a storm beach
a day to stand your ground
to take from it what you will
let it throw anger
feed it with regret
return to your hearth
let it pelt
all it may
without you it is but rage and sky
stand your ground
walk the shore of the wind of tears
roaring and soaring
rsvp
the passage
and yet and yet
in the essence of time
a passage was called
from the front door a hallway
was called the passage
off which held tight the parlour
never used these days
that is the essence of the passage of time
put aside for special occasions
which only arrived in retrospect
he said i said
only think as far as the next corner
i believe in corners
there must be something there
or it would not be a corner
but too many corners
will have you looking over your shoulder
for i am sure someone whispered
only think as far as the next corner
poets ~ well i ask them
poets converse in poems as others scratch their heads
what is it they are saying that cannot be said
in words of one syllable you silly billy fools and
yet still they stand and listen and longing falls in drools
say one more for me my friend
say one more & never let this end
oyoguhito ~ the swimming man
rolling with the rollers
in the timbre of the tide
the line between the briny and me
is sometimes set aside
and lo and behold
above and beneath the waves
the salt in my blood resonates
with the salt that is the sea
beholden one to the other
this was always meant to be
black in the days of bank voles
we were thirteen and a bit
trapping bank voles on an upsurge
we’ll make a fur coat we said
skinned the vole skins hung on mum’s line
saltpetre what’s saltpetre never heard of it
neither had the blow flies
or the blows from an enraged mother
of mine own stupidity
at what hung there
a memory sixty years later
of a friend and the nights we went
torches and a bag for our crop of plans
sea
there are moments
when fighting a rough sea
that a tiny transient hole in the clouds
lets through a sear of sunshine
and the surf’s whiteness draws breath
when look look! is shouted out
to no one for no one is there
to share that moment
it’s gone
slipped through outstretched arms
dripping
a visit to a commemorative blue plaque
the plaques ply thy blues
and time well used
abused by death’s long talons
upon the sweet bird of youth
if youth be the writer’s mind
and death the inkwell supped
and dipped and blue/black the bruise
misused by time and time again
the plaque is the grimace of a smile
that has walked with you this many mile
to stand opposite each other’s time
and say hello goodbye
my friend has said that and more
we say he said
surely you remember now
on approval
hinges are unhinged
the stamps of morning spill across the floor
the family album although it is shut laughs
and laughs and laughs
as i do now as i realise
time is not of the essence
it is the licking of anticipation
of the day ahead
tomorrow is in the post
on approval ~ yes?
through the window
the wind and the birds
deep in the bushes’ stirring
winter leaves slowly
slowly winter leaves
winter slowly leaves
us alone
with our memories
and the foretelling
the race is on
blossoms unfurl one after the other
the birds have stopped squabbling
hunting now the worms for nestlings
slowly
the sun rises in the sky
warmth returns
slowly
again
as i have said before
tomorrow
aye tomorrow
just a lazy afternoon in suburbia
the afternoon ticks
away
tocks
away
the afternoon
and so
away
the afternoon ticks
away
it tocks
away
kings and queens
if they are not subject
to what we are subject to
then we are their subjects
and this means you are too
you get what you deserve
language calls out to you
you know what it is saying
but the words are sub judiciary
the verdict is muted
by the distance of the listening
some escape from the cage of mind
and run amok until pinned
by expectation
but the lustre escapes every time
i can think of better words
and one day i will
the engine house kids
there were the engine sheds
where little boys polished their eyes
then there was the engine house
dilapidated grey stone powdered
powering no more the drams
that tipped the slag
that built the tips
half way up kilvey hill
down we came hungry
for toast at the fire
well buttered
~
the trains were steam
the dream a turntable
saddle tanks and coal trucks
the shunter’s pole slipped links
buffers shone
clattering squeaks
shush shush
