hey you
posing
for that photograph
yes you the dead ones
calling nay demanding
we go back
to when it could be posed
the question
you have to ask yourself
of them
did you see me all these years away
and if so
what did you say
what would you say
to me
now
if you were here today
looking at me posing for a photograph
in just that way
hey?
rumours
scabied in streets that burrow under the names of the old wars
and the theatres of the old wars with those odd names
balaclava inkerman sebastapol streets away from
the docks that named cuba row and the cape horner
and the copper men who named grenfell park and
the other wars that named rifleman’s row and taplow terrace
blued in grime now and smoked of long days and long pasts
days of erasure’s money in the chapel’s wooden collection boxes
velvet lined with stain-glassed pulpit talk and having said that
it is said that never again is said over and over again
until the next war takes them away and returns another name
for another street for the children to ignore in their games
of war cornered on two streets the blank street signs waiting
for the halls of the dead to write again all change all change
for this street is a one way ticket to the hallows of the dead
where the victors smile at the setting of the sun remembering
in a town somewhere just like this one the streets ring out in silence
that the rumours are true and the names speak the truth
happen that they were there and that we are here remembering
how those funny names are anagrams for the blood that was spilt
our illiteracy at the power of the touchstones under our fingers
to read the mapped streets of time gone silent and at our reticence
to walk slowly back and to think the awful thought
that these names are still screaming for their mothers
no day
now
at this moment in time
all of us will have no tomorrow
eventually
but of course others will
but soon
and sooner than you think
no one will have a tomorrow
the concept of tomorrow will end
and all the poems ever written
will not be read
all dead all dead
so
if your poem does not work today
then it never will
still
we will write them don’t we
i don’t think we should bother
but we will
it seems to be the saying that is the thing
even saying the end
but there will be no real end
for only the living can see an end
but
to all the dead tomorrows
nothing
just look at me
writing this to tell you not to
write like this
thinking about no tomorrow’s
don’t you think it a bit daft
well
do you
you’ll better be quick to reply
before the quick and the dead
are just
the dead and the dead
forever unread
don’t
dare touch a word
that may bring the edifice down
a keystone
or
a lattice bridge
linked by words
that cross a gorge
of don’t
don’t look down
never ever
undo a line
for
it may be your last
c
h
a
n
c
e
ouch
i bust my leg under a harvest moon
blood red was my pained expression
oh let this be a lesson
do let this be a lesson
watch your step on a steeply rock
or you’ll live to regret the occasion
the last haiku
all we have is
distilled in the spirit
of one last haiku
evaporating
all the tears of our lives
for no tomorrow
for never ever
was there a yesterday
with no tomorrow
and here we are
burning all the warning notes
no sports day today
a temperature
coming down with a virus
please excuse us
if we don’t play
the game is nearly over
and the substitute
refuses to play
for this game is not fun
any more than you
are for telling how it
upsets everybody now
please go away now
and let me sleep
under this indian summer
of sunshine
too late in the year
this winter of looking back
is cold comfort
new year’s eve
has left the party early
it is over now
all we have left
is distilled in the spirit
of one last haiku
a valediction
floating down the Acheron
on the pyre of the world
at the choke point
of this extinction event
it is the thermophiles
that will once more rule the world
that will once more rule the world
ah fall
fall
awful
awe fall
awe full
oh fall
ah fall
i do love you so
spare me your blushes
your red lips of parting
and fall into my arms
here on the grass
under the leaves
sleep with me in untill breakfast
springs the thaw t
think the thought
fall for me now
right now
please
for in there lies
it’s the hormones
the bloody hormones
and the genes
the elusive epigenetics
the neurotransmitters
the up and down regulators of
disbelief
~ if ever you thought about it ~
that it cannot be
you poor sod
you poor sod
procreate and die
and believe the lies
for in there lies …
SLAUGHTERHOUSE
not the slaughterhouse
or the slaughter-house
but the SLAUGHTER house
the HOUSE of slaughter
SLAUGHTERHOUSE
where lives are slaughtered
you aughta remember that
it’s no laughing matter
SLAUGHTERHOUSE
i hope you are stunned
the cat’s pause
reading a book of poetry
the cat’s tail swipes me
this or swipes me that or
swipes me that one stanza
before my hypnot-eyes
and now and then it starts again
and so it goes this rhyme this time
this swish this swot to stop and
stop stop and look and read on
rueing her unruly bookmark tail
until she sort of sleeps and
sort of purrs and i dare turn a page
or repeat a line until it arrives well-
drilled by the ratchet of the cat its
tail in good time and
it is a good line
there you see
but i am never too sure
if she’s talking to me
reading my book of poetry
call me trig
call me trig
obviously an obelisk
far and away
a love triangle
but that’s not the point
is it
mind if i call you theo dolite
seems to suit you all round
now where were (are) we
Tenby
sedate
breakfast on a thought’s walk
into the colour of the day’s streets
the harbour on the lanyard of the tides
strolling each of the promenades
be it north beach or south beach or
the headland where the bandstand frames the island
the day trippers boated away as pilgrims for the day
thinking of dinner in the lit little laced windows
with time enough to linger over a day settling into
the dusk of a long sun’s thoughts brought home
this breeze
it is almost a chant
