longer or no longer?

 longer or no longer?

there is a moment

when to stay in or to come out

oscillates with indecision

when the fulcrum of that decision

become infinite

and time slows close to stopping

he = mer sea squared

come with me

 come with me

to port tennant

see that stone house with the stone steps

the bay window with the net curtains 

inside door with cut glass panels

that aspidistra room dark remembered

see the round table with a brocade cloth

purple(ish) shiny(ish) silky poured

and me 

there on the table

on by back with legs raised crying

mummy(ish) in childish

see those sliding doors

the ones with opaque glass drawn together 

well mam went through there and i am crying

they are saying something at me

but i am crying

she must have come back

but all i remember is the crying 

and that haunted aspidistra 

occupational therapy for dementia

 occupational therapy for dementia

art

a calm sea

in a rough life   

 boat

four sheets to the wind

the sun well over the yard arm

they drank deeply of their lives

and put their finger to their lips

hush is the dipped brush

long the storyline

sigh

 sigh

and the footsteps on the stairs

matching your heartbeat

if they stop your breathing waits

in the flickering street lamp 

the moths halt

the moon smiles from behind a cloud

it was all a joke

i tell myself

sigh

did he did he did she have dementia

 did he did he did she

have dementia

and what she said was true

enough of that 

there there 

we thought

the story that we told of you 

and all the time the boats nodded

we thought

that we could walk on your water

god knows what you thought of us

come in number 9

your time is almost up

autumn

 autumn

green no longer turns to red

forlorn then the hope

no more be said

that autumns have ne’er said before

winter from north the turning wind

drives down south the well-bred birds

desist abate decline rescind

how often have you heard those words

as the first snowflakes fall

mine host

 mine host

masticate the words

you mealy mouthed

leaven the bread 

that slices into minds

fill the sarnis

with life’s hors d'oeuvres

the last supper

would you know if it was

until after the words had turned

the wine to blood

the host to poem

so long be true

adieu crumbs 

they are going to tax the poets

 they are going to tax the poets 

they are going to tax the poets

so much on every word

its absurd 

have you heard

they are going to tax the poets

for crying that the wilderness

is inflicted 

for we have been evicted

from our fiscal-less mesh

for its the way they rule the world when

the hoi polloi are treated like a fool

they are going to tax the poets

for getting in your mind for leaving 

their sound bites far behind

my autocorrect said fart not far

and that’s about all they are

they are going to tax the poets

and live to regret the time

they trod upon a viper’s rhyme

and it bit them in the arse

seaside

 seaside

strings are cut

the sea unravels 

gulls tumble out and

all the sticks and shells

of lost childhoods are found

dawns on sandcastles are kicked over

the chips are down salt and vinegar way

the sea a licked spittle on a postcard’s stamp

the rest as they say is history

 the rest   as they say   is history

not laid to rest 

history (if there is a future for us)

will see through this charade

and the theses of the anthropologists

will rest on the lecterns of modernity

the exhumed will be labelled 

with suitable nomenclature 

in a virtual museum 

lit forever in the cloud

life

 life

so that’s it

it’s over

it is

it’s over

that’s it

death

speak up man!

extra ordinary

 have you ordered bread

no the queen is dead

the wounded wound

 the wounded wound

we will always

for queue

they said

so they bowed before them

to be trodden into history’s road

at the roundabout they turned upon them

the lions ran back into the bush

their wounds healed 

under democracy’s balm

until plaster peeled back

and the glint returned to the lions’ eyes

the writer’s unblock

  the writer’s unblock 

circumvent 

the blank page

with contempt 

the convention

of circumvention 

an invention

evict the space

place

your poem there

sign it

‘this is a sign of the times’

i thought i could not write

when all along 

the thought 

was there

a poem is

 a poem is

a poem is both a stalactite and a stalagmite

both a reader and a writer 

the growing together of a chance

that over time the leaching 

of one mind to another will produce a glory 

when in the caverns of thought

a light is switched on and clearly

a river is seen to flow 

and is halted

by the trees?

 by the trees?

