Sunday, 18 August 2019

Time’s time

Above time’s wishing well,
the reflections of childhood
call on every character who trod
the warm stones of those roads;
calling to ask: where are you now?

Every stone in periphery’s eye
calls down childhood’s village days,
where are you now?

The colours on the oiled water
draining the white gutters of the
tears that fell under the slag tips,
or ran in the dereliction of hope.

In every sulphur culvert,
in every trespass on the land
of the factory owner’s deep pockets.
The toil of youth ground down to
pub smoking hackhards,
dead on their feet.

And still love’s lemon juices flowed
in the old songs - as they are doing still;
but then they were the misty eyes behind
which all the pulls of life conspired to
lay together under the moon’s sheets,
in silence finger tipped.

The knowing of the walked streets as the 
vein’s back hand down all the 
‘no you cannot’ days, when
‘we bloody well will’ days tore
hope into shreds, and left no truth in one’s
second glance at each other’s recognition.

How these images melt in memory’s furnace,
nostalgia’s pastiche of every smile that
turned everything on its head and relearnt
that the lump in the throat, that every held breath,
every feeling of nowness, every spooning couple
that walked that walk of time towards their time,
was doomed.

This tattoo is grimed with the cinders of ambition,
is penned in the abattoir fields,
is waiting upon the end of these days,
reborn in nostalgia, but dying in memories
of the good old days. 

See this village hanging on the slag tips,
throbbing to industry’s engine, the
the doorstepped people twisting 
fate’s tourniquet, tighter and bloodless
tighter on the artery of their doom.
Boom, boom, boom, the iron men hammer
their bread and dripping, billycan days,
looking down to the day’s end and
the tomorrow of that doom’s own clock.

The boundary condition of slag’s black hole,
six pit’s well where a dropped stone never
arrived; where all hillsides above the village
drop down to the river’s escape, to the railway’s
visiting scream. 

Such it is.

Such an awful heaven,
such an awful hell,
such it was then,
and always will be.





no
is a big word
                      yes
is a big word
no

Wednesday, 14 August 2019

was that you

was that you 
                      at the other end of the day

I did wave
                 but you were lost in thought

pity
       it could have been

Sunday, 11 August 2019

rain

rain

train spotting 
on a wet platform 
in a child’s long mac
I can still taste 
the futility of the day
the numbness of time 
passing so slowly 
that even to this day 
I remember the boredom 
before battle commenced

Tuesday, 6 August 2019

love in love’s mind

love in love’s mind

love in love’s mind here renew 
all my loving thoughts of you 
when across the seas and far away
here in my heart you will always stay 

see the moon see the stars
they are mine they are yours
take my hand in love’s mind again
write the words my heart to stain

spin around and rest deep my arms
for soon time will be passed the time
for home again and safe from harms
then - I will be yours you will be mine 

don’t answer my finger upon your lips
just look here in my eyes 
take my hands upon your hips
just sigh those sighs those sighs

Monday, 5 August 2019

A strange poem


from a testes mind
vesicle seminal words
ejaculated in verse
run away to lonesome corners
await the gestation of Icarus

three stone sculptors on the downs

three stone sculptors on the downs

the shells’ chalk spoke
of finding you down the eons
that have passed times counting,
and still the resonance of thought
found hiding under these downs of 
time carved so that we three, 
we have thee now for our while,
so tarry do and in tarry 
let us talk

Sunday, 4 August 2019

why?

why?

when all the kind words have barbs
that stick in the throat of sympathy
when tears are too dry to flow
and tomorrow’s sunrise seems so far away

and then poetry says ...

come and sit quietly with me
and let me put my arm around you

zummer

zummer

a breeze of bees
stirs the lavender seas
on the springboards scents of 

Friday, 2 August 2019

no sting

no sting

I yearn to die
                   and never
be found
                no last note
 or nuffin’
no one to remember


       I forgot

Saturday, 27 July 2019

upon the summer seas

upon the summer seas

the sea’s recalcitrance, its patience 
with the children, their screams,
the colour of summer, 
the screech of tomorrow’s storms forgotten, 
when the wind’s icy face is burned away on
this July day of come what may, our smiles 
set to stay until the sun sleeps red upon
our sleepy heads, and upon a seaweed
bed we float our days away.