this breath of a wave on the shore of the sea
and me in the sun on a rock on that shore
my back against a rock warm and secure
in the thought of this breeze where has it been
and where is it going so slow and serene
a reprise of my childhood of all my tomorrows
happy beside me it is not sorrow you see
but blue sky in thinking around the rock corner
where all of my breathing now shallower and shallower
and not one deep in thought but a shallow paddle dabble
in the warm sand the soft sand to burrow and borrow
this moment in time stopped on my brow
for now everything is just beautiful
for now it’s just now
but how can i stop the one o’clock dog
but how can i stop the one o’clock dog
that disturbs my slumber many a night
where the owl talons grip the bough
when the moon halts pale it’s face agog
and mice quiver and dash in fright
but how can i stop the one o’clock dog
that clouds the face of a waiting frog
by the pool that my neighbour built just right
where the owl talons grip the bough
sweet dreams in splinters that jam the cog
quick hand me the dagger for bloody might
but how can i stop the one o’clock dog
and bid it curl to sleep like my sleeping mog
one eye open and one eye tight
where the owl talons grip the bough
how i wish the owners deep in a bog
leaving their inconsideration to the dying light
but how can i stop the one o’clock dog
where the owl talons grip the bough
dusk on the boathouse at laugharne
hush
listen
listen to the ripple of a long thought
the landing of the dusk
a wing’s dust away
floating inwards on a rising tide
the plop of a fish
the blink of an eye
and it’s gone
set in a sundown
that breath
that sigh
yes he did
aye
just there
where his candlelight
waxed vast in
the moon’s slow trail
across the estuary
of his laying
writing poetry
is like riding a bucking bronco across a field
to be thrown over the hedge at the other side
and then to watch over the gate as the beast gallops away
and to say to yourself
my god that was some ride
i think i’ll call that horse …
The Cove
we are going for a dip down there
we are going for a dip
we are going for a dip
we are going for a dip down there
tripping ~ over the seaside
dad wore a pak-a-mak over his suit and tie
mum a concertina plastic hood over a blue rinse
on the beach after the rain had stopped
sitting sideways on drying sand looking at the camera
new quay wales and an iron slipway rail behind them
and the hotels behind that and the sea somewhere else
somewhere else the picnic bus was parked and we looked
all around the seaside town for meat and two veg and
a cup of tea as nice as homemade behind lace curtains
the sun toppling over the time of day longing to be
out of mum and dad’s hands where i could explore
things that were not the things i knew but the things
i knew were new to me all this way in the coming on
the bus that every summer repeated soon you will see
and the sea will remember you even if you do not remember
the seaside tripping over that day’s yearning
and again and again over today’s yearning
that it was all yesterday once more
the monuments
the monuments
who will clean them
when we are all gone
whose hands will brass
the shiny dog’s nose
the ear or the brow
the patina will grow
on
the monuments
who will remember
that the memories are gone
that there is no one to know
that there is no one no more
un-patted the patina will grow
and will grow
on
the monuments
toppling one after one
as the subsidence of existence
the sink hole we know
that there will be no one
to peer into the hole
for the whole of existence
is gone and we don’t know that
on
the monuments
no bird shit is sitting now
on the angels the patina
of lichen does grow
but the songs of the birds
was cooked up long ago
and no one
no one does know
on
the monuments
not one inscription is new
for the hand with the chisel
is no longer sinew
but bones that are pointing
and that is the point
that no one
no one
will ever know
now
i should have asked her
the moon all rolled up
in the sea-smoothed glass
where are your children now
that the tide has turned and
scattered them like stars
sugaring the sun seas
shattering the memories
but i didn’t ask her
DELAYED
your funeral is delayed
CANCELLED
your life has been cancelled
but your funeral is delayed
please remain seated
you will have to change at St Peter’s
please have your visas ready for inspection
do apologise for your plight
it might help
but then again it might not
on a summer evening
on a summer evening
through an open window
motorbikes
close ~ distant ~ close
distant ~ music ~ loud
mumbling
and a barking dog
oh yes ~ always
a barking dog
insists
a summer evening at the seaside
a mighty asynchronous frisson
this sunlight upon the sea and
how could i even attempt to reckon
what it is saying to me
for this look from shore to furthest point
where my eyes flow to and fro
and the sun upon my browning skin
my sighs upon the sea you know
how one’s thoughts bestride the far horizon’s
promises of childhood’s pirate lore
and on and on and over we go to
where the luxurious breezes know
that never could that coral island
ever be more than a mystery to me
and yet and yet my thoughts do sail
across the seven seas for
never it seems this day will behave
like all the days before
and moving under a full thought’s sail
for ever and ever more and
not many evenings sing like this
and not many sunshines lie this close
or on and on an eye full shine
as mine do in these summer’s clothes
warmth lies as a blanket
upon a breath’s belie that
the stars tonight will cool and
a moon wine will sing that a night is day
until dawn darns the socks
of the fools that drool in
lingering and waiting
and in waiting linger
until the end begins
and the end is nigh
and life begins begins
across this sea
decipher now what this means to me
in the cacophony of screams
and children’s shrieks galore
and glory be upon a wave upon a wave
enjoyment purely purely be the sea
that rolls up upon this earnest shore
until it finally covers me
