no training required

 no training required

to what mind bound to the railway track

does the poetry engine speed down upon

which siding has the signal chosen pre-

decided who needs to be borne down upon

and what ropes bind the minded there

and were they self-tied there all forlorn 

who has been given the undeniable right 

who has been born to this give and take

and devil take the hindmost so says the few

yet no yet no shouts the corner round

they throng to lay their pennies down

and flattened as big as pancakes now

they shine like they have never shone

so feed the worded coal into the furnace fire

and drive the engine ever on

for they will not retire

the word is out

the smuts aglow

literally all aboard the literary train

it’s time to grind the risen grain

Sergeant Sergeant

 Sergeant  Sergeant

WARNING WARNING

WARNING WARNING

this is not a joke

this is not a joke

Jean Sergeant joined the army

and became a sergeant 

Sergeant  Sergeant

Sergeant  Sergeant

OVER

WARNING WARNING

WARNING WARNING

…

critically

 critically 

a poet brings together words

that once over the threshold of your mind 

go critical

a chain reaction 

the fallout of which crosses boundaries 

and states of being

there is no antidote 

old soldier

 old soldier

they lanced my whitlow in italy 

 he said 

he reckoned 

jerry had poisoned the well 

a long time ago

i said 

   he said

them days are best left behind

water under the bridge

a reflection of who he was

that made him who he is

i didn’t say

what i thought

was it all those years ago

 was it all those years ago

a young lad bought himself a book

‘teach yourself poetry’

it taught him nothing other than 

there was a void that had to be filled

the bare blue cardboard cover

smudged with ink (royal blue)

i like to think a missing link

from a poem that thought too much

that it deserved thought 

how a yearning is hollow

traced around by looking

and yet there the fuse was lit 

never burned bright

yet never went out 

sometimes one learns not what is taught 

but the direction of a signpost’s finger

under the stars the moon flares

under the sun it acquiesces 

the leap is faith indeed 

hyacinth

 hyacinth 

no sooner had it flowered

than it was gone

next year was here

to announce next year 

for the scent has put you off 

the scent of its deceit

it promised everything

as they always do

life’s like that

you decide

sea mist

 sea mist

it’s a mystery 

where it comes from

where it goes

no one knows

but we all know of it

of walking through it

it is above and beyond

some one said somewhere

after reading a poem by rs thomas

 after reading a poem by rs thomas 

it never stops

the drip drip drip of doubt

upon the cold stone of a mind

cornered in the stained light 

in the barrels of the sea’s fury

the hymn books dry their sog 

the pages flutter like candle moths

to catch their dust is to miss the bus

to an answer

dusk over swansea bay

 dusk over swansea bay 

after a photo by tracy 

it fell away

the day across

the grass that held the sand

far across the beached sea’s lost calling

against a black sky the mumbles

did and the eye of a wheel rode out the day

across the bay

everything fell away

across the bay 

we were all agreed 

it had been swell

just swell 

not a poet but a conduit

 not a poet but a conduit 

a poet might say

the words use me

and through me

the voices fall from my pen

and the paper sighs

try that for size

it’s only dylan at repose in a photo

 it’s only dylan at repose in a photo

in this his posed repose

an idea that thoughts came

like grass shivery on a sunny wind

rounded words folded like his moleskin coat

buttoned down like his cardigan

over a shirt and tie in elegance lie

pubward his good looks depart again

his firm smooth hands tankard-wards

went gentle on this morning’s low view

you knew didn’t you dylan bach

you could see even then the road ahead

spun off the mountains roared of words

into the chasm of their undeserving

mmm the grass looks warm

the daises opening up again

oh to be the glasses in your pocket

to see though your eyes just once before 

way back yard

 way back yard

a part of me is stuck there

between the coal shed and the stone step

the white washed wall and the green window 

everything is so small

the compacted earth

the brick path

it seems like there is more of me there 

than there is here these days

the green shoot that the cat fell off

a ladder tied to the fence

the alcove between the back kitchen

and the outside toilet

where the zinc bath hung all week

all the rickety green doors that almost did

the clothes line cleat like the scabbard of a wooden sword

in the hands of a child at war with everything that thwarted

let’s not go down the wooden steps to the lower garden

not today for there are memories enough up here

between the coal shed and the stone step

there are faces in the windows

behind pale lace curtains that look for tears

in the dryness of a time suspended

gentle clarinet jazz filled my pen

and i wrote this in invisible ink

rub with lemon tears to see me

and follow suit