hopeless

 hopeless

when all hope has gone

where has it gone

is it in the bank of hope

or a rubbish tip of hope 

are there billionaires of hope

oligarchs hoarding our stolen hopes

does hope simply get thinner

and dissolve in acid rain

is hope the lost key to a door

that opened onto sunlit uplands

in the sunlight of halcyon days

or a cobweb of dead flies

the fat spider paid by hope

the hopelessness 

of hope lost to the grave

the loss of parents’ reassurance

children’s winsome looks

a cat or a dog when

their old friend’s feeding hands are gone

in the turning around

sitting’s catatonic stare

a leaden backbone

the last heavy breath

the light at the end of the tunnel

extinguished

the call of the factory hooter

 the call of the factory hooter 

morning creaks to the chicken’s beak

to the call of a sunny side up 

as early birds sing to the buttered ooze

of bread that was toasted by fork

and in the draught of a coal fire’s smoke

at the call of the factory’s hooter

steamed tea is finished to the last dreg’s drop

and the door closes with the gentlest bump

dad has gone again as he does each day

and the table cloth crumbs my mums away

for there is a stilled hiatus in the air 

of something never said there

in the clock’s nudge of a sunbeam dialled

across a curtained and laddered yard 

and then it is this and that leads to that and this

on a child’s day so warmly old

in the late beam of an old man’s way

the dust rises and settles and settles again

in the glazing of the icing at an eyelid’s corner

unmoving upon a gaze in the graze of a time

when i heard the call of the factory hooter 

the factory hooter 

in the call of the factory hooter 

hoo….    ter …

hoo….    

