29/12/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting when we were giants

and we could if we wanted
and in one stride
step out to the mountains on the other side
but instead we sit on the gate
calling out to the birds
who follow the tide

#poem #poetry #amriting #sketchbook parents

the hand still offers the flat-palm grass
to the nervous pony behind the wire

the eyes still shine with delight
at tinned pears and tinned milk on sunday

the voice can clearly be heard - and the phrasing -
when I find myself saying what I swore I never would

...........

my son asks if he allowed to say 'pissing it down'
I tell him I'll allow persisting

we are both soaked

I am frozen from mid thigh to knee cap
by the run off from my coat

but we soon dry

my son asks if he is allowed to say 'fuck'
only when standing on lego I say

......




28/12/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting on catching sight of autumn

On Catching Sight of Autumn

at half past four
   the farthest moor
ran blood red
   with sinking sun

early gathered guttered leaves
   catching hint of winters breath
   decorously quiver
in the lingered still of dusk

while in one hundred kitchens
   baked beans simmer
beneath the steam-whistle of transition
   from the polarities of the classroom
   to the less defined contests of the home

this samian splendid seeping sun
   curls in upon us
like the crabs we chased laughing
in the shallow pools of summer

22/12/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting sonnet to 1680

Sonnet to 1680

before the vagina was the mop
beneath the merkin of the cropped
the sheath or scabbard took lusty knife
or plump the grain of the trusty wife
thus passed the girdle to the hips
never more to shape the lips
   of the fabled vase

the cover torn to make a rip
was rooted by the wag - to break or bite
the hollow root of wood so tight

01/10/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting 1 gentile golem

tomorrow the leaves will grow from my fingers
   my nails will spread wide
-               -  ridged with veins –
and I will find essence in my rootedness

but that is tomorrow
for today I am between respectability
and the hole in the ground

the one I hold in lordship
and the other more transient
   like that strip of pink sky

   on which I balance with gripping toes

03/08/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting #beehive #bradford beehivepoets digest compilation

Don't mind me...

 I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....

....

the republican mantra

from meduaern come bees
fresh as yon hard-back beck :
lufteme pulled
by the petrichor of spring :

drenc on thunder : drenc on cloud :
aelmesgeorn in verge well give :

them stamp the snaeb 
and drink the tear :
full fat their collared necks :
aswellan as swine in gor

...

oubliette

the fond view now remains
not the keep of then

not the face by numbers forged
each a windowed glance

just the flare of struck matches

...

pendle

for years she called them parkies
- darkies - and mister to their face
and grew a wart upon her chin

don't come that - she stuck the door
made pot-noodles out of straw
and sold hot dogs out of date

don't bother your head with that
it's a bit of tat from butlins
I picked it up on the fair

she keeps it for a keepsake
forgot it was even there
a memento of the jubilee

her kid was the one - with his bulldog -
and his laced up boots
and short cropped jeans

it was lice that made him cut his hair
don't you drag him in
and put that down - you witch

....

friend's friend

whenever we met
she told me how I disliked her
and in what measure
   and the reasons
and I laughed

her room was draped with peacock scarves
   of purple print and pink bohemian hue
      burnt candle and saffron and wine

even in the stink of summer
   when children in buggies were gassed by buses
      the air striking in the surrey hills
her room had coolness

our disagreement lay
- or so I am told -
in an off-hand remark while drunk
for which no apology was asked
and full insult taken

she never drank tea - only earl grey or lapsang -
but I drank it with milk and no lemon

during one lecture about the perils of meat
I pointed out I was a vegetarian

she knew me better than myself
told me my opinions
defined my tastes and whims
laughed at my clothes
and my carefree contempt

and then one day we air-kissed
      without goodbye

...

peace:)

the beehive poets meet at the beehive pub on westgate bradford - be there at 8pm for an 7.30 start

all welcome


The Blue Book

01/08/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting privilege

privilege

I still remember the meagre collection
- shirley bassey tihuana brass neil diamond's greatest hits -
and a couple of 45s
- one of which - tommy steele's confession - we never played -

but we would stack the rest
and dance until they dropped
- then dance some more

flared trousers swinging
- the green patterned pile carpet -
and my sisters osmond lp

later I asked my mother
what she did in the sixties
and where was her music

....

walking into town -
suddenly I am holding a man's hand
- broad - strong - yet childish
enough to seek a fathers love

blue slushie stained teeth grin at me
- a blob of chocolate ice cream under the nose -

every song I sing is boring

---

it was only when later
- cheque to cheque - without a washing machine -
that I understood the paucity of music

and my mother nods
in that most irritating of ways -
like when she reads over my shoulder -
or says she doesn't understand my poems
unless I read them aloud

