bin there done that got the T dirt

 bin there done that got the T dirt

where do the bin lorries sleep

who teaches them the welsh words

for danger i am reversing

where do they take their loads

now that landfill is landfull 

where do the bin men hang their hi vis overnight 

and is there a communal tub of sunscreen

now that summer’s here

how do the bin lorries know where to go

when the maps have been recycled

what came first

the men running or the driver’s speed

why is our street on a thursday 

who selfishly booked monday

this poem is made from 100% recycled words

non compost mentis 

morons

 morons

when confronted by a moron

keep a straight face

and smile a lot

what is the collective noun

for a group of morons?

a bore of morons

no  it’s called

 a state visit

neither is my king

thou protest too much

false news

false news

mirror mirror

 mirror mirror

the border 

between father and son 

is blurred in time’s mirror

looking up to 

looking down on

then reaching out 

at the fulcrum of their time is a look

the look that only a father and son can share

the simultaneous polishing 

of both sides of the same mirror

look

i have a shard here in my hand

careful careful

it will cut 

i aught to know

a reply to a poem

 a reply to a poem

what a poem that as 

pulled right from my childhood

finally laid to rest

darkening curtains pulled back

the aspidistra dusted down

cars speed again across the blue linoleum 

until annoyingly they are 

lost under the whicker chair 

also blue with faded gold arms

as empty as the firmament

of god knows where 

nursing home

 nursing home

pollarded 

each to fit their chair

short budding 

a parody of the future 

their seeding becoming seedy

along the road to nowhere

ignored by passersby

who step over their roots

to avoid stumbling into

a chair that might just fit

sometime all too soon

how lo….. zzzzz

how lo….. zzzzz

how long before the things to do

overwhelm this status quo 

when the snooze i am about to take

seems to be a big mistake 

too late ….. zzzzz

the roosting

 

the roosting

black by black by clack by clack

pairs of crows are fulfilling the roosting tree

and as the evening deepens and darkens

the moon rises slowly riding the fastening day

yon fox gates the way to a midnight feast

a raid on the moon-milk in the cloud’s larder

or to crack an egg on the day’s cold marble there

in the cradle of a dark corner where a rat stirs

tinkle gurgle the thoughts stream away

Into the coffers of the night perchance

replaces the jewel stars that flash no light 

for the night knows no need but shush

haunt me a creaking

run me a riddle faster than faster

for the cat is out of the bag

telling all on the day’s split fence

run

and hide

and slam the door

goodnight perchance

good night now

for the glow of the fire has faded

a flicker of truth fled heavenward

on the blackness of the flue’s final breath

the day dies

it is dead

it is over

but for its dawning 

that may once again 

warm the blackest of our hearts

 

sprung from winter’s jail

 sprung from winter’s jail

daffodils are vibrating in the breeze

rooks collecting nesting in the trees

the sun is flashing spring’s sweet code

a toad in the pond has shot her load and

seething the sea seems to be undecided 

the lavender bounding very excited

spring has sprung its secret on me

why other would i be so full of glee

i think i’ll have another snooze

the cat says fair dos fair dos 

and so we dose and dose

a  dream that has hit it on the nose

worth a shot

worth a shot

we have no guns

the general said

so they shot him

in the head

he was dead

right

of course  

nights in a small town

 nights in a small town

the evenings were always cold

dark and cold chip-shop hot-chrome bound

long-walked yellow-lamped dull-damp 

beating at the street corners as a

cat or dog would mark its territory with

the presence of loud conversation 

raucous laughter slag-stone black-capped it all

running with the pouring of steamed laugher 

out of the pub’s side door clad in nicotine 

lamp-sad dead-black closed chapels

dark side lanes where things could have poked

the lad’s bravado moon-hung bright-smiled

unknowing that they did not know

how they walked the timelines

as fixed as the train lines that spoke

sometimes in their fading away there

a few sad windows to highlight the falling

of chimney smoke upon the pavements

in flagstone quarried from the past

doleful the countenance of everything 

streetwise but ignorant of any chances 

that might lurk around the corner

of a life in dark-times long-nights pale-dawns

and the bloody awfulness of it all

lost in in the manic guffaws of the damned

the twinnies `

 the twinnies 

the twinnies 

sisters but a bit slow

a bit slow but nice slow

part of the scenery

of the slow village

nice and slow

my mum always had a smile for them

nice and slow