           ter …

what are words worth

 what are words worth

i vomited lonely as a crude

gagging on why i took those pills and ales

when all at once out it spewed

filling bilious coloured pails

summer

summer

and thus does summer talk to me

merging the pleasures there you see

two butterflies or maybe three

dancing dancing there under that tree

under a sky so blue or in a shaded lee

now this is how summer is meant to be

the gestation period of a washing machine

 the gestation period of a washing machine

have you tried humming the resonance of a washing machine 

have you whistled along with the bearing’s shifty spin

startled at the gurgle of the outlet’s rude gargle

washing the socks off the foetus in the womb’s laundry room 

suds be the vernix of a head just engaged

umbilical a dressing-gown’s tied tangled aeration  

seething in the contraction of the walls of the room

three finger’s dilation the linen basket’s arrival

waiting on the unlocked door’s fast delivery load

now there’s a thought to hang on the clothe’s windy line

in the breeze of a poem thinking these silly billy thoughts

but next time you rest against the machine’s pulsing sides

imagine the sploshings are the womb’s bowel sounds

then deliver a sigh that you never ever thought 

of what you might have thought on the other side of nought

then switch of the spinner and switch off the light

for sometimes somethings never gel as they might 

when the chips are down

 when the chips are down

how we threw it all away all

our chips on the roll of a die

the croupier pushed the sun our way

and we drank to the stars’ wide eye

so many roads yet we never ever guessed 

were running towards the same old end

after you my friend before you my friend

were we ever at the beginning of this our end

go on why not have another throw of the dice

for a happy ending would be ever so nice

spring equinox

                            spring equinox 

have you seen 

how the daffodils turn to rust

under the municipal park railings how

the geese strut the short grass slide

shitting on the red tired winter boats

whilst on the wrecked pond cherry blossom

falling on a dust breeze moving it all along

this swirl of an equinox on the tongue 

of a morning destined for a slow poem

for there          can you see

on a damp seat quiet sits

the drain of every long light

mildly startled by three ducks

~ why are there are always three ~

slowlying across from left to write

oh why did the cat puke her grass slime

and spoil it all again

the robin has flown its song

sadness at the felling

sadness at the felling

japan at this time of year

the cherry blossom festival

that expanse of silence falling in beauty

but oh mumbles 

in underhill park they have chopped them down

for a football changing room

‘they’ know who ‘they’ are

bereft of the soul bank where they

pile the souls for the soulless 

for those without benefit of insight

for they would not consider an inch

to the left or right of time as they

bring in the contractor’s indifference 

to the footfall of the years’ people

  he’s swearing ref he’s swearing again

  blow the whistle on this pitch of thought

i told them but the digital referee blew me

away with your silly billy thoughts for

away the lads are on the park 

again the plastic bottles line the touch line

they’ll replant the blossoms the councillor said

but you cannot replant my time for

by the time their petals fall again

i’ll be far offside of the great game

it’s a shame i tell you 

but you have no shame

you are all the bloody same

book on a sand dune

 book on a sand dune 

on the sand of a distant land

a smile to the horizon

the mirage of the sky 

and the sea grass hand

turning not in the stilled breeze

not on this page or that

but the same story stranded

in the slow kiss of goodbye’s hello 

what have we here

is what we have here

in my very fingers now

talking a word for a walk

 talking a word for a walk

how language does pull on the lead

suddenly stoping to pee on a Twitter post

tugging just when everyone is watching the

damp words running down thought’s pavement 

oh dear fails the smile test and then whistling

in the idling sunshine seems so trite

right

  ready

    come on then 

wordy turdy poo

dylan’s grave at laugharne

 dylan’s grave at laugharne 

the blurred lichen of an angel’s smile

guarding the slope down grave

where slumbers yew tipped poet

bleeding under the visitors’ dumb stare

just here lies the question begun in new york 

for here the bars are rusting closed

grave around this yard’s smile

floral eyes sparkling at his joke

the punch line forever poured

Captain cat

 Captain cat

asleep in the cabin with the warm sun

soft across the estuary of his dreams

the lull of the rocking tide’s flow

up and until the hills stand still

and

no more the no-more the clouds

but golden his dreams upon the opening

of the curtains as wide as a bay’s

time for remembering them all 

ahoy there matey the shore well met

come my lads away for our teas

the sun has got his hat on

 the sun has got his hat on

oh pussy wussy woo

the sun has got his hat on

and he is warming me and you

once a day the cage bird sings

 once a day the cage bird sings

as the morning sun crosses its wings

stuffed it may be to you and me

but it is loved as you will see

trilled and thrilled in its golden cage

when life outside spins in a rage 

tomorrow’s morn and the one thereafter 

its songs sail to the riffs and rafter

now who is in this cage my friend

there is something in this story that will never end

once a day the cage bird sings

as every morning my day begins

the hostage’s return

 the hostage’s return

a mum returns to a child now half her size

red nails the colour of blood’s demise

a freedom imprisoned outside her head

hands holding tight to a plea instead

mummy mummy in pain’s holding kiss

history has always arrived like this

back home is where we have always been

dear god humankind is so obscene 

one star in the firmament explodes

the rest life’s utter darkening roads

love’s smile is all that we have got

as for the rest it is best forgot

a child has grown twice her mummy’s size

built from lonely midnight cries

every arrival is but to depart

everything eventually a broken heart

laugharne

 laugharne 

prepare to repel

each day the tide slides

in 

and retreats 

and on the ‘morrow it is back again

the castle steadfast 

says

there and no further

take his words

repeat after me 

the heron priested shore

there 

now off you go

the town is due its sleep

it is bottom water again

bloody awful

 bloody awful 

to go each morning as i have done

off to bloody work my son

ten thousand tasks 

and just two are done

it is bloody awful mun 

it is bloody awful mun 

and see now how this poem begun

sedate serene

now all obscene 

it is bloody awful mun 

the worms

 the worms

and i catch myself nodding off

the train of images a blur

those well dressed refugees

i stir

is that me on the TV

it could well be

have i slept through it all

have i lost the plot

i hope not for hope

it stirs in me

time to turn off the TV

time to stand up and walk

the talk 

the box room door

 the box room door

leaving through a door to where no door closes

to a reality the other side of irrationality 

when thinking outside of the box

where does one place the box

how does one arrive at the place where

there are no box-shaped holes 

don’t think box

or outside of the box

forget boxes 

tick them off the box list

close the door through which no door leaves unturned

event horizon

 a spiral galaxy 

  inside a spiral galaxy 

    inside a spiral galaxy 

death giving birth

to birth dying

ad infinitum the adage 

they spout down the spout

i don’t understand 

  is that the point

    of no return

loopy

 no man is a man

he is a bunch of atoms and molecules

ruled by positive and negative feedback loops

up and down regulated synapses

running a mind that is a conjuror of illusions

peace is the sargasso sea of balance

where being is at its zenith 

and demise the tail end of thought

look

 look

as i grasped at it it flew through my fingers

like kiln dried sand or icing snow

the blue sky smiled in my eyes

i stopped dead still

there it was stopped dead still

in the whizzing of a sigh

it was gone

it is not fair flat

 it is not fair flat

i’ve been in some dark places

where 

even now 

a torch eclipse does not penetrate 

the penumbra of forever

the desolation of a backward glance 

of a coat of disarms

never to walk the trout stream into the mist

perhaps to walk the never return

to see how in the night a star burns bright

how the rising sun walks fingers across the sea

how the tide slides into my coffin

laid lower than life’s water table 

this lake of tears

innominate

 two parts sand

one of cement

a finger writes in concrete

time and again reads

i was here

a poet writes

 a poet writes

mind’s eyes in the distance

a feeling awakes

deep in the heart of me

timid footsteps i takes 

towards telling you now

how i felt then

kissing the words

as you did then

and a story is told

how it was foretold

that I would write this

poem a kiss

born again anew

and all just for you

penultimate

 penultimate 

the pen is mightier than the sword 

isn’t that what they say

it can draw a sword

it can build a shelter

paint the dawn

and sew a rent in a heart

it can hold the world 

in the breath of a semicolon 

rewrite THE END

over and over again