Friday, 26 July 2019

Summertime blues


Summertime blues

I hates the heat see
There’s all these people in the sea
See
That as you know was meant for me
For me
I hates them all with
Their BBQs and no Ps & Qs
Their cannabis fumes and 
Their loud music
Oh youth you are such a prat
And I’ve had for too much of that
Be gone fine summer high and mighty
Leave the sea my mighty Blighty 
Be gone I say you prattling hordes 
Didn’t Larkin say something about toads
Well there you are you rabid swine
Be gone I say this sea is mine
Be gone be gone be gone
Be gorra 
Winter is coming upon this fastness
For my tomorrow in all its vastness
Will be mine mine mine alone 

But never mind eh?

Thursday, 25 July 2019

poet bach

poet bach

this poet 
never learnt the poets
this poet 
never learnt the words
this poet
wrote the words

oh
I say
my word
what oh
poet bach

Tuesday, 23 July 2019

the refractory poet

the refractory poet

It is not the withdrawal from a dry nib,
but from the waiting for the emotion to 
coalesce like moths around the bright candle
that is my mind. 
A goblet filling with the golden words 
that sprinkle from that font upon the linen 
of the birth sheet or upon the shroud of 
the having not been said. 

This is what yearns in me when the oneness 
of the immediacy of haiku, that short expression
of all the conundrums of life; and yet, and yet,
never to feel the depth of the visitation of the magi
on the dark blue night of the longing and waiting.
Not a single star twinkling in the universe of being,
but the slow dawn that will blow the moon milk
across the slow bones of my sitting, thinking, 
for when / then
the tango from the inkling of a smile 
flows in the love-juice of a fully formed poem; 
then! 
I wince at my tongued words, and cry ...

Bathe long in the eraser tears of a time gone by. 
Let me sleep now upon this poem, gentle in the
satisfaction of seeing the butterfly, the open door, 
the longing, fly across the meadows with 
the like-minded upon the glory of these days.

not half

not half

the half of giving
yourself 
is just a half 
until your other half
will make you too
into two 
and a half

Monday, 15 July 2019

THERE ARE THREE
ARE THERE THREE
ARE THREE THERE
THREE THERE ARE

Sunday, 7 July 2019

the air show

the air show       sky       where
every child’s jaw hangs agape
at the end of the longest pointing finger
for there never was a blue sky so torn 
by the rip of jet engines flaring
in all the colours of all the eyes
they ate the whole wide sky

Saturday, 6 July 2019

impussible

I can read my cat 
                           just like a book

she can lead me  
                               with just one look 

Tuesday, 2 July 2019

mower fodder

mower fodder

the mower killed
     the daisies
          the frogs
               the slow worms

and it is killing me

mellow meadow 
tell me please
all about the bees
and the wind in the trees
the buttercup days
in daisies chained 
convoluted high in
convolvulus skies

lay the mower-man under his sods
and sing your heart unto the blue

Friday, 28 June 2019

how much litter can
a litter picker pick
if a litter picker can’t pick cans

Thursday, 27 June 2019

the gestation of terror

the gestation of terror

a plastic doll with fluttering eyes 
in the ruptured uterus of the earth
the plastic caesarean scalpel tries
but fails to weep at another still birth 
in clingfilm wrapped
and so beautifully delivered
    another still birth
 in the oven that is the earth
      another still birth
        another still birth 
in the oven that is the earth

Thursday, 20 June 2019

man on the moon


man on the moon

man, oh man on the moon,
of all the moons, in all the universes,
and you had to take one giant dump on mine.
manage a small step over it,
bag it,
the pale blue dot,
on a clear night with a telescope
you can just see it.
from the moon, even on a cloudy night,
the whole world is a bag of …

Wednesday, 19 June 2019

Dorothy and Lyn


Dorothy and Lyn

Dot and dapper,
Smooth and sophisticated,
A linnet in a summer full of song;
The kind of kind people we treasure,
for they are pleasantly so like minded
as us.

Dot?
Can I have another slice of pizza please?
Lyn - No! … Laughter.

The spice on the plaza of Mumbles;
Promenading good morning to you;
A cut above the gardens of welcome,
rare flowers in their pleasure and hue.
Come, let’s clink glasses, say cheers,
for it is a pleasure to be dinning with you.

howls

howls

i’m climbing a ladder 
rung rickety with words
roosting with night owls
bright-eyed and glowing 
upon a morning that might

Tuesday, 18 June 2019

is it knot?

is it knot?

the past is a neuronal configuration
we are all neuronal configurations
slowly tying amyloid knots
in the dementia of being

i was now i am not
they were now they are not
we were so maybe
just maybe
you will be too

Sunday, 16 June 2019

Tomorrow

when I unwrap the parcel of today
I am long past caring what’s inside,
for tomorrow, tomorrow, come what may
that true pleasure I’ll ne’er dare deride.