I ask you

I ask you. pic for poem

 

words stall

splutter, sprawl

like puppy dogs

and things that crawl

 

go lightly

go dark

tinker with guilt

go for walks in the park

 

I have a drawer

stuffed full of them

a wriggling shower

all prone to mayhem

 

and can I tame them?

hell NO

they are gone. Pro Tem

Hello. I call. Hello

 

I sometimes ask for the menu

the weegee board of reason

in order to get a view

and they answer with treason

 

vexatious as ever

characters designed to play

bit parts that deliver

things I should not say

I am the news

I am the news. pic for poem

 

I am a sculpture

waiting upon reason, mercy and miracles

to mould me and make sense of each

passing moment that renders me as small

 

I am an echo

of nothing more than memories that slink

in the undergrowth of  my own propaganda

and threaten my neck with a sensual constriction

 

As spirits go

I am evaporating on the back of so many

disappointments

that a ghost would wail at the iniquity

of living in this entanglement

 

but I am immune

as a rogue infection to clinical intervention –

a bacteria so fit that healthy cells

emigrate to other hosts and leave me isolated

in my own member state

 

I am dilute

as my age dictates

that blood relatives die around me

and I take the calls of surviving kin

and enter in to their ‘arrangements’

 

I am the understudy

for my impending future, the heir apparent

to a ‘long wait’ that others may remark

was lived in haste and might in time improve

man of the world

swiss army knife

 

she’s going up to do the do

I’m not the man this house should have

the bathroom lights are on the blink

and I’m downstairs making coffee

 

she comes down and looks for tools ( avoiding me )

goes under the stairs and turns off the juice

goes back up armed with a torch

and I’m down here stirring coffee

 

it’s quiet now, no doubt dark upstairs

though there are noises and a commotion

then she returns confused

it’s a mystery, annoying  but she’s put them back

 

so I’m sat here in the error of my ways

not quite composed because she

‘heart’s beating wings’

will come back to me with more energy

 

more things to do because “you know”

the dog won’t walk itself

the washing is in a pile and dust

accumulates with a vigour we must contest

 

these Bank Holiday week-ends

are such a treat and

the weather is a bonus but still it’s best that I

maintain a low profile when anything is to be said or done.

a walk around the cricket pitch

a walk around the cricket pitch. pic for poem

 

on and on the breath, in columns, goes

onwards as if marching to roam

beyond far walls and more beyonds  than an Irish spell

and in the margins crickets make their chirrups

of beating wings but I hear only silence and solemn air

and my wife is exasperated that I cannot hear them

as their agitation is all around,  so she tuts,

making her own boundary wall of sound to admonish me

for my deafness to the cricket’s pitch

and I wonder as we perambulate whether

I am lacking in other ways and whether

monogamy is all they crack it up to be

after all this time living in sighs

perhaps I have been caught Leg Before Wicket

a premature end to my meanderings

never mind . another circuit. more raucous appeals

and we’ll leave it all behind

the umpire at the centre and the scorer at the margins

a wide open door – and dreams

hook, line and thinker………..

hook-line-and-thinker-image-for-poem

A fish landed

out of sorts

and complained bitterly

for the lack of salt

and went on to deride the fisherman

for his clumsy boots

the cracked and melting ice

all the noise on the harbour side,

“for goodness sake, couldn’t you just reel me in?

Have some sport? Instead you come

riding the waves and suck me in

to a harvest of woe

and this indignity. To die

in plain sight in front of a man in white

who puts a price on me

and then, cold eyed, moves on

to appraise the rest of us.

If I could I would put a curse on you”

Later, over sweet tea the fisherman

quite satisfied, said to his wife

“it was a fine catch today”

A cup of tea

A cup of tea

A cup of tea

I salute the deep swells

Of an ocean that rolls

It’s hunger audible. Sucking. Heaving.

The breath, then the rasp of shingle

Dragged across the palate

That moment of calm, when

I imagine the stomach is full

Satiated

Before another lunge below the moon

Announces gravity will not wait

And sailors bob on waves

Duty bound, flung in a dance

A flamenco of spray and romance

And me,

So far in land that this

May or may not be happening

But it matters not

Because it satisfies my minds eye.

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