Window

December 5, 2016 at 11:33 am (England, history, philosophy, Poems, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

At the window in my front room
I watched umbrellas go up the hill
struggling in furious autumn gale
most black, some red or comically transparent
pulled down upon a woman’s shoulders
to protect her new hairdo from the rain.

The Georgian bay window shielded me from rain.
I loved to be alone. That cold front room
with long net curtains wrapped around young shoulders
and the weather beating, shining or racing down the hill
was my castle; huge windows on a world transparent,
sheltered from the furious autumn gale.

Round I whirled, a leaf dancing in the gale,
moving faster and higher, inspired by the rain.
The net meant giant windows were transparent
only from the inside, so to a clunky sale room
gramophone weighted with pennies, I was me on that hill,
before the world could press upon my shoulders.

I smelled the musty net around my shoulders
and knew the world was old and furious, though its gale
and torrential outpouring never rested on our hill,
forming pools in parks where tourists pulled on rain-
coats and stirred coffee with plastic spoons, in a room
where an organ played and people’s smiles were transparent.

When my cousin came, we served homemade sweets on transparent
plates and put on a show. On young shoulders
responsibility for choreography and costume. Front room
filled with patient eyes, we would anxiously regale
our aunties, mums and Nanna with entertainment, rain
dancing in accord, outside, thunder clapping on the hill.

Of course, I grew up, and went out from the hill,
down into murky valleys, away from transparent
umbrellas, aunties and sticky sweets, out into rain
that seemed more inhospitable when it landed on shoulders
bent and bowed with the weight of life’s gale.
But part of me will always dance in that front room.

Meet me on the hill, put a scarf around my shoulders,
transparent rivulets in a furious autumn gale,
blessed by rain, with no umbrella, let us dance in my front room.

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Sunday Evening

April 19, 2016 at 9:44 am (Poems) (, , , , , , )

Inquisitor

Can you find me a fish that is holy,

as you say you wish us to be?

It is tidal, this water we’re swimming,

and it’s teeming with difficulty.

 

We live in contextual rockpools,

and cling to our rocks when it rains,

so principled thought might cause ripples,

that shatter our barnacled brains.

 

Can you find me a state that is noble?

Doesn’t sell out for money or power?

Incorruptible in all its dealings?

Or does sweetest milk always turn sour?

 

Father

If we cared a bit more about people,

they might regrow their courage and strength

and cling less to the rocks that divide us,

and believe they can swim the whole length.

 

The oceans of mind would flow outwards

our fellows in plight would walk on,

not burdened with mass self-destruction…

Believe it or not, we are one.

 

 

 

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Vote

May 1, 2013 at 10:33 pm (history, literature, philosophy, poetry, politics, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , )

Scritch, scritch, scratch,
there I am again
teetering
on the edge of sleep
clutching a ball point
oh Elpis
I left a message for you on a slip
inside Pundora’s box
folded inside disturbed sleep
these desperate disordered times
are too many sheep for me to count
jumping

running

 fumbling in the gloom.

Scritch, scritch, scratch,
quickly, lock me in
and I will vote for you in the morning
my children
none of them have tails
perhaps we will never be well again
docked
writing nonsenses
criss cross
dressing hurriedly
dashing in our hither thither
setting our souls on tenterhooks…

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PenDragons

March 27, 2013 at 8:19 am (literature, Poems, poetry, Recognition) (, , , , , , , )

 Dedicated to my circle of delicious poets: John Etheridge (http://bookofpain.wordpress.com), Elizabeth Cook (http://serialoutlet.wordpress.com) and Jordan Roe (http://tierceandhum.wordpress.com)
.
.
Working virtually
the PenDragons are poetry’s
rough hewn ships on the tide of life
casting inky anchors deep, 
diving minds for matter,
sifting happenings for collateral
worthy of our keep.
 
We make no promises
seaweed catches on our bows
best intentions dashed
by errant storm, becalmed
by sleeping muse,
yet still compelled, we push
through ode and villanelle
divining subtle truths.

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Lily

March 16, 2013 at 5:53 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

From this stricken bridge, our pickled Lily
is a ragged and a snarling twig
stuck fast between grey stones.
Whilst all around
cross Eddies feud and weave,
she brooks her gall, suspended.
.
Who knows, should snagged forgiveness
truly rip and run again,
the river, reprieved, may turn to smile,
and Lily’s spoiled white lips
would twist and split: a pretty boat.
.
Her veil, pulled low to save that petalled face,
could raise into a hopeful sail
and pistilled spirit bend and dip
to fast row Lily, blemished but aglow,
to steep her days without bondage and regret
in turbulent regatta.

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The Sound of Guns

January 26, 2013 at 9:57 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, politics, sociology) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Parricide is not pretty,

but in a time of swallowed splinters,

there emerges a new confidence,

and no one is safe from

the absolute certainty of the Crack.

.

When anger is awake and ungoverned

the Almighty Metal Guru draws near to tease.

The wheel turns as young wreakers and hoakers,

already tucking boredom in their belts,

dash through familial barriers

straight into the Crack’s improbable deathhole.

.

Suddenly, we are all prey:

heavy weights flailing and falling

past previously pitted lives

towards our own bloody demise.

.

Unable to climb smooth surfaces

society begins to fester,

scraping the walls with botulinal nails;

kicking itself with blister boots.

.

Oh, those ugly days of lost heritage;

elders supping tears together, whilst

so many futures are crossed

by the star thin silver reticle

of the Almighty Crack.

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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.

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Sleepers

January 14, 2013 at 9:49 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, sociology) (, , , , , , , , , )

We are brickless, backless turtles ridden by nightmares;

nemesis of ideals, monstrous victims of blind eyes,

walked upon inadvertently by vulnerable feet.

.

Keen-edged conceit is a knife that steals amongst us,

slashing our flimsy shelters with its silver tongue,

so we must run out shivering in the rain.

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Mother

January 9, 2013 at 8:25 pm (history, literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, sociology, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

When this apple tree is axed and carted to the yard

its old leaves stripped, its twisted branches cut and carved;

when birds and errant squirrels are summarily dismissed,

and mistletoe is torn and puckered lips unkissed;

somewhere beyond the function of its analytic brain

beneath the anxious beating of its heart, the alignment of its grain

we will get down to the nub, that grande dam the tree would be,

except artful years bore sweetest fruit contorting destiny.

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Thaw

January 2, 2013 at 9:02 pm (literature, philosophy, Poems, poetry, Stories) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Forgotten

in locked allotments

bracing brass monkey feet

she

dug

deep

with clenched teeth

through frozen clods

customarily turning over old leaves

 until

she                                                                     slipped

and gripping glass

g

u

i

l

l

o

t

i

n

e

d

her pinkie finger tip.

.

As shock welled

to fill iced water butts

she saw her isolation reflected hard as winter

and lifting her mangled digit

in surrender

staggered bleeding to the gate.

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