Poets

Hardy was a misery, Blake the furthest mystery,

Auden was a brainbox, Thomas alcoholic,

Eliot and Kipling – sent their letters rippling,

Emerson a clever one, Chaucer ever saucy,

Dickinson amazing, Whitman went out traipsing,

cummings hated capitals, Owen had a war on,

Larkin was hardworking, Hughes became a laureate,

Tennyson another one, and who was HD?

But Wallace Edgar’s Wallace

tosses Shakespeare sonnets

out into a flat cap

when t’lion et up Albert.

Plenty to laugh at int’ zoo

‘ind ‘im in his Sunday clothes too.’

Wolf

Hey moon

cave mouth

is lit

for cubs

and us,

my mouth,

to play

with all

the crunch

of bone

and drink

a beck

and crouch

again

stalking

the roe

who chews

the grass

and stares

at moon.

Bloomsbury Fall

Today I strolled

in footsteps

of T.S. Eliot’s orbit

of Russell Square.

Leaves were falling

and trees apparently

settling for a bitter pill;

their frosty pixilation.

But a warm sun was out.

I kicked waves forward

to a waiting underground voice

‘This train will stop at Morden.’

Yorkshire Traveler

A grand job,

cheers for that

gluten free

Yorkshire pud.

I learnt on t’cruise

a bloke’s repute

is a fractal

of one’s food.

IF (after Kipling)

If the world was how-less,

instinct would be master.

If the world was why-less,

motive would be clearer.

If the world was who-less,

freedom would be simpler.

If the worlds was when-less,

only now would matter.

If the world was where-less,

self would be the fixer.

If the world was what-less,

all would be a wonder.

Go Fish

At this time of year countless little fish

swim in shallows of the Aegean sea,

newly born there, quick and flickering

cutting slick water under bright sunshine.

Incoming and outgoing waves sensate

and slowly pebbles turn to integrate.

Nearby spots of flotsam move more softly

but, best of all, darting, diverting black fish

seeming to dance in their idealism,

safe and quick, inquisitive.

I’ve seen them before and caught their spell

but this time I look more closely, turning

eyeballs in tandem with an alien

environment that I’ll never discern.

And I see not single fish but, always,

there are two fish – a black darter and a

white partner, arcing effortlessly as one;

nimble and absolute, together.

They are mating, surely, invertebrates,

black and white, peace and space, united.

I show them to my wife as a miracle,

duck even closer, then step away,

stand back.

Waves turn. Like a perceptual puzzle,

two fish, lively, diverge, turn back to truth

and become one tiny silver creature

making its way alone in the ocean;

an explorer sucking life, mouth open,

eyes awake; this way, that way, any-way,

projecting black shadow from a bright star

onto our waiting earth.

The Gate

When the barrier stays down

a micro phonic voice

stutters ‘I can’t see you on my screen,

what’s the name again?’

There’s no real need to panic

even though panic’s a bodily instinct;

it’s more a need to wonder, be curious

about that continuing need to breathe

and that you really deserve to live

a little longer, to feel butterflies

in the gut and be tickled

for a while, licking lips,

coldly sensing fresh air,

one breath, next step, blinking.

Life

In sea shallows, I slope a toe

and feel that first shock

of electricity

when a little wave arises.

I take a step ahead now,

numb to the shinbone,

anticipating

what to do next. To fight

for consciousness,

flee into apathy,

wait?

Skip ahead and a new wave catches

thighs - bring it on -

and another forward-move

until a boomer whacks my chest

to almost a topple

of torso and water.

I keep walking

beyond mindful tricks

of cold and danger

to go again

another time,

another push

knowing that heart is red and strong

with muscles a-tightening

ready to leap

and be lifted,

surrender

and swim.

You may see your children regularly

I leave you in the evening,

my heart a running beat;

you turn yourself away from me

devising new pursuits

and friendships for the seeking,

a spell to cast by reaching;

my cells are shrieking ‘singleton’,

your stage is somewhere new!

My answer’s in this question

‘Is there anything left to say?’

I shift myself away from you

for days and nights and days:

you’re sailing after treasure,

digging joy and leisure

along a measure and a stretch,

two weeks, away, away!

Step Back

I listen to Bach,

I get into Mozart

and still I’ve no sense of all the power they wield

in rhythm and tone,

vibrating a note

but movable senses of tension I yield.

