Carnival

June 28, 2014 at 9:10 pm (Shropshire, sociology, Stories) (, , )

There was a –
dragon and dancing and carving and cup cakes
and raffles and bunting wound right round the
houses we waved at and talking and meeting with feathers
and flowered balloon men who bent them and gave them
to children who used them to sword fight and held up
a pound to amuse them by guessing or laughing
and dipping their fingers to show us a gift from
their shining excitement inviting us joining
with knots and steel bands and with hands
held together we picked up and packed up
our carnival treasures tucked into our costumes
we danced on our way.

Advertisements

Permalink Leave a Comment

Making Room

June 8, 2014 at 7:18 pm (Poems, Shropshire, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , )

In our showery garden, England, early June,
a put-your-feet-up sort of afternoon…

But we’re working hard to fill the yard
with all of our back room.

We’ll manage this clear out to perfection,
practical, achievable,
to do before precipitation
weakens our determination.

Pick up stuff, pack up stuff,
ponder, put it back perhaps?

Different pathways came together
bringing gifts of our endeavour,
soon the house was full to tipping…

So –

We’ll take some time for contemplation,
deliberate, meditate,
not shrugging off or moving on,
but taking stock and making strong.

Scrap an item, save an item,
wonder, fill the bin, collapse!

A merry-busy-fruitful afternoon,
in our showery garden, England, early June.

Permalink Leave a Comment

Castle

July 28, 2013 at 10:10 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Shropshire, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , )

In this hall we stand and then the castle is ours,
with its cruck roof a fine shelter in this time;
hear merriment; see us feast well; and smell the
smoke and meat and sweat

from our revelries. Friends join us in song and dance,
faces lit by lamps and burnt orange leaping flames
which wrap around them. Sir Knight, fill my goblet
with goodly red wine,

pull your bench to mine to whisper our intent.
We’ll not leave this place till night, drunk and confused,
breaks the great door, spilling its heady reason –
We’ll not surrender yet!

Permalink 5 Comments

Cut

July 14, 2013 at 8:43 pm (literature, Poems, poetry, Shropshire, sociology, Stories) (, , , )

At midnight precisely, the lights go out
and electric sound ceases its insistent buzz;
a confused housefly lands on my screen.
Instantly disconnected from my senses
my inner mouth makes an ‘O’.
I negotiate the stairs and
standing on tiptoe at the window
glimpse what I think is your candle,
but may be a distant car.

It takes fourteen minutes to adjust;
I fumble for a head torch,
the housefly gets excited and sits on its light.
I rejoice in the ticking of a clock
and check the fuses.
It has now been twenty three minutes,
my batteries are about to die,
it’s been fun, sort of,
but the pesky housefly,
grateful for reassurance, is dancing
annoying tangos with my words,
and soon we will both be
inescapably in the dark.

Permalink 6 Comments

Bean

July 7, 2013 at 1:37 pm (humour, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Shropshire, Stories) (, , , , , , )

I’m a skinny greeny bean stalk in a
hectic screaming plot, with all the
madly waving grasses tying oxygen in knots.
Will you weed my rambling garden
with your trowel and a fork? Will you
catch me when I’m falling? But that garden cane
won’t work, because without my own direction and no mouth
to call my own, I am barely standing upright if you
leave me where I’m blown. It’s not a case of
undernourished or unhealthy state of mind; I’m just
unable to be stable for a longer length of time.
I don’t need that much attention, just some water
every day, if you prod me with a pruner I will
curl the other way. So if I wave in your direction
an acknowledgement will do, I’m a skinny greeny beanstalk
but I’m full of beans for you!

Permalink 14 Comments

Garden Party

June 25, 2013 at 10:52 pm (humour, literature, Poems, poetry, Shropshire, Stories) (, , , )

Today, midweek, I is garden chillin’,
no pesky mean metal mamas mowing,
they is the weekend boys.
Nope, jus’ I and the big blue sky
and hey what even?
That old girl Sun is open for shine.

Then what do happen? Dang.
Those flaunty sparrows tip the Tit and Jay
I got seeeed!
Moly, that the end of peace fo today.
They get so close me is movin’ up!
In I’s own gardin! Serious.

