all in the turning
we come to the turning of the leaf
time and again time in turning
flows over the eddies of the mind
fall springs up to fall again
in the morning of the bud
the night’s falling is planned
the genes are fading
in the eternal fashion
we are wearing thin
the magnetic fields of thought
words are iron filings on the magnetic fields of thought
they may attract or repulse but that is exactly how it aught
to be or not to be me or have you polarised the way
we look at the braille words see a brave word in a
cowardly way to read not write to right the wrong
when words have told that lie again in such nice words
that smile in the way that is the con man’s way of talking
as he steals away your purse the way you purse your lips
to say no way are we having this or that but already
he has stolen away with your purse spilling the iron filings
on the twisted fields of two thoughts interacting
hating to love the words that hate
the words that love to stir two minds
do you mind this bloody curse of recursive thoughts
the power lines that send everything in reverse
when the alternating polarity of popularity has populated
your every iron filing thought
so my son tell me my son
there are men on the point of the sea my son
see there there are men on the point of the sea
and suddenly there are butterflies
on the driftwood from the sea my son
see there on the driftwood from the sea
and boy all i wanted was the drum set
but they give me a triangle my son
they gave me the triangle and a little bar my son
dinging pinging until the mourning cats
came walking home my son
came walking sedately home
so what is the point of it all my son
tell me what is the point of the sun
Edgar Evans of Rhossili
sunlight flakes the lime walled snow
held fast in a cold gaze ponders
how close to fate we often are
in this stained window depicting yours
away a visitor’s thought transcends
in the dazzling of the west fall sun
held fast a night of wait begins
to wail away the sadfast hours
in down and downward eyes
cries to the sea we pray he made his port
but not on this earth from that icy lot
but on the shore of another’s kindly thought
fag end
that last cigarette
life a crumpled packet
there on the sidewalk
waiting to be kicked into the gutter
your face a memory in the puddles
speckled at random
by the rains of oblivion
ah i sea
the rollers the rollers
are rolling in
from the east
from the east
from the rising sun
grey pours the ladle
that pours the weed
pawing the pebbles
you know we need
a path to sea
a path to our swim
that is laid by the feet
of those going in
silt be the shallows
swaying the fro
in the shadows anemone
and things for your toe
lifting the spirits
of mind and of mire
long falls to eye
to the sky that’s on fire
curved curves the bay
from that rock to this
so early in the day
sheer bliss sheer bliss
it is to swim with the dew
that you had on your toes
across the fields to the bay
and so it goes so it goes
take me again
take me once more
to swim down a memory
of a sand wiggled toe
and i will stay where you buried
the sandman of old
and may it be told
how the old man of the sea
behold it was me
it was me
Romeo
you have taken my heart to the grave
although you died in Norway
Juliet
Boris bach
you will be remembered with derision
and nothing you will ever say
will alter our decision
to forget your tenure at number ten
for these times deserve much better men
or women than the Conservative party
could ever produce or deliver
your one bequest a mortal shiver
this is just heaven ~ is it not
sunbathing
in the garden
seat slipped of shade
high
to the left
a light aircraft
mmmm mmmm higher and higher
centrally
a bird bird is singing to me alone
low
off to the right
a dog is barrrrking barrrrking
a bee
somewhere
is being a bee bee bee
as the
windfall
apples
tick and tock
the slip of a sun hat
down this long afternoon
in the setting of a memory
gathering place
the cat
tip toe through the grass
a petal drops silently
the vents on the greenhouse wide
and a stupid fly is finally silenced
spun in the silk of a fat spider’s
high tea
is served in porcelain china
cakes on a stand as wide as
to smile all the way to dusk
straw hat upturned on a chair
sun glasses slipped
you say it first
go on
this is just heaven
is it not
childhood’s
happy (no)
no inside toilet
happy (romantic candlelight)
no bathroom
happy (fireside zinc bath)
no heating
happy (toast on a roaring fire)
no hot water
happy (kettle singing)
no holidays
happy (a book full of adventures)
no car
happy (wings on heels)
no prospects
happy (easy to achieve)
no birthday parties
happy (never got any older)
no new clothes
happy (bloody knees)
cold bedroom
happy (the beauty of ice)
no ‘no’
happy (everything was possible)
happy is a frame of mind
no?
