Relay

Relay. Poem pic.

 

We pull back on the strings

of history

for comfort and to create

and re-create a sense of awe.

 

We praise the past with our lips

and words that search

for melody in the echoes

that souls leave on beaches and in fields.

 

Old bones fettered by gravity,

the sacraments,

weeping with impatience

muddle in and out of grace.

 

Until nothing is left

beyond peace and praise.

The memory embellished

and ready to be passed on.

Ego a Go Go

Ego a Go Go

 

I am the morsel

A chatter box, blah blah

I’ll have a laugh

Forget the past

Those days that are now in ruins

 

And tears still run

Still come to visit

At times that are not appropriate

They are just calling cards

Markers of doused flames

 

And now the mist lays down

When birdsong punctuates

Silence and blank thoughts

Which are pre-cursors

To another day in flight

Always

Always. pic for poem

All visions are, as dreams

elided by the sting

of disappointment

They find horizons hemmed by lesser men

who languish at the frontiers

of all I ever wished for

so,

I glimpse perimeters

always

and know that I am contained

within this spirit world

of bloodsurge and ego

peeping at the possibilities

that sustain hope yet

always

a constraining hand will

by its’ magic

clench and keep me shy

of all that light

That Promised Land

always

These Rooms

These room. photograph

breathe honesty through pain

assemble despite craving

and are drawn to communicate

with a fierce resolve

that bares it’s face

to sinews and contours laid bare

in past shame. self pity. arrogance.

shyness hides deception

in that mask which enables carnage

and yet each day

new recruits file in

and face cracked mirrors

in humble places

that ask only for truth

and bear witness, sometimes

to a craving

for redemption

for love and peace

that lies bleeding and torn

in memories that stink.

These rooms offer

an unassuming refuge

for bodies and minds

that are willing.

Sorry

Poem. Sorry

wove down Bunkers Lane

re-living an old familiar route

across country, short cut

where once I encountered black ice

and slid into a hedgerow

another time on a bend

a pigeon flapping, one wing stripped to the bone

I stopped

we were both helpless until

I put it out of misery

Other times I might have been happy

Bunker Lane doesn’t care

on down into Apsley, the Mill area

where I once lived

All changing now. The pub on the corner gone

Ebberns Road beside the canal

my first wife and I lived at 69

I had my first and only acid trip there

Now Ebberns Road doesn’t care

And in me. In my soul

I want to say how sorry I am

for being so much less than

the man I should have been

To the pigeon, to the ice, to my first wife

I do so want to honour you.