Christmas at Our House

December 23, 2012 at 10:19 pm (humour, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, Shropshire, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

How can we have Christmas at our house?

The rooms look like there was a riot

the table’s strewn over with gas bills

and the reindeer are all on a diet.

.

How can we have Christmas at our house?

The tree is hung over and wonky

our turkey ran off with the tinsel

and we never did order the donkey.

.

How can we have Christmas at our house?

It’s too cold to put out the fire

so Santa will struggle to reach us

and so will the heavenly choir.

.

How can we have Christmas at our house?

but wait, well then maybe we can

there’s a bucket of love up our chimney

and hugs in the fridge and the pan.

.

There’s sweet figgy pudding and music

our voices are merry and bright

we’ll hide nuts in a massive red stocking

and drink ginger wine late at night.

.

So let’s all have Christmas at our house

we’ll cook up a magical banquet

and after the games and the laughter

we’ll cuddle up under our blanket.

.

We all know the New Year is waiting

and we have to work hard and dig deep

but beautiful friendships will give us

the gift of this Christmas to keep.

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Moon Man

December 11, 2012 at 6:24 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

with jocular face and monocle.

Hunter-warriors beware,

he will rock away this precious slice of light

should you prey on easy meat from a high-handed horse.

.

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

tickling xylophones with whiskery fingers.

As ice drops flicker

give time over haste to winter tunes,

to taste his gruffle-sung stories of stars and wonderment.

.

There is a man sits in our crescent moon tonight

making immortal space for us.

He cradles kindness

in extraordinarily long arms,

and gifts weary travellers with chuckling beneficence.

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The Curator

December 4, 2012 at 11:07 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Economically, it was a difficult  time

women itched in woollen scarves

men stamped their frosted minds

a cruel wind blew till their steaming chips were down.

..

Socially, it was a treacherous climb

He clung to the frozen earth with hooked toes

vertically

.

.

impossible

pebbles snapping like dragons’ teeth

stressed grass grazing his aching knees.

.

Astrologically, he read the perfect sign

and chose this day to set his sight

at the hill above vast unmolested sea.

.

At the summit

he would put down his heavy pack

lean his broad back against a small patch of undamaged sky

and watch history unfold.

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One Missed Call

November 29, 2012 at 8:26 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , )

Did I miss your call?

I heard that you were passing.

tick tock, tick tock, tick…

 

no message

 

… only the sound of wings

 

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Offering

November 29, 2012 at 10:06 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

In the old place, as you snatched your gaze away from me

I saw our futures in the furniture behind your head,

carved from antithesis, set in stone;

you rolled your eyes across an over- stretched conversation

and years flexed and flew.

.

While I pirouetted into semi dark,

you stuck your colours to the nearest domestic lamp

and remained  stoically moth-like. I hardly dare knock

at our last closed door, fearing the beat of distressed wings,

but I come with fresh baked anodyne,

and if you answer, it will make this new morning blossom.

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Winter Chill

November 27, 2012 at 9:31 am (humour, literature, philosophy, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

The grandfather clock coughs

and then they are all at it,

armchairs belch their stuffing,

tables drop all their leaves, cushions deflate.

.

The radiator complains of a temperature;

the bed winces when I lie on it, so

I perch near the moaning fish tank

watching eczema paint peel from sore throat walls.

.

Later, I grab my guitar, but it winges and slides

out of tune with the day,

offending the aching ears of the television

which begs me to turn the sound down

real low.

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Ready?

November 26, 2012 at 8:46 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Time to fix, recycle, sort

make a splendid space for thought

.

Accoutrements will have to go

add-ons may disrupt the flow

.

Stuffed up anger all turfed out?

Bag it; bin the old self-doubt

.

Untangle guilty clasps and chains

dust yourself and breathe again.

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Drill

November 24, 2012 at 4:56 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics) (, , , , , , , , , )

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Building Affinity

November 19, 2012 at 12:00 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

War is a wasted land,

a wounded state where none may truly live,

so may not be defended;

whose deep ravines, made from dry, parted lips,

wide, fearful eyes, and broken homesteads,

are empty of prophet, in death, devoid of meaning;

where the very skin of earth is cut,

and love lies bombed and bleeding.

But

Courage can be a capital city

a freehold space where opponents come to sit

and hope be ever mended;

whose public belvederes and bowers, made strong

by transparent rumination and debate

all teem with life, in truth, where words have meaning;

where the very heart of earth is put,

and peace upheld with feeling.

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Pocket

November 18, 2012 at 10:37 am (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

If I should ever have to choose to be

a pocket or a coat, my answer is a pocket, plain.

Oh yes, to wrap the world in warm is fine,

to comfort children caught by snow or storm,

to zip and tuck unhappy souls on luckless roads, no doubt.

But still I think I wouldn’t choose to be a winter coat.

 

Why then, you ask,  a pocket?

 

If  I may catch the crumbs of something good and gone,

contain the angry fist, relax the anxious palm;

if I may hold a handkerchief where precious tears are pressed,

keep safe a favourite glove, or perhaps a letter felt and left;

if I may hold a secret till it’s ready to be spoke,

then a pocket plain and simple would I choose above a coat.

 

 

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