Sunday, 31 March 2019

it’s the sea see

it’s the sea see

the spume on the sea 
a whipped dream for me
when it floats away
on a windy day
i dive deep you see
and surface on a new dream

for me 

it’s the sea see



The florid presence of absence.

                      Don’t I know you?

The florid presence of absence.

I know you, don’t I?
                                 Know you?

Saturday, 30 March 2019

lazy days in suburbia

lazy days in suburbia 

the plum family are pleased to announce
the white wedding of spring and summer
bridesmaid petals waltzing upon the air 

a chill breeze momentarily considered
just cause or impediment but
decided to forever hold its peace

over the hedge
the mad man is barking at the mad dog
at the light aeroplane grinding up the sun
at the motorbike angry with everyone

the sun is burning the black table
mowers hesitate
strimmer men of england
now that april’s here 
whoever wakes in england finds
some creosote on the air

a sunny thought just occurred to me
the sun on my eyelids is
the colour of wallflowers there

the cuttings have been potted on
the greenhouse oven is humming
summer is in the air

pinch the mint 
pinch the bay
smell the shadows
at the end of the day

a feather on a cobweb
on a moonbeam
a creaking door closes 
on the day
the cat haunts 
for the night is young

Friday, 29 March 2019

Talking on air

Talking on air

High above the sparrow hawk,
above the gossiping sea;
a lichen seat, a spooning talk,
when my love sits with me.

High above the long bay,
is a field where rabbits play,
and mole hills sleep all day;
and seaward through the gorse we walked,
and of fine times, just like these, we talked, 
      and we talked
             and talked. 

Thursday, 28 March 2019

the blues singer she

the blues singer she

the blues singer she the
hologram on the air in
the tiny hours there where
my tears hang to dry while
I slide back listening
sobbing as
her red lips place
a blue kiss upon me
falling silently

the blues singer she a
song upon a memory
bled upon an ache
for no sense can I make
of why she sings to me
this way so late in the day
in a way that I can touch
nothing more outside of
the silence in her voice
holding me
holding me
holding me

Tuesday, 26 March 2019

Saturday night and Sunday morning shift

Saturday night and Sunday morning shift

One foot in front of the other, well not quite,
for the sleepers slip frosty and my brain is numb;
too much to drink with the boys last night.
The rail is snaking away like the serpent that
shone so seductively in her smile last night across the
dance floor, spinning under the ballroom light that
sparkled like the hoar frost beneath my feet.
I walk on autopilot towards the Vale works,
stacks smoking in the slow straight dawn; 
oh yawn, yawn, I need a mug of tea mun.
Boys, boys, never again.
Clock on son, clock on.

Monday, 25 March 2019

Never mind the dog woman, get the fucking heifer!

Never mind the dog woman, get the fucking heifer! 

We had raised the invisible fox,
down by the lower stream,
my cousin and I,
or as we would say, 
me and my cousin.

We had raised the invisible hare,
and lost it in the hay field.
Me and my cousin
plodding homeward 
along the lane to Boyd’s farm. 
It’s OK, it’s OK.
When, here they come:
Boyd, his wife, the heifer, and the dog,
and a stick. 

It was then that the dog pinned us, 
atop the bank, drool-snarled,
shrunk against the barbed wire sky.

Boyd’s wife moved to lash the dog with her tongue;
it was then that Boyd spat his bile:

   ‘Never mind the dog woman,
   get the fucking heifer!
   Get the fucking heifer!’

And they were passed;
cow patted, tattered, 
ragged and steaming. 
And we hung there, 
exchanged glances,
and bravado smiled. 

Sunday, 24 March 2019

In memoriam

In memoriam

Your poem at midnight.

And here I tread softly, dare intrude;
but it hurt,
your poem hurt me.       
How dare I say that! (I ask myself),
for the hurt is yours. 
The words undressed you,
driven to your knees by the cold stone wait.
Midnight stole my words off yours.
Look, I have no right to these tears;
here, take them 
for your child’s limp flowers,
the lilly’s dew.
The sun will be up soon. 
Come and sit quietly with me,
and let me put my arm around you.

