Writer's Block

 A mystery – this blank page with blue pen –

and my duty to write a grand poem;

without engaging hope.

Instead, melting into zero,

atom by - fizzing - atom

equal and equally dissolved:

me, a pen, ink, page:

blank – nothing.

Jed

 My father-in-law – Andrew,

was a Ukrainian refugee fighting the Nazis,

and got frog-marched into Russia to salute Stalin

passing - on a steam train - then - also on the next

- 30 minutes later – upright and mustachioed

- and he saluted Stalin yet again - after another half an hour.

It would be cold there on the steppes waiting for the true or false

man saluting - three times - at the front.

Cold. He survived fighting the Nazis and came to England

where he learnt new words like hairdresser, bus driver,

security guard -  but it always was the drink prevented him

holding down a job – and the singing in Ukrainian – loud,

like a Cossack, and the comrades he left in the snow.

Andrew, his grandson, snoring in a bedroom next door,

equally struggles with English – to be understood –

but can lead a sing-song, get an entire bar

up on its feet in a jiffy. Likewise, he’ll never

hold down a job and he’s loud as a Cossack

drinking lemonade in a closed-eye dream,

wiping his mouth with the back of a hand.

In both men’s lives, spent and spending,

they have simply sung more notes from their heart

than other fools and magicians, genies and kings.