put me in your drawing please

shall i stand over there by the trees

or would you prefer if i walked away

and you could draw me in the way

that you catch a moment before it’s gone

oh go on go on draw me please

on my knees if you prefer for the breeze

of autumn is hunching life’s shoulders 

i am one of life’s defeated soldiers

marching a dirge towards my grave

oh go on go please be brave

put me in your drawing please

i think i’ll lie down

over there 

under the trees

taken home to mum

 taken home to mum

taken home to mum

posies of lilac or golden rod

the biggest icicle you have ever seen

cut knees and tears

souvenirs from the ponds

an appetite for adventure

as enormous as dinner

all the dark fears

of tomorrow’s retribution

tucked in to sleep

with a there there now

ah ~ time and again

 ah ~ time and again 

the pendulum has swung its way

first this way and then that way

every minute of every day

the pendulum has swung its way

first this way and then that way

for with time there is no other way

forward forward and never back

you may rewind your thoughts

but there’s no going back

a cortège at curtsy

 a cortège at curtsy 

flashing blue lights slice the rain

the mouldering of the blue-bloodless corpse

repository of a lake of tears as crocodile as

the cortège that snakes out of this sad country’s demise

the roaring future flattened forever 

this day will be the low before the falling

lights going out in the eyes of boredom 

all the opiates of the masses have debased the currency

the disenfranchisement of a summit without a view

a valley without a river a street without lights

i’ve seen it all before sees it again

and again it takes a poem’s pause

shackled to the landward

 shackled to the landward

it is landed

one last heave me hearties

and we have it

rope the beast sea

chain the ropes soaking

rust the times gruel

small chain the large chains

small rope the big ropes

anchors aweigh

the hostelries aglow with tales

of the anchor-less shanties

the quayside’s passing night

of the high spirits

this one high and dry thought

cast adrift no more 

uplands

 uplands

there amongst the stones and the dry grasses

collect the cold lake’s standing

stirred only by the sometimes reflection 

of a buzzard screwing the clouds to the blue

or shaking down the dandruff of the first snows 

sheep wooled to the fence’s browning barbs

the understoneing of the wrigglies bedding down

all along the paths out of here until tomorrow or

tomorrow’s tomorrow when the sun returns its favours

and everything rises again

the leavened cake

 the leavened cake

how the years cut up

a cake once shared now falls apart

on memory’s candle the wax is slowly setting

once the flow of tears now the icing on the cake

septuagenarian 

doesn’t that sound like a stick rattling along a fence 

way back to childhood

before we met there was no cake to ice

now the cake spills crumbs of comfort

let us blow the candles out together

with love’s closed eyes

it’s an (un)fair cop

 it’s an (un)fair cop

i have a blank piece of paper in my mind

there is a poem written on it in invisible ink

i did not write it

an immaculate conception

i do not agree or disagree with it

ok

hands up 

it’s a fair cop

it was homeopathic water

a grain of truth

no more

just a grain 

against the grain

future imperfect

 future imperfect

one thing haunts me

and that is that

the perturbative thought that the longevity of mankind

as a species 

will end

the specie of thought

laid golden in every poem that ever was

will never again be read

no cognisance in the genes

of the survivors 

no heart to thump

at their words

to see with the deep sea’s eye

 to see with the deep sea’s eye

and the sea is that power 

to raise and turn and lower

to flash dark and light thoughts

at the same time 

there is no time

to grasp the eternal before a gasp

sends the adrenalin fountain up 

beyond the sun into the darkness

that tell’s life’s lie

that we are it

when patently we are not

adjust

 adjust 

i curate the cures for hate ~ but there are none

they are as incurable as they are incorrigible

broken hearts are two a penny

and i haven’t any pennies

i have pinned their iridescent carapaces 

the thick skinned burrowers

many a sarcophagus entombs a wry smile

staring at the keyhole 

the dust ready to pounce

and another thing

 and another thing

your game keepers

brought me my tea this morning

i am not mourning

that

is a fact of life

this dying bit

is there a throne in heaven

who waiteth as a right

on you or me

or any old body

think while you can said the atheist

a dung beetle rolled past

carrying sorry

succession to a throne

 succession to a throne

the lens of time

at this point in time

focuses minds

or blurs in myopia 

yet the sun 

through an eye of a needle

dazzles