But this not the main deal yet –

Well bless I’s odd socks
if the entire ‘nature thing’ begin
make the biggest darn racket ever:
they bees bumblin’, they crows cawin’,
old man Slug chewing on me lupin…
I’s gardin so loud the world is rockin’!

Well, think on it. Be churlish to vamoose.
This some kind of party, maybe?
Nature doin’ what Nature do pretty best.

So

Me is coming out, creepy sneakin’
from under I’s pot. Segments wavin’,
fourteen hip dancin’ legs groovin’ at a time.
Get with Nature’s freaky beat,
Coz, man, we is the party, bro –
we is the real deal.

Tellin’ you. Come on down I’s gardin bro,
Givin’ it some WOODLOUSE WELLY!

Permalink 6 Comments

Breakfast

April 4, 2013 at 9:22 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Shropshire, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , )

Walk out with me in morning feet,
along the edge of spring,
still steeped in snow, our woollen coats
pulled hard against the wind.
There, gowned and slippered, see she stands,
Nature is summoning the land,
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
She holds the sunlight in her hand.

Walk out with me in morning feet,
and catch the swooshing loud,
of Nature smoothing cotton sheets
and plumping  pillow clouds.
She lifts the verdant grass to grow
and lusty, showered in the dew,
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
will dress our  hillside all anew.

Walk out with me in morning feet,
to greet the waking day,
when preparations are complete
and humans on their way.
Our breakfast on the quilted hill
a secret unrevealed until
It’s time to shine
It’s time to shine
She sweeps our breadcrumbs from her sill.

 

Permalink 14 Comments

i will be I

February 23, 2013 at 10:20 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, Shropshire, sociology) (, , , , , )

I last performed a hearty hub

to background sounds of a country pub,

those noisy vets, yet how I roared,

my stance so solid and assured.

My voice was neither fast or shy,

for two whole hours i was truly I.

..

But where were you that dauntless night?

Hunkered low in pain or fright?

Holed up in trouble, clothed in fear?

The mirror twists and you appear.

.

And so we two performed as one,

for loathing will not silence song,

beaten low  – as silver snakes,

thrown – soaring birds, or what it takes.

.

Work with me in meditation,

hear my voice in contemplation;

we’ll rise and leap and crest and fly,

til you are You and i am I.

Permalink 12 Comments

The Inside

January 22, 2013 at 5:47 pm (literature, Poems, poetry, Shropshire, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , )

I have done a lot of thinking

about the inside of things.

.

Today I built a dome

one foot square

and solid snow.

.

Inside were the animals

I would have made

if the snow didn’t

get stuck on my gloves

and crumble in my hands.

.

 a moose

and a mole

.

The moose had long, strong legs

and an intelligent, wet nose.

He put his head down

into the snow

and nuzzled

until he found a piece of green,

then chewed thoughtfully

whilst contemplating the upstairs window.

He seemed surprised

that humans

have such long legs

they need windows that high up.

.

The mole poked his snowy bonce

out of the tired ground

and peered with blind eyes

upon the bright sky.

I think he was glad

I would have made him.

.

I have thought a lot

about the inside of things.

Permalink 6 Comments

Fire

January 19, 2013 at 12:52 pm (history, literature, Poems, poetry, Shropshire, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , )

Marking our winters together,

first up in the morning checks the embers,

so any vital signs might be rekindled.

.

Failing that, I journey out to fetch the coal,

perhaps a well seasoned cherry log, our treat,

odour – vermillion. Slipper shod round to the shed,

contemplating cold patterned leavings in the snow.

.

I consider the teeth clenched path; you warm in tangled bed,

then, lamenting the lazy left last time bucket,

slide down to empty tinker crunch ash,

playing the ice orchestra and wishing above all for wellies.

.

Darling, the clinker hill reaches the sky,

in far off spring we will push it down

to the ditch below the snow line,

between where we live and the cows.

.

Swinging up to the house to scrunch last week’s news,

I lay morning sticks crackling from an orange string bag,

then sparingly, the coal, but leave room for breath.

Striking a match I turn on the life support, a tender touch paper,

sharing the conviction that our winter child will thrive.

Permalink 17 Comments

Next page »