looking for meaning?
there isn't any
life is but a construct
for the optimisation of replication
death the baton change
in the relay race that we call life
the conviction of being conscious
is just the chips of delusion
place your bets
ladies & gentleman
the wheel is spinning
my thought entirely
ultimately our thoughts seep into the sand
or are lost in the ocean’s depths
for the abyssal plain
i read pain
but the hydrothermal vents
are in another world
entirely
they spout
entirely
what’s to be done about it puss?
what’s to be done about it puss?
drizzle and the barometer
like you refuses to move
soon a sunbeam maybe and
you will follow it across the rug
but for now
what’s to be done about it puss
shall i close an eye or two
like you but
look the sun is coming out to play
after all it’s going to be a lovely day
to put one foot after another pause
and make my way down to the sea
you stay here there there my puss my love
i’ll be back soon i say
a tenby evening in august
mud weeded the drying boats
heads cocked at all angles
listening to the tales of the sea
under the warm murmur of the town
it’s long streets harbour chained and warm
the gulls eeking out their supper’s shadow
from a moon rising over the bandstand
where lovers sigh deep in darkling time
whispering nothing that could forestall
the ebbing to sleep of a rare memory
that once laid down in the always way
will kiss when the clock strikes one
R S Thomas
and his people are transcribed
in a moment on the tides of a page
in the ebb and flow of our passing
they are the rock’s barnacles
responding to a soft touch yet
ready to tear the flesh
off an unguarded step
hard may be the fall of an idea
into the depths of our undoing
nice cup of tea for mr dean
the jehovah’s witness man
my mum
polishing the doorstep
welcoming the past
do come in
the kettles boiling fast
never mind tomorrow
let’s talk of today
a cup of tea
a slice of cake
to send you on our way
DTs
do not go gently
to that peaceful spot
but rage rage rage
at the appropriation
of his lot
the book launch
the authors are wearing waistcoats
under their swept back whitening hair
their serious dark-rimmed glasses
purport that they really care
that their words will resonate
as they settle on the bibliomaniacs
in quiescence sitting there
their outstretched hands in proffering
the shelf same discounted price
barcoded adoration fills the air
by prior rearrangement
having cleared my shelves
it is surprisingly clear
how many books have gone
in one year and out the other
and now
i can rearrange all my poetry books
alpha beta i can order theta all the way across
as many shelves as there are poets
in this tower of babel
and then
when the dust has settled
my fingers will tickle their spines
their promises of forever down
the string theory of words
convolutions of thoughts opening
their minds to my inviting hands
gently down the steps
gently into the water
a gasp
and it’s all over me
oh i say
climate change
"we’ve never seen anything like this before"
they have never said that before
oh i say
these floods of regrets
tears soaking into the deserts of just desserts
hot
ain’t it
hot
a shade less than too much
tomorrow?
just you wait and see
forfa five fife four
the football dad results
hard covered note book
red bound
a thick elastic band
a thick pencil
poised
for that voice to offer a chance
the treble chance
or four aways
cigarette smoking ash tray dreams
that died with him
his final away game
the jackpot
i never asked
elegy in a shell crater
the mud muddle addled waiting
at the battlefield’s settling of nothing
so many similar simulacrum pocks
blasted in the crater goodbyes
the tree’s lament for the leaves that left
with the grass that flew and never landed
on the outfield beneath the now and again
the barbed wire grinning at the rattling
of a bayonet’s pointed remarks
that brooked no argument
slime and slime again
that cold sinking feeling resurfaces
am i the final word in this elegy
piss holes in the snow
the old face
of a mirror’s impudence
"piss holes in the snow"
a voice from the past whispers
i cannot even blink away that thought
as true now as it was back then
probably
cracks me up
in a slow wry smile
at my turning
