A telling

A telling. pic. poem with words

 

the sound in an Irish voice last night

made me feel nostalgia for an ‘old’ place

on the coast of Donegal

that sentimental muscle in me loved

the lilting refrain

of men who remembered pain

and still

raised a smile and spoke with precision and wit

of times gone by, of dreams gone awry

with an evocation in the air they displaced of ancient associations

the heinous sins, the grief in troubled souls

of men and women who have known

the cling of pain

rising up through words to make

something solid in the air, something lasting

a flag to wave and tell of hope

A letter home

A letter home. pic

 

time passing

opaque

like a shroud

we can see it move

it shimmers with

an echo of our transgressions

precious but not forgiving

and without the generosity of a smile

 

I am trapped by nostalgia

the faded warmth of remembered thoughts

where-in the past has forgotten

the marching band of

acolytes goose-stepping forward

and left in a mould marked melancholy

where future movement

has lost its traction

and left me smooth

as a tiny beach stone

eyeing the braying tide

When does joy begin?

when does joy begin. pic

 

in the holding back and not

trying to find nostalgia,

no false memories will serve,

for truth has splinters stuck fast

in the veneer that coats all our recollections

and fragments in the lode threaten to discharge

unreliable soldiers in some other version you once knew

so history in the human mind is geography

the topography in a spatial sense of where we have been

so easily confused in the transmission

of the personal, the private, the hidden and unexplained

and all of those constituents that form

our wonky DNA

A bright morning, fresh start, ensconced in glass

my vision, my blood and the fading of history to a tepid mush

raise questions of

where joy has been

and did it ever come

because I can’t remake a wish

nor go to visit vanishment

but would it be far- fetched to hope, to be in place

if ever joy were to commence.

Kalami Bay. Corfu.

The White House

 

Half a moon rising over my left shoulder. The sound of water lapping in the bay. Murmurs of tyres on the winding roads and children’s voices rising softly from a distance come in and out of play. Otherwise it is peaceful. Yellow and orange lights form tapers in the water. It is a mood I am comfortable in.

162

162

 

The red door pulses

as it might

for I lived there once

it stands there still

without my sense of torn loyalty

happy in it’s one eyed way

to let all-comers in

the mail, knocks and endearments

not at all sensitive to my loss

my memories  locked in the carapace

of a life slipping away

 

You felt my brush strokes

the lick of paint rising to blood red.

it was visceral. you knew me

yet now

you stand guard

like some impartial sentinel and forget

that we have shared memories

yes, memories

of how I used a plane to ease your swelling mass

when the wet weather got to you

and how you witnessed my brother Mark and I

walk out on the day of my mother’s burial

and back for a desultory wake

so now it bothers me

that you

never really knew my knock

The Present Tense

The Present Tense

The Present Tense

The present tense

 

That drawn line

A thin edge for beauty

Dripping visions of desire

 

That opportunistic slant

Of a well-worn hope

Encouraging. Persistent

 

Like roses at the garden gate

Bluebells in sylvan woods

Ambrosia in spoken words

 

Ingredients of determination

Coat-hangers in new clothes

For stepping out

 

All these anchor points

More or less make sense

In quiet moments

Pulling pint’s 50’s style at The Frog and Wicket, Fullers pub in Eversley Cross, Hampshire.

Frog & Wicket

Staff and customers at this newly refurbished Fullers pub stepped-up to the mark in their blue suede shoes and quiffs in a 50’s revival night with music from the Blue Jays. A classic Vanguard car was parked outside to set the scene. Inside the locals fell easily into character.

thebluejays

I spent the evening looking for Long Tall Sally but I must have been dreamin’ cos I left empty handed. Ain’t that the blues.