Saturday, 23 March 2019



feel before you write - but write.
desist from skimming the dross 
to line any old mould. Rather,
pour the gold and
let the ingot verses shine
in the treasury of all the wrinkle-
handed books leathered in time. 
write your name in gold and
they will say, this is what he thought;
and although the margins for error will be blank, 
they might smile a watermark of their own.

Friday, 22 March 2019

dong on target

dong on target

the enamel inverted cone tapers white
where the opal bulb sins against the night  
and so it flies the   the    the 
slingshot                           poomph
and in a whoosh of white dust it dies
drowning the night down from the skies
around the swan necked lamppost dark
and boys oh boys what a lark we planned
when crump the night sits heavy and
in that instant   in that instant 
the boys run for their ‘morrow 
is tomorrow and tomorrow 
and tomorrow's

Thursday, 21 March 2019

roll your own

roll your own

pick up the
golden pebbles of the found words
throw them   see them
ripple across a still pool of thought
see them 
on the bottom of the lake 
glowing where the poem fishes spawn

kingfisher words iridescently flash
trout words twisting fast
up-stream words
down-stream words
deep words for shallow thought
thin ice words over profound thought

under fingernail dirty words
between the toes muddy words
slimy frog words
coarse slow toad words 
Larkin lurking - sorry son

who left the foundling words
what is their parentage
who will adopt these orphans
and teach them to talk 
send them over for tea 
and upside down cakes 
and they can tell me all about it

i’ll lay the striped tablecloth and
call the page to serve tea from the
everlasting pot and we’ll snooze
rocked by the sighs of the prodigals 
brought home again for a big hug

Tuesday, 19 March 2019



In my poem I mentioned ‘THE PLANET’
I didn’t plan it, but
when I mentioned ‘THE PLANET’
I was bestowed with the wisdom
of a modernist soothsayer.

When I mentioned ‘NO CARS’,
and I did plan it,
I was called ‘Arsehole!’
How can we do without cars?
‘Arsehole, Arsehole!!’.

When I mentioned save ‘THE PLANET’
I was applauded, and that plaudit
was for dropping the word ‘plastic’.
They brought me flowers wrapped in plastic,
grown in heated arguments.

Why on Earth 

does ‘THE PLANET’ bestow 20-20 vision
to the blind visionary who sees
the mote in our eye?

Who will be the last gravedigger?
Who will carve ‘THE PLANET’ in alabaster,
and put the cemetery moonlight out?

Lay a fresh tablecloth over ‘THE PLANET’
prepare a banquet for the hyperthermophiles.
No crumbs of comfort.
The last supper of Homo sapiens is over.

Monday, 18 March 2019



His beauty sends the river dancing,
a golden pebble deep asleep;
could it be his dreams perchancing
gift this river his to keep?

Sunday, 17 March 2019



the cataract rings 
to the rhythm of the words
bouncing         off
  the stubborn rocks
dare break the rhythm 

but the spell is strong
the words in spate
will slake the lake’s
rhythm   rippling there

flowing from the rarefied headwaters 
(of the poet’s mind)
they will reach the paddling deltas
of their genre     and then
they will look to the mountains 
and read the words that soar
high on the thermals 
(of the poet’s mind)
        and they will say       look
look at the meter of the headstones
running wet with the tears 
  of an angel with a pen



 The darling buds of May
The consumers of cosmetics eye

   Not enough nurses

 The birds at their young in the nest
The footballers at their bank accounts

    Not enough police officers

 The flowers in their fields
The consumers of their fashions

   Not enough food

 The sea pebbles roaring 
The cars metal boxed

   Not enough housing 

 The dawn and the dusk
The latest fashions be damned 

   Not enough teachers

 The sunshine behind closed eyes
The holidaymakers who need a holiday

   Too much loneliness

 The children of the buttercups 
The world wide cobweb 

   Too much aggression
How many too manys
Before too fast is to starve 

  Too many distractions

 Too late
 It’s too late

Saturday, 16 March 2019



so much left back there’s
barely a muscle thread 
to hold today

the scree days scatter
the thoughts
barely a foothold on

today                   yes
there was yesterday 
before yesterday 


a breath to taste the tears
but a waterfall falls falls
into the chasm

there it is past emerging 
there it hands off
not this way 


before yesterday 
barely tomorrow 

and you tell me
to hold on