You may see the children

Every second week I take

my sons back to their mother:

with hugs, a final look,

one warm belly to another.

Sun and moon far west

tip a singing heart

‘Ta-ra my lads, it’s for the best’

turning backs, apart.

Throats move,

Adam’s apples,

eyes of love,

no appeals

blurring sight;

twelve days. Goodnight.

Charon

He plods, and asks, for ‘tickets please’

beneath  this old train roof;

alarms are hanging from the eves

- and passengers are safe.

People turn and smile and look

(outside, a shocking sea)

this train is traveling to a stop

wherever we will be

and, in each carriage, swinging doors

so I could saunter through

and talk or pay, or sleep or play,

or curl in my cocoon?

The driver knows the route we take

but only he can see

our spiral west into the dark

on a ticket for today.

Call

Thank you for holding.

We may never know what’s going on

at the very centre of our Earth

where, four thousand miles straight down,

zooms a point, indivisible, hot.

Thanks for continuing to hold.

At least old Mozart’s a tuneful balm

but, sadly, there’s a potential burst,

a chance of magma time:

to do my best or to do my worst.

Thanks for holding.

Like you and me,

Andrew’s growing old

but two fine eyes

(mischievous, bold)

continue to soften my arrogance, pride.

Seasons have turned

red, golden, green,

birthdays have burned;

places we’ve been.

Give me your hand;

what do you need?

There he stands,

how to proceed?

We need a decision some time soon;

retreat or advance, run for cover, Return.

Soft,

Andrew has odd ways, strange ways,

a boy who’s mostly laughing,

living loud in vibrant days

and often loving, loving.

Singing in delighted tones

twinkling eye to eye,

yielding as the special one

who climbed up there to die

but sensible folk, how could they know

how to see, to be

with Andrew and his runny nose;

a tissue’s ecstasy.

Real Work

Our drive home was calm. All family

in back seats, chatting; and laughing. An orange sun

settling to earth and pillow clouds floating away against

a darkening blue.

Affable.

Earlier, Andrew

had refused to let anyone at dinner

rest or detach

until they were included.

‘All of us!!’ he loves to say and uses

tricks like I-spy or other

guessing games, singing - so that even the poor,

silent types who love disconnection

find it hard to avoid, without being rude.

It takes a remarkable act of will to include everyone

when some can’t really be bothered.

But now, with engine purring and sky darkening,

Andrew (the boy) sitting next to me, and family

laughing away in the back, is quiet.

And he is virtually never quiet!

But he looks at me sideways,

with a strange little smile

and time stops

and he nods a nod of knowing,

and I nod back, because we know

in our secret nodding club

he has done his work today;

his ineffable work of connection,

in play now,

in play.

Sands of Time

Onto shore

without end

horses roar

white tops bend

golden light

silver crowned

water fight

crash and grind

and my youth’s

furrowed brow

nature’s truth

splashes, ploughs;

lashes, squalls:

waterfalls.

God’s Anger

 One day my father said to the family

‘I’m finally gonna train that dog!’

and dragged our vibrant little Westie

out into a chill front room.

He batted its backside so hard

the dog skedaddled across the carpet;

a billiard ball bouncing off solid oak,

then turned on its belly, a crocodile.

‘Come here!’ he yelled and the little sod

had to crawl along freezing ground

to be yelped again across the room;

by volcano pulses of angry magma.

Age seven, I sat next door

deep in icy romance wondering,

wondering, wondering what the holy

King of Heaven suggested I should do.

Particle or Wave

An Einstein question.

When I walk towards a big wet puddle

in the road and a lorry heads on

towards me with a smiling driver

do I walk forward to risk a soaking

if he swerves in a chortling whoosh

or hold back in fear and in anguish,

afraid of a smile and a wave?

Gnats

go lively;

dance the riverbank

and two green plastic

chairs. Let’s guess –

several thousand insects? Fuzzy bills

chained by sunlight

into warm vortex

with a top

in the trees

and a sunlit edge

one meter wide (at the most)

where the whirling company is.

Only a few things matter;

to keep inside

this cylinder of warm light,

to mate,

  

the rest is not our business,

except  for Mozart

lilting and lifting,

weaving and intertwining

from my iPhone iTunes

and a glitter of

quickening sun on

myriad wings

and my projection of a dance

orchestrated as

show-time, glitter-time and spiraling jazz.

Mozart and Midges go lively.

Man on a Train

Talk to him? Not really!

