Saturday, 13 December 2014

Fourth Anniversary

First  - a singleton -
a beaming sun
(one single leaf of grass)
but married then into a couple
completely satisfied

but how accelerated
into four whole years
as if the one has amplified
through sunny days and snow;
we grow, my wife, we grow.

Thursday, 25 September 2014

Grey skies

but, look, a turn of cloud for sunshine
winking – to submit a whole new word today;
vibrant, iridescent, unstoppable
with smiley face and no conditions,
bigger than the Himalayas (beyond desire):
a simple little single word, compressed.

My question  - can I really trust it?

and ask – ‘if I inspire a fire inside myself,
will a tiny word flow back with water force
through chambers up from shimmering earth,
meet itself and melt?’ Under grey skies.

Friday, 5 September 2014


South West England, Summertime.
The base and 6-string are playing

brightly one Monday afternoon
under a soft watercolour sky;
the base and 6-string are playing.

It’s not clear who started this throb
around tents and camping chairs,
teacups and painted starlight stones
but the base and 6-string are playing.

And, in the darker recess of a plastic tent,
one unwashed Down’s boy sings
across perfectly imperfect repetitive notes,
from a hopeful wet tongue laving for dinner
now the base and 6-string are playing.

Propose a new music, un-housed,
less predictable, in a strange tongue,
held by a deeper fret of purple sound
from a true gut; a resonant truth
laughing like a tambourine
when the base and 6-string are playing.

Saturday, 16 August 2014

So Push

One o’ clock, North Yorkshire
and we cycle hard - cogs
chuckling into spurs and chains
on-and-around sprockets

oblivious to tops-of-trees parading
front-to-back and the Howgills
rolling more slowly
in parallax and majesty

until we hit a low dip
and start a long climb
feeling breath and thighs hot.

Looking far away to the left
(in a miracle of trigonometry)
a far mountain rises mysteriously
like in a cardboard theatre.

Pushing and climbing, an earth-top also climbs.
Cycling more easy, our summit stays and shivers;
a fine old miracle in time.

Now the road descends and our peak slo-mo’s
away; no longer fighting gravity
but sinking like a drowsy head
obscured by trees and foothills, green.

And it helps me feel the sun
and how she seems, every day, to light and rise
imperious - and how, if we all freewheel,
eventually her rays maybe wouldn’t
be bothered to rise either, and sink. A sigh.
So Push.

Thursday, 17 July 2014


Empty now, my breakfast bowl
somberly thinking (‘What is Next?’)
of blue, green, yellow powder pills
and a brew of side-effects.

Monday, 7 July 2014

The Day After

Twenty four hours
into minutes, seconds (even smaller)
but, looking back,
only by story, metaphor, simile
can I Feel-that-Day again
like the sunshine of an orange skin,
(or the journey of a train with volcano cans of beer)
the flesh soft and tangy, juicy as a sponge
dripping ocean sap
and a dream somewhere in between the story of a day;
the sense and the non-sense
warped by brainbox,
itself soft as ripe red melon
fragmented in memory at the end of the day:
pages, physics, juice, included.

Thursday, 26 June 2014

Three Spitfires

And it wasn’t the moving of curtains like breathing
or the clicking of buildings settling down for the night
but a distant loud roaring of engines and thunderbolts
and his name on the roll-call; insects and kites.
And it wasn’t the twitching of curtains like breathing
or the clicking of buildings in the night and the night
but the nearby quiet roaring of blood in the arteries
and the checklists and wheelchairs; halogen lights.
And it wasn’t the twitching of eyelids one evening
or throat-boxes sobbing defying the night
but the nearby quiet roaring of blood in the arteries
and inbreath – and outbreath; - emerald flight.