....

it is only when writing
I understand the happiness
of experience

and see through the lies
of peddled shared guilt


The Blue Book

29/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting the republican mantra

the republican mantra

from meduaern come bees
fresh as yon hard-back beck :
lufteme pulled
by the petrichor of spring :

drenc on thunder : drenc on cloud :
aelmesgeorn in verge well give :

them stamp the snaeb
and drink the tear :
full fat their collared necks :
aswellan as swine in gor


The Blue Book

28/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting oubliette

oubliette

the fond view now remains
not the keep of then

not the face by numbers forged
each a windowed glance

just the flare of struck matches


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook

the fond view now remains
not the keep of then

not the face by numbers forged
each a windowed glance

just the flare of struck matches


....

the keep eye sees fond idle folly
where the blind feel fresh

....

I keep the fresh downhill
fond thoughts - idle folly -
where the blind refuse

....


The Blue Book

27/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting flanagan and allen

flanagan and allen

and this year the children are - point ought six - cleverer
and two sangwiches stoopider - in old money

last night the sea rose four inches
- and then went out again -
but I still waved the placard
handed to me by an earnest man
   who if he had ever found the slightest hint of god
      would have devoted his life to the sandwich board

I'm a millionaire - off the app I wrote
that makes people believe they are a kardashian
(not that I know who they are)

ok I'm being sued
   since the timeline on the app
   is 1915
       and lot's of folks are being herded into syria?
(excuse my up-speaking)
- at any moment I will break into vocal fry
- for the sex change I am not about to have -
- in order to promote the book
I am going to write - or have written for me -
- about how women have it bad -
and my decision to hang onto my medals

SNP FOR ENGLAND

- did you hear me in tuscany polly -
it's the genuinely poor talking

no I thought not

and you can fuck off mr staines


The Blue Book

25/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting pendle

pendle

for years she called them parkies
- darkies - and mister to their face
and grew a wart upon her chin

don't come that - she stuck the door
made pot-noodles out of straw
and sold hot dogs out of date

don't bother your head with that
it's a bit of tat from butlins
I picked it up on the fair

she keeps it for a keepsake
forgot it was even there
a memento of the jubilee

her kid was the one - with his bulldog -
and his laced up boots
and short cropped jeans

it was lice that made him cut his hair
don't you drag him in
and put that down - you witch


The Blue Book

24/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting the quiet revolt

a quiet revolt

the hush fell absolute
   mid-flow he had been tripped
she sipped the half drunk wine
and we all watched for response

come on she said answer me
   and he laughed in that way
that non-smokers cough - phlegmatic -
dismissive and surprised

so she sipped the wine once more
   - privately we clapped -
then she in good grace excused herself
and moved to another table


The Blue Book

23/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting the tea party

the tea party

I've been counting the winds of history
   that which blows through a window cracked
       and noticing the turks in the hills

measuring the length of the camel hair
    the grind of teeth bringing oranges -

or the longship slipping out of the fjord
   and spotting the lapis among the amber

the slaver with glistening teeth
   wrapped tight to the sandstorm wind

it does not blow toward the sun
   nor eddy in the narrow path

yet as I piss to the left
this breeze intoxicates around my chin

all knottiness is cut
      what remains is the myth of me


The Blue Book

22/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook

the words I love you never crossed the step
it was a matter of pride
and I wondered in the heat of passion
what was said instead

the kitchen was scrubbed free of germs
the living room sucked clean twice a day
and all that grew - that I could see -
was the whiskey bottle for twenty p's

yet they seemed to be as me
they said hello and goodbye
chatted over the slatted fence


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwrting sketchbook goodbye

ciao she said without irony
twisting her bracelet pearl side out

she refused to obey in her vows
made a huge deal of the choice

yet now - at every beck and call
she runs - hard bottomed - ever downward

her voice outlasting the whispered wind
that lifts her toil to the hill again

......

everything is just so - ruffled - pleated
bosoming fresh in turquoise and ivory

as they line up to grin and be happy


The Blue Book

21/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting psalm 23

the angel was not large
not church window size
yet it's illumination dazzled
at my frightened sense
in the choir of coming
it reached to me
and gave in what it took


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting notes and sketches on a train

some notes and sketches on a train

...

that night -hurried bedtime
left a slash in the curtain

....

there stars held shining
at the spinning of all things

...

bundled in argumentative rush

...

some nights I would pull the stars in tight -
chin warm - purple snug - shimmer
psalms in comfort - and some nights
cold dread closed in from within and without

then those calm songs of yore carressened not
but tied knots at my neck - bound my ribs -
gripped wrists - only my eyes held free to roam
from left to right - from down to up

and some times when the curtains stayed partened
a shooting star would streak in hope

....

the angel was not large
not church window size
yet it's illumination dazzled
at mt frightened sense
in the choir of coming
it reached to me
and gave in what it took

....

