Home

Home. A poem

 

wind-tied molecules cling to a park bench

their aggregated jewels drawing colour

from soft morning light

as the dogs and their owners stroll by

oblivious mites in the bigger picture

set fair between their couches and other dreams

and so

this moment in time is just an interlude

a duty woven into the fabric of responsibility

whence in truth all moments go

absorbed into “a life”

whose fragments are the working parts

of a mosaic

the carpet upon which we tread

it’s magic threads and woven messages

all ultimately left behind the door

darkness descending with the flap

the last post resounding on the mat

and emptiness obscures everything finally

all of those things we carelessly overlooked

those messages that were always in plain sight

gone from Welcome to Good Night

Listening for rain

 

Listening to rain.pic for poem

 

nobody asks that I should write

so I go blind to words, those seedlings

in a field of dreams gone fallow

and my fingers get lazy

as they atrophy around the tools

that let my soul identify pain

 

 this sloth hangs heavy on its threads

raggedly denying the cold

but without a sense of cause

as everything within becomes forlorn

and travel, that feeling of impetus,  is second-class

slow and likely to be misplaced

 

softly drips spill against the glass

like diffident soldiers in a phoney war

knock knocking and asking for a doctor, who

will listen to my complaints

and earnestly look into my eyes and say

next please.

Many happy returns

Watch face.jpg

 

last night a shower of beer rained down

over Bristol, London, Birmingham and far beyond

or at least that’s what I saw on the news

and out-performed any rainfall we have had for months

in a raucous tumult of emotion that echoed

the Roar of 66′

this morning, gingerly

blue skies are the blessing that meets

 those bleary eyes and broken hearts

that dared to dream and over-step the mark but

the grass will celebrate in the sweet ooze that was thrown away

and rise again

 so come home

young men and rub shoulders amongst your kith and kin

and know that we have shared your time abroad

been brought to our knees with you

so close, as ever, to that fervent wish.

Lost in transit

Lost in transit.pic.poem

 

so many fractions of loss accrete

on the wind-blown traces of a meteor

it’s history

a wide girth of spectral dust

shimmering as isotopes that cling to the life

 of one challenged molecule

looking back at the wide beyond and

spell-bound by the beauty it travelled through,

confused,  resentful that

all those points of light were careless

and let him through

condemned  to shadow play and scraps

when bright lights gleamed on other, chosen, skins

not his,

so the incidents of memory

come back and douse what remains of the view

with that dismal feeling the pilot knows as he cranes

to catch sight of what went on

Writers pique

Writers pique. Photograph.jpg

 

Rejection

and now I am eager to explore

The new. The re-invented.

For that seems to be the future

of where the prizes are.

The fashion now, and it is only NOW

has wrong-footed me.

My words undone, untied or ridiculed

for being out of date.

And so I reverberate

catch-up and perform somersaults

in order to be admired.

How tiring.

A vain pursuit. Smudged face

in a remorseless mirror.

Grow up you fool

don’t remonstrate.

The others have the accolades.

I have the Angel’s share.