For Daf

For Daf

 

the clematis climbs in a hug

around the bushes and shrubs

and rises in a triumph around a conifer

like applause

A curtain call for this morning

while twin jet engines grind the air

on an ascending scale away from Heathrow

with a vow toward wherever it is they are promised

but down here, in our garden, I feel no resentment

not for the noise nor for those high flying dreams

because I am bound in this sumptuous scene

happy in May sunshine with cool air

on my naked skin,  newly cut grass glistening in the dew

and nothing much else to do

except perhaps to plant a kiss

on the cheek of a favoured friend

who has picked today, of all days

to celebrate

Encore

Encore.pic for poem

 

vanity will be the death of me

with its urbane tendrils clinging

like entropy to everything

I ever held dear

elevating innuendo to precise sneers

for I am stunned

by my own false perceptions

living now in fear of the inevitable

the drool, the smell of piss

 my very own creeping desuetude

and the irony of fake pride

that will lick at my withering sides

in the calm and measured preparation

awaiting us all in the queue

for the final curtain

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.

Big Top

Big Top. pic

 

other people’s encampments, their pleasure zones, for once,

are not off-limits or out of bounds

Their gaudy fare and pick-pockets mix with those types who

sport tattoos, chew gum and wear flamboyant  facial hair

The otherness of it all, the pornography of colour and sound

and everything somehow beyond confession as if it was

all dressed up in the dark so pleasure and sin can be

made thrilling in the anonymity of shared experience

 

Those minstrels come to town in wagons and caravans

that seem to be beyond normal law

Charlatans with soft toys and goldfish they would sell as gifts

All gaudy hostages in transit, into whose misfortune we become

complicit

The ground itself a crime scene. Innocent lush grass crushed

not just once but an entire Village Green, a sacred space, sacrificed

to organs and screams. And then it’s gone

The Circus woven and spun into and out of itself

The Big Top, fascinatingly,  moving on and leaving me with

distorted visions in vanishing hub caps

my soiled prurience intact,  until they roll into town again

R.I.P.

R.I.P.

 

to all of that

loquacious man

you spent so much

time in air

with stories that sailed

on perfumed winds

close to the edge of reason

and frequently beyond

but the fuel you used

high octane stuff

was poison

so when you sucked

you swallowed tainted fuel

and lit a flare

that could only ever do one thing

gutter, stutter or fizzle out

and you reached all three

now you leave

a crater on the moon

one holed sock

and a legend

that could never be.