Nowhere man

 

Nowhere man. pic for poem

 

a vagrant slouches in the doorway

like a bee fallen softly into apathy

and he glances at a waste bin with shallow contempt

for its dismal offerings and the fanfare of flies

that guard the lurid bounty of spent purchases

so casually tossed away

 

lunch-time in the metropolis and the big game

stroll oblivious to those who lie wounded

their hours of need yawning into a squeezed frame

as his eyes focus on something far away

beyond all this unpleasantness,  just like the bee,

quiet before the fall into a long silence

Waste Away

waste-away

The bin men parade down our street

all purpose and speed.

Rolling before them a thunder of work.

Of bins and trays and discarded things

their noise punctuating this slow morning.

And every week the clock-work of waste,

of renewal through removal

by these early day storm troopers

advances and moves to another front.

Still fast and hot. Dull-eyed but

eager to finish an infinite job

and park their oozing lorries

out of sight

lest the war be lost.

And when they’ve gone the gimlet eyed residents

let in the clean and calm,

scuttling out to retrieve their empties

and return to an order

only they can comprehend

as they claim peace

in the recently returned

status quo.

Crossing a line

Crossing a line

Crossing a line

Crossing a line

 

Short skirts on the terminus floor

At a quarter to midnight

On a cold night in Glasgow

The young marionettes tick tock

In false excitement

Cheap perfume and ritual movements

Teetering on heels. To and fro

The public toilets at 40p a throw

 

This is my welcome tableau

To friends across our northern border

And as I wait in line at a taxi rank

I feel foreign but glad

That we live in peace

And the excited tongues of people in transit

Ignore me yet accommodate my presence

As they step purposefully about

 

I will look back on that night

Reminiscing of how they swooned

Made a profit on their exuberance

Or not, as the case may be

And I know that their confusions

Were mirrored shards of experience

Across the globe in different garbs

And all their tongues fell silent eventually

Hampton Hounds from Hampton’s Rhymes

Kiki. A ridiculous dog

Kiki. A ridiculous dog

 

I call my dog ridiculous

A term of endearment tinged with truth

And we go out on a regular basis

 

In this I’m not alone

For all around converge

On local scenes

 

Days become rituals

When those of us with leads on dogs

Becomes experts on matters of the day

 

Encounters with strangers

Often end well

Because dogs dispense with formalities

 

Conversation, however stilted

Is civil and shared

With an emotional bond

 

The dog may be a tramp

A mongrel, bitch or vagabond

But owners invariably share the love of them

 

Their names, like fortune cookies

Are full of hope

From Ocean to Sky, Hollie and Bella

 

So, on Hamptons roads

Parks and open spaces

And places further afield

 

My ridiculous dog

Rubs shoulders with hilarious hounds

All tangled up in this funny old world