Rear view

May 13, 2016 at 9:09 am (philosophy, Poems, poetry) (, , , )

Facing backwards on the train

to see the place I’ve been, again,

to meet the people facing me

whose eyes reflect what I can’t see.

 

The world behind is a surprise

that meets my back before my eyes,

and if I never turn around

I’ll never know what I have found.

 

Advertisements

Permalink 4 Comments

Cup

April 27, 2016 at 7:11 am (Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , )

A good idea

the coffee cup

with my name on

when ordered up;

A shame the man

upon the train

went to great lengths

to hide his name;

It would have been

a chance to meet

the friendly face

in the window seat.

 

Permalink 6 Comments

Order of Proceeding

August 18, 2015 at 1:50 pm (Poems) (, , , , )

Alice ate the train
after she ate her sandwich
but before the nuts –
which rolled beneath the table
when the train braked suddenly.

Permalink 2 Comments

Boy

July 14, 2014 at 8:43 pm (Stories) (, , )

Five years feeding, oh
sweet love with needy fingers:
growing up is tough.

Slugs his way to school,
lagging; lugging a back pack:
breath laborious.

Our boy is crossing
over roads he doesn’t know:
sees but a hard place.

His angel arrives
hot with exasperation:
in a scratched black car.

Those troubles tumble
beneath his great potential:
plugging a sinkhole.

Down he falls, silent;
mum screaming Get Up, Get Up:
always a slowcoach!

Grit in our eyelids,
we kneel down at the roadside:
and the traffic slows.

Permalink 2 Comments

A Quiet Ride

December 8, 2013 at 3:51 pm (Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , )

Who wouldn’t relish the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive?
Oh, for a quiet ride.

But Anxiety is a mealy-mouthed passenger:
no stuck out chin chest beating bully;
insinuating instead into the drivers seat,
she slips my gears.

Oh, for a quiet ride, but undeniably too
Vexation sits, inclined as though struck,
like a damp yeuk sandwich on the seat beside me,
puckering his lips to sip from
a plastic flask of patched up paranoia.

Oh, for a quiet ride indeed. Enough.
I swerve onto the curb, and
belt unclasped by confident denials, depress
an inbuilt ejector switch. Out they tumble,
rumbled by optimistic assertion.

Ha! In the Hollywood diversion, at last, a quiet ride,
pink skies deepening to best radish red,
conundrums left behind, nothing to remind me
of mistakes, unlucky breaks, driving west…

Okay. Apply the brakes. Get out. Slam the door.
Pick up the pieces, crank the heater,
dry their rusty tears and drive them home.
It seems we are not ready, each, to function on our own.

Surviving, and sucking last year’s fruit pastilles,
we all three, at least, appreciate the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive, but sometimes, sometimes –
Oh for a quiet ride.

Permalink 7 Comments

Road Lullaby

June 20, 2013 at 10:59 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , )

Mother lays me in her long black hair,
whispering her loola loola to me,
semi-dozing, travelling don’t know where,
keen cat’s eyes track the way before me.

Midway orange fascinates my eyes,
kaleidoscoping there to soothe me,
stars plotting silly pathways through the skies,
advised destinations all evade me.

Through the night I wheel the constant ground,
with arteries of darkness to sustain me,
thick beneath, deep asphalt cushions sound,
and insects unwing destinies around me.

Thought free and unassailed by humankind,
cruel clarity of day censored behind me,
my road tonight, pursuing peace of mind,
drifts shifting issues all beyond me.

Permalink 2 Comments

Bony Boy

June 5, 2013 at 4:12 pm (humour, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, sociology, Stories) (, , , , )

If you live in a city you probably know
there’s a Bony Boy living where nobody goes,
he’s as thin as a match as his diet is poor
and he lives in the gap of the escalator.

He peers at your toenails, grafittis your feet
and his language is too rude to write and repeat,
his fingers are slivers that slip underneath
and he nips at your ankles with sharp little teeth.

The mean Bony Boy is a fidgety lout
with a liking for eating the things you spit out,
having crammed down misfortune and bad days and glum
he chews on the carcass of discarded gum.

Enough of my prattle, I’m surely a fool
to expect you to listen to something so cruel,
I don’t want to scare you next time that you ride
on
..the
….long
…….esca
……….lator
…………..with
……………..Bony
……………….inside.

Permalink 10 Comments

Different Tracks

May 17, 2013 at 9:07 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , )

The very opening lines of rail-road relationships
splinter intentions.
Parallel people like us may never roll together,
our distance fixed;
and stations may fall before we two deign to meet.

When you slide off your own confounded tracks
it is me who cries,
your own oily tears lost in gritty ballast;
and at my earnest signal,
you uncouple us roughly, re-align and speed away.

Permalink 4 Comments

Night

May 11, 2013 at 8:07 am (literature, philosophy, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , )

Senescence licks a disturbed light
onto his bedroom wall.
Sleep pitted by dark dreams
my pilgrim rises in good faith,
the pendulum of remembrance
striking a steady rhythm.

Octogenerian legs undone at night;
challenged by verticality
he leans heavy on the door
flexing old shoulders,
turning his head, slow, like this,
already unsure of his purpose.

Taking heart though (detected by his step)
he descends stairs unsupported,
collects his coat and keys,
and as simply as he can,
will have no more of this…

“I will have no more of this,” he says.

Permalink 5 Comments

The Poet as Archaeologist

May 10, 2013 at 12:18 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , , )

At midnight in the fields of my humanity
I break the silence with a prayer and
stooping on warm ground, cast my coat.

Beckoned by history’s scent, and watching yesterdays,
I begin to collect half answers with a trowel,
for to be fixed and shored would be
to shroud some other light.

In ancient caves I measure gritty bricks and buffers,
unblocking obstruction with a pick,
contemplating potent questions pitted by the night,
without dislodging criticalities.

Complacency is crushed against
the monolithic walls I climb to harness
crumbs of wonder; the sting of straps
drawn tight upon my wrists, borne in good faith.

My ageing ropes are not taut, and not precise;
endeavour challenged by verticalities.
Oh those worthy comrades strung from ropes close by
swing a tantalising rhythm.

At dawn, with arms of love, I drape about the roof
and rafter-dance with mighty beams caught by earth,
refracting sharp from off her face, to
fly me respectfully onto shoulders of toil.

From this place I witness men and women
bending to practicalities they task themselves to shift,
and though their masters quit, they stay
to build and banter still around this busy tract.

Daylight strikes and sceptics lean upon the gate;
my voice quieted by the human tide
I descend unsupported columns, collect my coat,
but string commitment to the citadel of return.

Permalink 14 Comments

Next page »