for Martin

            for Martin

   when they ask of him

        as they surely will

   then we will surely say

~ he swam against the tide ~

bound and bidden

 bound and bidden

tongue tied on convolvulus 

i am really in a bind

butterflies on the buddleia

run rings around my mind

faeries and nymphs 

lisp along in time with me

tongue tied on hieroglyphs

carved on the old tree

but hey up look here see

there’s a flower virgin white

wrapped around me tight 

in this cool summer’s shady lee

wreck on

 wreck on

someone

kids i reckon

have removed all my pebble poems 

from the promenade seats

thrown them into the sea

i reckon

it was a full tide yesterday evening

and this moved them

and my poems moved them

i reckon

never mind they will emerge at low water

and someone will find them

saying oh look a poem

i reckon

what do you reckon

shadow lands a question

 shadow lands a question

i ask my shadow

what is in the gap between us

what connects us

is it something in the light beam

or is it there in the dark but we cannot see it

i spread my hands in supplication 

so does my shadow

you tell me says ditto’s shadow

                            tap dancing

                        with my shadow

                         in the footlights

a haibun

 we smoked pipes made from the stems of Japanese knotweed cut just below a joint (no pun!) and used a hollow side stem as the mouth piece ~ in went a dried weed of unknown abstraction ~ horrible but also horribly grown up ish ~ whenever i smell it a time machine malfunctions

there was a WWII gun bunker that had a subterranean alcove with a corrugated roof ~ cleft torn through to the turf ~ so we lit a fire inside and timed our fortitude in there by streaming eyes and brochospasm

                            kids well i ask you

what didn’t end up killing us 

made us more daring

it’s nice to talk

 it’s nice to talk

this morning 

sun upon a blank slate

across BlueSky a hand reached

and warm chalk wrote

her reply

and handed back the chalk

it’s nice to talk

once my dad

 once my dad

made me a vial of smoke

by blowing his cigarette breath 

through a straw under water

and into a vial which 

when opened

disappeared in a puff

and enough to say

that once

i caught the word 

sad

the relativity of two unrelated stares

 the relativity of two unrelated stares 

age looks deep 

into the past times

youth looks high

into the future times 

both are unfocused 

waiting for the clarity 

of the right time 

which neither realise

is now

hey high

hey high

a sign of the times

hanging on one bracket

squeaks ill of the dread

so 

i write my own poems

i read my own poems

i share my poems

meet me face to face

down in the woods today

and we’ll have a picnic

sandwiches of laughter

on a gingham cloth

we’ll pour each other’s poems

and drink deep

there on the stream’s bank

we’ll write with a stick

we wos here

at the going down of the sun we’ll bundle it all up 

and walk by the light of our brilliance 

that the moon will swoon over

 

i said he noticed things

 i said he noticed things 

grains

beached on the sands

of a life

time’s tidal times

visitors come and go

thoughts remain

memories

as deep as whales

blow time

you would think

as you do

that we would too

so sparkle

my sunny gifted boy

collect the grains

build your sand castles

for the tide is coming in

and life’s boat awaits

a thought ran away with me

 a thought ran away with me

language

a corral  a stallion

what can language jump over

but language itself

where would language gallop 

if the language of destination

we’re not the elastic anagram 

of changing thought

as planning planned to all along

 as planning planned to all along

scrap newt and bat rules

that’s what the headline said

and then they added toads

just for good measure

tales of the bank river

running to the golden treasury 

you cannot serve frog and mammon

so they chose mammon

and devil take the hindmost 

why write a poem

 why write a poem

why would you

strangle a poem at birth

drown it in hessian

thoughts come 

where would you send them

return to sender

poems happen

would you tear down the aerial 

un-dial the tuner 

poems are eternal

when everyone is dead

the poem will sit

for waiting to be read

read waiting

that’s why not 

~~~

look granddad

sit on the settee and shut up

or write a poem

we don’t care

but if you write a poem

i’ll read it