Mike

Tales

Tales

 

If I were handed ‘the’ book

Inscribed with the letters of my name

It would be a raggedy thing

With torn and missing pages

In parts, a mystery to me

More lament than history

Where glowing deeds are reduced

To blown ashes and curled corners

Of half remembered things

But I am learning

To fear not, or if, not, less

Because the actual day I inhabit

Contains the truth

So I make history stall

In order to build

Day by day

A fitting legacy

That even I would recognize

Gifts

Gifts

Gifts

 

I live in beauty

I must

For squalid does for me

Closes me down and draws,

the curtains

on the envelope that is outside

 

I look for an essence of the infinite

In a caught moment

Then trap it in words

And celebrate

Because it all will pass by

In a lazy caravan of sighs

 

And so I sit

A recipient of bliss

Quiet with my gift

Not at all guilty

For I would share this

With anyone.

Speech Bubbles

Speech Bubbles

Speech Bubbles

Speech Bubbles

 

Is poetry a parcel for universal suffering

An enclosure for loss

The entry point of a wound

The exit where death remembers the whole

Or am I in my self-appointed fashion

My buttons, frills and high blown fancy

That nothingness contained in bubbles?

 

Froth, spume and cotton drift

On a barren road imagined

Out of the wildest west

The creaking spoke of a decorative wheel

That blisters tired wood and listens to

A screeching lament of rust on metal

 

All these startled visions are

Quiet intersections caught in thought

Harvested as food

For minds that seek

Succour in company

Dried strips of meat

For curing

The smell of which

May entertain a soul

ROOM

ROOM

ROOM

 

Smudges around

Scared eyes

Betray the fear

That inhabits the one

Who sits in a shared space

And waits

For the show to gather pace

 

Voices raised

Share real and imagined pain

In the room

Where the past resides

In torn parcels

Willing to rend

To sympathy and hope

 

Who knows

Where those eyes go

When the show melts away

To comfort

To further pain

Will fingers wipe

Away the hurt

Like mondays

Like monday

We live in prose

Well, most of us, with stilted gait

It’s a process, this stricken pose

And quite often not worth the wait

While others exult in poetry

At the periphery of our vision

The prevailing mood is desultory

We will not sign your petition

The smiles and promises

At heavens’ gate

Are hooded lies

For those that hate

But the creases in happy skin

Are testament to fun

So you my friend may grin

And bask in the light of a friendly sun

For poetry and drudge

In their old familiar cycle

Witness lives lost to fudge

All peaks and troughs. Typical!

Hampton Pool

Hampton Pool

Hampton Pool

 

On days like these steam rises

Above water and the dawn

When tired faces cling to warmth

While other hardy souls celebrate

Not just the season but something simple,

Joy

To be immersed yet float

Below cold sweating air

And laughing. Emitting happy sounds

That echo with uninhibited fun

Reaching out across the fields

An a cappella chant to church bells

With a chorus that connects us all.