Ha

Ha. pic for poem

 

 

 

I look at me

with my ego smeared

the shared history between my eyes

in that smudge on glass that was once

hot

breathing shallow now, the heat

on simmer

where once it bubbled I am confronted

with a lurk

a knowing look – maladroit

that has replaced the complacent years

where all that milk and honey was spent

what I imagine now

is the drool

overlapping and seeping – cruel

my vanity exposed – my fate

made me look, made me stare

a childish dare and then a prank

gone sour

cracked vision on the wall

tired of taunts

I’m going to embark on a course

of self-improvement – nutrients

make me look, make me stare

a childish response, vanishing in thin air

Ha

Branch telegraph

Branch telegraph. pic for poem

 

I have heard it said that birds are far from amiable

as they go about their daily business, it is

not so that chirrups denote bonhomie amongst

the tree people, sky artists and majestic scavengers

it is not the tittle tattle of the corner shop or post office queue

not Mrs Jones intoning in rapid outrage of the ‘doings’ of those people

from Upper Hyde

” far from it” as a falling apple would say, if it could

they are in fact constantly squabbling over food, territory or

when the season dictates, sex

so rinse the romance out of your susceptible minds

those birds are just like the rest of us except

they fly with a grace and ease that we must salute, otherwise

they are no better than the clowns at number 43 Station Road

and so it is with these thoughts I enter in to another New Year

already going off

sat here entranced by the sound of rain on the conservatory roof

and the blending of water and suds from the washing machine

in the newly announced second decade of this new century

the changeling and the selfish seed, perception – pure and simple

I heard it from the birds

Bardroom banter

 

I'm empty

the poet’s gross conceit

that all things can be known

everything reduced to pity

in their grand strokes

the ineluctable, the inviolable

made naked

by inspiration

but I believe

as all failed poets do

that ghosts know more

and men in cloistered cells

with only silence

and chants to break the mood

glimpse gifts

that sentient men

must miss

and so at times I long

for my last breath

and a glimpse at the noble

in silence

Henry’s nose

 

His owner dotes on him

a Beagle with a ‘nose’

for the finer things

that will take him

single-mindedly away from her

infuriatingly, away from her

when he puts the nuzzle to the puzzle

and, well, not quite sprints away

but in the way of connoisseurs the world over

focused and rather determined, as if,

summoned to a higher calling

sort of way

he goes off and does what Henry does

which misses for the most part

what his lady owner would like

as she generously takes time out

to indulge

Henry’s nose

in her otherwise quite busy day.

I ask you

I ask you. pic for poem

 

words stall

splutter, sprawl

like puppy dogs

and things that crawl

 

go lightly

go dark

tinker with guilt

go for walks in the park

 

I have a drawer

stuffed full of them

a wriggling shower

all prone to mayhem

 

and can I tame them?

hell NO

they are gone. Pro Tem

Hello. I call. Hello

 

I sometimes ask for the menu

the weegee board of reason

in order to get a view

and they answer with treason

 

vexatious as ever

characters designed to play

bit parts that deliver

things I should not say

Offerings

Offerings

 

I know a little, not a lot

but I can lay words at your feet

and hope that you will let them in

nourish them and give them shape

in those long strides we take

in hope, in friendship and shared trust

so that in the fullness of time

we too may become united

in the soft transfer of a love that speaks

so quietly that if we travel in haste

we may damage it in the slipstream of self interest –

that selfish gene that threatens to deny

all the gifts we care to give

I am the news

I am the news. pic for poem

 

I am a sculpture

waiting upon reason, mercy and miracles

to mould me and make sense of each

passing moment that renders me as small

 

I am an echo

of nothing more than memories that slink

in the undergrowth of  my own propaganda

and threaten my neck with a sensual constriction

 

As spirits go

I am evaporating on the back of so many

disappointments

that a ghost would wail at the iniquity

of living in this entanglement

 

but I am immune

as a rogue infection to clinical intervention –

a bacteria so fit that healthy cells

emigrate to other hosts and leave me isolated

in my own member state

 

I am dilute

as my age dictates

that blood relatives die around me

and I take the calls of surviving kin

and enter in to their ‘arrangements’

 

I am the understudy

for my impending future, the heir apparent

to a ‘long wait’ that others may remark

was lived in haste and might in time improve