Many happy returns

Watch face.jpg

 

last night a shower of beer rained down

over Bristol, London, Birmingham and far beyond

or at least that’s what I saw on the news

and out-performed any rainfall we have had for months

in a raucous tumult of emotion that echoed

the Roar of 66′

this morning, gingerly

blue skies are the blessing that meets

 those bleary eyes and broken hearts

that dared to dream and over-step the mark but

the grass will celebrate in the sweet ooze that was thrown away

and rise again

 so come home

young men and rub shoulders amongst your kith and kin

and know that we have shared your time abroad

been brought to our knees with you

so close, as ever, to that fervent wish.

Not if nor when nor never then…

 

Not if nor when nor never then... pic

nourished by the sounds they make

I go on

blindly, more in hope than

 with any resolution that could give me strength

 for they seem to rise and fall

with reason

whatever that tidal condition is

and I puff and pant

metaphorically

on the diaphragm of this worlds’

bleeding conscience

never sure whether I have

enough words

to fill the space vacated

by reason

whose box of tricks and verbal tics

confuse me, refuse me

make waste where there was scant

room for loss

and though I am mostly moribund

I have such faith in beauty

like the perennially scorned lover

who draws the line at suicide

I continue to weave in the traffic

of words

trailing in their vapour, their scent

in thrall to an elusive sense

of reason.

bye bye man

bye bye man

under a black felt brim

eyes dark with a candour

that have seen all manner of things

wonder whether they should plead

for clemency or a piece of that notion

that compassion will cure all ills

for in that stare so many fires

have withered on coals

raked over and left cooling till

soft grey ash is swept up on murmurs of

casual air

those whispered endearments

and promises that sustain a heart

that wishes to pump more

than just blood

around the ache of desire

He knows in there

there is no room for mercy

for justice will be implacable

His day is up

and so

under that felt overhang

he has already gone

Damn

damn

I see my grey hair in pictures with the family

and realise that I am already passing

into history

How long will it be until the smile fades to ash

and colours in the inks lose their vitality

Can that frame hold fast and keep the memory

or will indifference and fashion

make it hasten into a lost obscurity

Will it all by-pass photo-shop

with it’s technical brilliance,

the mastered pixel rendered and held

for heaven to view in the cloud

Perhaps I am destined to inhabit

the space that the picture frame

purports to keep in an enigmatic perpetuity.

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.

Deep Space

poem-deep-space

on into endless blue

 into the cold configuration of misery

he explores the scope of space

not daring to imagine there are sides

or anything, that may signify limits

for there are none

when the black dog licks his wounds

and basks in the enduring certainty of despair

The dreamer blinks

all dreams dashed before

he reaches the farther shore

stuck between rocks

in a paradox

that hardest of places

from whence he stares

and goes blind again, in hope

There is a fool on the coast

who whistles and coos

endangering the silence

and distracting the fractions of light

that emit so faintly from far, far away

but lay like silver threads

tendrils that pulse with forgotten time

and offer the kindness of an enduring hope