Syria

Syria

 

Clutched in skin drawn tight around

a white, ignoble rag

there rests a symbol ready to unfurl.

 

The stains on it won’t deplete

a universal message that cries out

to peace

 

though snipers are still intent

on fouling the air with spite

and marking out their arcade of hate

 

so that none shall pass.

Not even the innocents

who crave the purity of a smile

 

The touch of a friend

that might release the fear

in the bones of that tightly clenched fist.

 

Go dusty spectre go

Escape the rubble and malicious stares

Find the soothing air without

 

Rob those that would stifle you

of your inheritance and settle

into the gift of a loving embrace.

Reveille

Reveille. Poem

 

my wife curled in her warmth

our shared life in folds

the dog in her basket in repose

at ease in her domain

both supine

this day breaking gently

dull and grey, the lawn fresh mown

I have a cup of tea,  ruled lines and a pen that challenges

the yawning space of a day ahead

eternity safe in perpetual humour

What luxury is this?

 

The faint and pleasant tinkle of water pouring into the fish tank

Our own constructed water-fall seems to murmur in voices

forever in a charmed post-office queue

history and culture coalescing in the democratic act

of buying stamps

repetitions rising and falling in a contented chant

harking now in my mind to halcyon days

of village greens, Bobbies on Beats and buttery yellow daffodils

nostalgia forming a cloak of innocent lies

What is this? A moment of Grace?

I must remember. This is not a race

and in the end all I ever need to find is gratitude.

Lost in transit

Lost in transit.pic.poem

 

so many fractions of loss accrete

on the wind-blown traces of a meteor

it’s history

a wide girth of spectral dust

shimmering as isotopes that cling to the life

 of one challenged molecule

looking back at the wide beyond and

spell-bound by the beauty it travelled through,

confused,  resentful that

all those points of light were careless

and let him through

condemned  to shadow play and scraps

when bright lights gleamed on other, chosen, skins

not his,

so the incidents of memory

come back and douse what remains of the view

with that dismal feeling the pilot knows as he cranes

to catch sight of what went on

Badge

Badge. Pic for poem

 

the suggestion of savage power

displayed by exaggerated exhaust pipes

stare with mute threat

from behind the car, which

swathed in dull,  matt grey paintwork

is perhaps all you would ever need to know

about the man who drives it

but on the other hand

he may be a poet with a soft spot

for the uncouth. A devil’s advocate

for difference

I am trying to be more reasonable

behind my privacy glass and rose-tinted

prejudice

as time takes it’s inexorable toll

leaving me, not quite stalled

on the broad highway of  a personal history

that sways in the wind of change, nay progress,

and  become mindful that tolerance

could be my best defence against

a creeping spiritual

rigor mortis

a tendency to lie

a tendency to lie. pic

 

 

our thoughts float

heavy in air so easily polluted

that they go as blind quislings in search

of a harbour that they can attach to and berth

for they seek comfort too

and we, lazy souls,

are not their best keepers

as we breath lustily with a desire to satisfy

the vainglorious self

when generosity would better serve

our shared experience

Dog logic

 

Dog logic. pic

 

the river today is a gun-ruffled grey

hard faced to the wind, which

we are told, is from Siberia

freakish in March

because the jet-stream has been reversed

so now snow lays amid the rigid stalks of grass

whose defiant green blades wait

like old campaigners for the thaw

which, when it comes,

will render all of this to the long march of history

but in a hot opportunistic streak

Tinkerbell steals one of Daphne’s gloves and runs

in a tumult of fur away with her prize

Kiki sets to barking and bossing the other dogs

whilst we, keepers of the leads, huddle in the warmth

of our shared solidarity

wearing daft hats against the elements

making small talk and putting cement

into the cracks of adversity.

R.I.P.

R.I.P.

 

to all of that

loquacious man

you spent so much

time in air

with stories that sailed

on perfumed winds

close to the edge of reason

and frequently beyond

but the fuel you used

high octane stuff

was poison

so when you sucked

you swallowed tainted fuel

and lit a flare

that could only ever do one thing

gutter, stutter or fizzle out

and you reached all three

now you leave

a crater on the moon

one holed sock

and a legend

that could never be.