My wife

My wife. pic for poem

 

she lies naked on the bedroom floor

doing  yoga poses, utterly exposed

these are the moments I like best

one leg drawn into the waist

a scissor of flesh in soft light

the darker shape of body hair obscured

an ineluctable triangle of mute desire

and we talk and share this shared space

this one, of many, moments that accrue

to form a comfortable bond. a union of trust

then I will go and do something quite mundane, like

clean my teeth or make a cup of tea

as she unfurls in blind nakedness to stretch

into another pose that readies her for the day

that we go toward, together, as innocents

Encore

Encore.pic for poem

 

vanity will be the death of me

with its urbane tendrils clinging

like entropy to everything

I ever held dear

elevating innuendo to precise sneers

for I am stunned

by my own false perceptions

living now in fear of the inevitable

the drool, the smell of piss

 my very own creeping desuetude

and the irony of fake pride

that will lick at my withering sides

in the calm and measured preparation

awaiting us all in the queue

for the final curtain

At the bar

 

 

My old bones in the morning ache

like cogs and wheels accumulating

rust from a cloying atmosphere.

Decrepitude. It mocks.

But I sense in this calling of time

a humour that goes with the warning

so I can languish in the arrested zone

and take stock

by starring in some delicious dreams

so real that heaven has surely come

and wrapped me in a welcome blanket.

So here, between the light and dark,

the mild and bitters,

I am a novice.

Ready to go lightly and laugh

at the tolling of last orders.

Ladies and Gentlemen. Time Please.

Too many ‘I’s

too-many-is-pic

I was recently offered a seat on a tube

by a young woman with compassion in her heart,

no doubt

but my pride interpreted that as spite

and I refused

left hanging on a strap in mortal decline

and ever since, the scene, it’s implications

re-spooled

play back to me in a quiet yet insistent fugue

You vain ‘old’ fool is the sound-track

following me

trapped words in the carriage of my spoiled journey

A constant rattle and schism as I go about forgetting

that age has put his drape on me

that my vital signs are more evident

to others than to the being I recognize

I can no longer refer to myself in the third person,

casual, flippant or heroic

not now that I am transparent

at large in someone else’s order of magnitude.

I shall stand until I am forced

through stages

to lie down.

Everything

Everything

Poetry is the sound

The wind makes

As it circles your soul

And everything is second-hand

All of it spent air

Turned around and around

And we sit here

In the commonplace

Rinsing the air

And rubbing the threads

Of patterns worn down

Abraded by familiarity

Yet still we come

To gather round in spell-bound hope

Ready as ever to witness

To be in thrall

To absolutes

And know that we can find

In everything

A little of the new

Bang

 

There is no other

The time is now

This scratchy moment

Only partially perceived

This unwilling partner

So entwined

Is mine and mine alone

This black & white photograph

Is history already

Yet her smile and hope

Are younger than me

Forever will be

That fraction has gone

Just part of the chorus

A chime that sighs

Knowing that loss

Is cold cuts we can’t keep

The ache of love

As it waves goodbye

Gently peeling

Out of reach

Alpha Bet

 

A sign of passing time 

I scrabble for words

To mark significance

Because this day is a gun

That starts one whole New Year

 

Take aim and breathe

Seek the rhythm

That comes with age

Blood pulsating in the sleeve of me

 

Amazed still that newness counts

Out-shining the past

Which comfort and fear

Would like to arrest

 

Step forward and go

Beyond this

And tease out the letters

That form my DNA