James

James for poem

 

a day looms in the near future

laden with unknown fears because

it is, or it could be, a turning point,

a signal, a way-point. Certainly it will mark

a departure and the loss

of our red haired son with his given name

into the company of other men

other souls who seek solace in extremity

who will bawl his name and push him

to limits we his parents never could

never would

and in those moments of strain

where God may not be found but god invoked

this boy, this man, our progeny

must know that our love

will not desert him in that liminal state

he finds between his youth and his future

and he will come to know what I have learnt

that he is powerless, yet as a child of love

he carries us, our love, our future seeds

and he is goodness if he so chooses

El Colido ( Special Selection )

El Colido. pic

 

Del Coronas were the original inhabitants

of this nondescript wooden box

that sits mute on the table before me

a found object and within

the paraphernalia of reward for a serving man

medals, buttons, ribbons and bars

glowing in an incongruous melange

of untidy history

the man, my father,  has long since passed away

honoured now by scraps of metal

dim memories and a surname

that carries the line

so I wonder;

will I be found in a box

that once conveyed an expensive aroma

of unlit sticks, dull stones and bones

impassive but portentous

of what once was.

Murmurs

Murmurs. pic.

 

the squeezed ooze of blue ink on Basildon Bond

rendered with care from a mother to her daughter

and signing off with, ‘all my love’

this small parcel of observations

from an old lady in Southbourne

lays like an unexploded emotion

on a desk in the loft

a soft Dove of Peace long dead

still sending murmurs across the generations

her gentle devotion so evident

it outlasts the post

and leaves me as the keeper of hope

a guardian at the gate of future generations

and I must admit, I baulk

at the responsibility

Ever Yours,

M

Memory for Shelagh

 

after he had gone she lost

gradually

the letters from her name until

the M that launched her as a daughter

was left alone

stranded in the space that F

had shared, enjoined with her

 

Then she slipped away

clinging to that sense of loss

and enters now the land of shadows

and hints

that we can’t change

and so we reminisce

counting clocks and changing faces

 

the links of a family alerted

by her leaving

draw more tightly on the letters

in their own names

like pearls or beads that hold us fast

together in a daisy chain

of sadness and hope

Christopher

Christopher. Pic for poem

 

Shout. Scream

deny all knowledge of that dream

The distance yawns

and fills the void

with stale air and residues

of harm

that neglect will come to know

as regret

that cloying self-pity that hangs

on the rags of remorse

and renders even love

to shrug

and wonder why

 

My boy who is now a man

has drifted in that domain

and knows so little of me

save that I sired him

and hurt his mother cruelly

He finds forgiveness hard

Those blank years went down

in flames and hate

so only silence and darkness

could void the pain

but now I sense the permafrost

might thaw

and I may be allowed

to make some recompense

small reparations to the ship of love

in this slow cycle of drawing out

the heat from that scream

and venom from the shout

 

May soft lips form

around the eternity of air

 that sucks and strains to find

the letters that hide in space

and just might spell

an end to longing

Another Caught Thought

Canvey Island 1929

Canvey Island 1929

Another Caught Thought

I am constrained by silence

And the echoes of my past

That bounce and shimmer

Without form. Timid. Irresolute

Bounded round by a clutch

Of anxieties

I stammer. Falter

Giddy in my resonance of ideas

Always looking for a quiet place

The place where I am absorbed

Wholly lost

From whence I can fly