a mirror writing smile

or a frown cracking into a smile 

is a simple simile upon reflection

and not a palindrome of a palimpsest 

written simply as a simile of a smile

take i out or put i in and 

shake it all about

like

off to sea

 off to sea


to beach a memory bequeathed 

an atavistic five sense meme

or the daily sensual dream of

a seething vestal silken in torn

wild seems ridden by wild horses

or laid satiated upon the whitest of sands

by gentle hands that caress undress

every dark thought of a day’s displeasure

the sun moon horizon sky land

being just there 

where we are now and no

amount of thinking can unwind 

the tides of thought sitting expressionless 

unable to comprehend what was always known

but so rarely understood 

this overwhelming happy grief that the sea has salted us

outside and inside 

on land or sea

that somehow this is meant to be

or so it seems to me

drying off with a rough towel

this is the life




Friday, 20 November 2020

isn’t that what they say

 isn’t that what they say 


sunlight so light

on a cobweb so webbed

and dressed in dew well dew

it is all diamond on the frond

of this morning’s morn

shorn of night high on

the sun’s streaming 

like time upon a Ming vase

in this pause in time

like no other time

in time and yet it is

for it will pass alas 

darkness always has its way

tomorrow is another day

isn’t that what they say

Thursday, 19 November 2020

just fine

 just fine


there is that moment

when sunrise triangulates

with the music and the cat

in a cat’s repose

when thoughts drift

shadows flicker

across the red wall

the one by the waiting fire

and all of everything is just fine

Wednesday, 18 November 2020

it’s always been this way

 it’s always been this way


on the last snow sunbeam long in down

the yellow moon rises ever so slowly

under the halo of a blue frost see its crown

slips ever so slightly in a kilter skew only

in this late of day does one’s mind then drift

along cooling thoughts of thoughts turned home

and lift foot step after foot step lift

does approach distance itself to roam

to days where the days were nights

and mornings were mornings self contained

when we were young enough to set world to rights

to never countenance that what remained

of life’s mysteries were barely laid

than a snow of thoughts blown adrift

never to consider the price we paid

to reach the ferry’s route of thrift

all stranded again on another shore

we panic about for the way to go

for youth’s bank now is over drawn

and sallow is the fat of muscle brawn

for the moon is gone

the sun not dawned

all is lost in a

life forlorn


it’s always been this way

the lanyards of time

 

the lanyards of time


wrestling with the lanyards of time

such a tangled tangled to and fro

from the nest falls i’m  i’m    free 

and however lost i have to go 

on footloose laces untied

turning scuffed on knees

and wounded pride

longing to please

indurate the bruises 

the scarlet green

all the refuses

of them unseen

down dark’s one way street

hail fellow so to meet

trust in greet

smashes you in the face

again and again

a sunbeam of lace

has turned to pouring rain

where manic pals hunt in a pack

to circle the pain

time to hit back

at life’s brick wall

to kick and kick

to sod them all

to fist and fist

and bloody fist

to gasp at a pause

that it has come to this

looking back 

not from the mountain tops

but deep within a well

where a bucket drops

from a hand so fair

looking down with eyes only for you

with golden hair

a smile you forgot you ever knew

form a sky so fair

blinded by that light

the world recedes from view 

the end of anger’s everlasting night

of angst pulling on pail’s pallid rope

a hand takes a hand to the promised land 

what could never be always ends in hope 

in nest building atop of the highest tree

who would ever have predicted this of me













Tuesday, 17 November 2020

heirloom in the room

heirloom in the room


so now my uncles are all dead

the tapestry of men is torn

thin and faded and degraded

the golden threads of laughter 

of the likely lads is drawn 

crumpled upon the floor

of this empty room 

for the would be mourners

the black suited men

are all dead too

not a thought rattles

over curled white sandwiches

only the whispered nods of the ladies 

crinoline antimacassar aspidistra 

a parlour dusted in a lonely sunbeam

wane upon a cup of weak tea

black dress gloves on a polished table

black lace veils on hats laid aside

the tide of conversation turns

around hat pins and other things

no one is the first to go as the clock chimes

silence leads the way as sadness falls

upon the thought that soon

soon maybe 

perhaps

another cup of tea and a cake






 

oh mam

 oh mam


"laughing leads to crying"

this dagger of frozen tears 

has hovered unthawed down the years

ever since a childhood raised in darkness 

in thin times a longing to bloom 

held nothing but a memory

a nostalgia already grey 

a day best forgotten 

of course it can not

lest another tear never falls

for if frozen it is frozen in time

and 

"laughing will lead to crying"

once again


accretion

accretion 

those candy floss machines,

you know, you put a stick in

and it comes out hugely bound

in the sweet threads of minds eye. 

or the toffee apple dripping hot

shining in mind’s other eye. 

or the roller skate hill that runs

faster and faster than mind’s eye

can follow up the other side. 

that is the accretion of a poem,

when mind’s eye is looking the other way

it spins a yarn out of both ears.

november the 5th

there are f - f - f - f


fireworks 


the other 364 days 


there are n - n - n - n


nail guns

Sunday, 15 November 2020

poetry they say it is

poetry they say it is

written in an idiom

they say is poetry;

but me, i don’t call it.

i don’t ask what they call it.

i write and it calls itself 

- nothing.

it is not even an anagram for teapot

pouring the steeped and the stirred

the dark or the golden.

i drink it with a cake stand;

outside the hail sheets down

and the leaves swirl autumn,

and the blanket draws closer,

for the blotting is done.

Saturday, 14 November 2020

the breached Wall

 the breached wall


wall in breached

the sea has reclaimed the salt marsh

or rather has spilled into the reclaimed fields

slithering the silted tide 

time has lined in reeds

the vital capacity of its breadth

around the sanded whitford point

that low and lowly flat pebble shelled place


the quay wall of history ran so long challenged

held fast the fastness 

against the hills on north gower wooded

or skirting the whitford firs needled low

dark and pine deadened


damp 

all is damp 

always damp

even when the sun winds blow 

up the loughor estuary from pembrokshire 


but the muddied stones are tumbled low

for the wall is breached 

the reeds the rushes and the marshy grasses 

grow in the flow of time unleashed



Thursday, 12 November 2020

in the fall an evening falls

 in the fall an evening falls

as angry as sparrows

in the wind rain of words

beating up the morning 

laying down of the night

creeping eyed in darkening

the mindful slips away

down along the dark ways

of the demanding silhouettes 

unambiguously

the ambiguous 

settling now

what was meant to be

drawing on a log fire flaring

with a cat upon the knee

bats abroad in their daring

nothing else left to see

we off to bed the morning

until the dawning 

of the falling

as it was always 

meant to be