That story will inevitably

bore and become a sly window to my

own internal mirror hall – impermanent

as plummeting carriages.

I guess this train has scuttled

North and South a thousand times

and seen a share of drama,

snow and tragedy. But could I simply

be here now and let it flow?

OK, I’ll talk to him, connect our

eyes and hear the story of his love life,

diet, working stresses, strains so we will

curtain with our storybook the foxes,

badgers, beauty flashing by.

Poise

Hey feet!

Two pins!!

What tricks?

Bedrock

the fact

your strong

aplomb

toddles

me on

so long.

Over nine months

from nowhere and nothing,

with my tiny hand I twisted a dial

briskly and it clicked, stopped, turned around

and, imperceptibly, like a pantoum,

gradually drove the pulse of one old base drum

all in motion, deceptively slow

in moment after clicking moment –

until, by autumn, leaves are caught in wind

and days tip forward to December’s end

tumbling, ultimately, nowhere, nothing.

Google

Lit from behind, the keys

on my MacBook spark a room:

simple enough for shadow

in wee black hours – a winter morning.

But what to say of the keys?

A digital schism of light

inviting some sort of story

or mystery from my fingers

leaping for future screens

(black and white like Chaplin)

bridging our banks of time

hoping to light the night

of a future indefinite human

moving their eyes left to right

but looking not so very far

as letters light up on their forehead

projected by backlight shining

and grabbing at irises, brain cells

hurling the past to a future

simply by pushing a key.

Love Sonnet

We journey on as special way,

we got to somewhere, not the end,

there’s still a lot to do and say

as lover and as friend.

Feet will bear us, lead us to

our presence, we will hear and see

as if we know

a great way to be free.

So we go on,

no time to hide,

no cries or moans,

a man and woman side by side.

You’re in my heart and in my mind;

joy before and  joy behind.

On the Afghan trail,

red ants and black ants

face off and then shy away;

busy-ness as usual.

Show

Eight minutes left and the oboe aums

behind conversation, anticipate

flutes and piccolos tinkle, laugh

as the head of a cello dances from the pit,

a snare drum celebrates, chatter boxes chat.

Sky-blue balcony with gilded trim,

tipping water bottles, men in jackets.

Two minutes now and the buzz increases.

Sondheim’s a word in my phone, you bet

and he strains for truth, beginners please.

Speaking in Tongues

Can I forgive the youth in the park

who plucks out a rose for the laugh?

Well I never!

Can I forgive the mother who shouts at a child?

Well I never did!

Can I forgive a girl who leads-on a boy?

You don’t say!

Can I forgive a boy who leads-on a girl?

Shock, horror!

Can you forgive the surgeon who looks in the eyes

of the man in the bath with his burns

and the doctor, sighing, turns his head

not knowing the nurses had worked up some hope

and who turn on the man with a tongue-lash to re-kindle fire

into love, and then dress down the doc with their words?

A moment

Stag foraging:

white forefeet

the work of

a master:

why would the hunter

creep through longer

grass to focus

your chest?

And where has the

doe gone, quartering

further back

in the green glen?

Until she wanders

out and touches

nose to soft nose

upwind

taking a chance

together and enticing

him back under cover

of high green shrubs.

The hunter’s finger stretches,

turns, determines now what

these two wastrels

will become.

Night Owl

Andrew, even as a young man,

leaves on his bedroom light;

brightly artificial

with an open door.

It’s not that light dispels 

shadows or ghosts. No, no,

it’s to illuminate a way out

and wobble for toilet relief.

I, an older man, holding onto courage

know how darkness has wasted me,

yawning like a zero

with deep sleep a matter of

snoring and lost opportunity

until, eventually, the fuss will be over,

word and wobble.

Last orders.

Lights out.

Talking to a Yorkshire teenager,

he is not  bothered

cus he dunt know what he wants;

he’ll see wot ‘appens.

Woman

Spikey as a hedgehog

she looks into the book of life;

humble as a rabbit’s ear

she reads a sentence there.

Vibrant as a python

she walks across a dusty plain;

stronger that a mountain top

she turns to face the lion.

Breathing like a stallion

she waits before the city gate;

secret like an owl in flight,

dances to her fate.

Wet

Last night in my sleep

we damped down a fire;

to soften the heat

- so delight wouldn’t fly

but the feeling of dreams

is to zoom to the stars

rage across fields

not knowing how far.