Capsules. For poem

Overhead the behemoths drone in and out

of personal spaces.

My wife returns to our enfolded warmth.

The rumble-in and then a roasting thunder

quickly passes into someone else’s quiet ownership

to leave a vague memory

of a clamour

like a lament that hasn’t reached fulfilment

or a desire left hanging, forlorn.

Out there in measured air the passengers

on a finger of flame jealously regard

their own tight goals, blind to me

wrapped in linen and sheltering from the light.

But at times the ragged space just moans

in a grumpy thunder that recedes into a whining howl

like an in-law with a curse.

Yet at other times these flying shipments

glide by in a murmur rubbing shoulders

with hopes and dreams.

So I imagine they go in peace.

Dry spell

Dry Spell. For poem.

Soft brush of rain on glass overhead

the fall of notes punctuating this space below

A mood evoked

I surrender to the gradient of sounds sent down

from somewhere in the sky

and wallow in the melody

of a siren song

Will I venture out into the physicality

of precipitation

or immerse myself in the comfort

of discomfort kept at bay

These small margins of progress are the order

of my day

How good it is to live in luxury

Bully Boys Brag

Bully Boys Brag

All of it, the wished for song

of air squeezed and compressed to utter

chants. Those tribal, primal, screams

that seek to possess

to claim victory

and leave an image, a semblance

of superiority like musk on a jungle trail

or the laments of survivors over

their dead

Those chosen ones who somehow contrive

to vacuum the air of remorse

as they swell in their putrid vanity.

Those purely muscled men strike poses

and raise flags over a smoking wasteland

claiming victory

already succumbing to inertia

Their fat arses on a bed of hungry weeds

feeding that strident song

it’s notes looping away on collapsing thermals

of bravado

in the laying down of new mown history

uncertain in its fledgling state

The stench of power

The “justified” abuse contrives

to be respectable

whilst the losers scrape to find

some solace in whispered prayers


Attenshun. Poem illustration to post

I need words

to comfort me

to seek truth

to enable that elegant transfer

of emotion onto the page

The dance of a sprite

revealed behind curtains

in the theatre of my mind

For we are taught that all

will be revealed

and I am avid as a spectator

yet reluctant

to peek at what I fear will show

how weak I am, how I lost

and so, as ever, I return to words

my friendly soldiers

with ambiguous shells

Marching out of step

with their hilarious secrets

in threadbare uniforms

My raggle taggle army

always on point

So close to mutiny.

Spring chant


Alice, Barbara, Carol, Doris

names cascading alphabetically declaiming storms

that are the ushers of this spring

Why should we inherit violence

so close upon that notion of

a resurrection

How leaves unfurl to offer

a transcendence

colour against dark scrolls of earth

Breasts throbbing with vigour

Robins trumpet in their territory

and captivate human hearts

we are convinced that ‘dismal’ will be

banished amid green shoots and hope

that seeks new light beyond all normal restraints

Unfurling bud in your mesh of silk and oil

easing away from the ineluctable safety

of a womb no longer shy

Come join us as we prepare to dance

The coquette and the spinster

will now unburden their forgotten weeds