I saw the anger rise
at the notion - that we -
as poets - should be
petite - as we are -
our each own neruda

yet love is expressed
in altered forms - beyond the slogan -
it may not attract
but sure it packs a punch

so on clench your parody fist
of separate unity
and it out in kinkindway
- for fraternity - beyond

....

peace:)



The Blue Book

20/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting #beehive #bradford beehivepoets digest compilation

Don't mind me...

 I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....

....

friend's friend

whenever we met
she told me how I disliked her
and in what measure
   and the reasons
and I laughed

her room was draped with peacock scarves
   of purple print and pink bohemian hue
      burnt candle and saffron and wine

even in the stink of summer
   when children in buggies were gassed by buses
      the air striking in the surrey hills
her room had coolness

our disagreement lay
- or so I am told -
in an off-hand remark while drunk
for which no apology was asked
and full insult taken

she never drank tea - only earl grey or lapsang -
but I drank it with milk and no lemon

during one lecture about the perils of meat
I pointed out I was a vegetarian

she knew me better than myself
told me my opinions
defined my tastes and whims
laughed at my clothes
and my carefree contempt

and then one day we air-kissed
      without goodbye

....

entropy

he said he was waiting for death
   eyes watchful over the sea
and on his knee - neatly wrapped -
   a triangle wax-papered parcel
      tied with string

winching at the badly kept beer
   my eye is caught by a picture
      of the house now hanging -
      captured then - with a paddock
         between it and the cliff

on the wall - more pictures -
nostalgic for a time - when people lived here
   when the pub had trade in winter
   and the school was more vibrant
      than the tennis club

after lunch I take some time
to walk back to that bench again
- he's still there waiting - waiting -
for the slow erosion to take him
   like the open slab of house exposed

...

seep

in the gap between the tarmac
a pink opium poppy
                 - tattered - blooms

and she walks with splayed feet
- in pastel clothes - half dyed -
washed up from the toes
past the turned in knees
to the polka-dot double pram'd shoulders
- gurgling lullabies in plodding tune

they say she had to choose a number
                     - one two three -
and whichever she picked
                        would not flower

....

tanning

now is the fallow seeding time
   of grasses bending
children with counted ribs
   dash random as swifts
   their fun frantic as butterfly wings
foxglove proud they stand
   laughter punctuates
   like the yellow primrose
      rising through the tawning grass

...

anarchist

the wild cotton dots the brush
as if a flock of sheep was chased
by giant bouldered feet in hunger
which rose in wanton violence
beneath the flash of thunder

and what sheep remain are thin in the haunch
they graze with waggled ear
lazy roll a bulge'd eye
at the backpacked tramp of feet
on rain softened tussocky grass

as I crest them out of view
I hear the conversation
the wind and stillness have lulled
so the words come in startled fresh
like a joke to the humourless

they are discussing sandwiches
and more precisely mayonnaise
and more succinctly tuna in brine or oil
and if the combination
suits white or brown

and in the midst of discussion
a light sun clearing breeze
lifts cellophane from a knee
carries it flapping and folding
until unsure it drops three feet from the path

they apologise as I hand it back
I smile
and secretly drop the lint
from the triangle of my pocket
as I walk on

....

francis harvey

this stone
   more dense than diamond
   smooth as a bird's egg
   cold in my palm
      like a forearmed sheet beneath the pillow in summer

this stone
I hold indecisive
between the dismissive toss for the common-place
   and the pocket

that stone whet
   knew that I would hear the call of birds
   and taste the butter
and laugh at the off-hand description
   of apple orchards and vetch
of relatives proud in country manner
   whom strut like thrushes bullying a sparrow
coated in russian bearskin - three-quarter length -
   to accent the sweet perfume
      of a mother's beauty - to a child

    and the glottal stopped
       faux pas of judging others by their vowels
for the words that were not said
and the bridges burned before crossing
   for the sake of failure

knows that thread from which we hung
- the threads of half-drowned hair dragged from a river
  that later would get merry on cider
- or perry - or gin - or love -
or the chancing sunlight on a handsome face
   to form the swan's heart of desire
      more fabled and more real - than us

...

peace:)


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting yellow

yellow

summer is the dead time

all winter - when dripping rain
within the bounds of a pulled in coat
- I have dreamed of this

but now it comes
   and like birthdays
   it does not satisfy

the flowers lack the brightness of spring
and the long evenings
- well they just lack
and can't compare -
to the darkness of winter teatimes

but give it a month
and the august heat

give it the happy time of september

give it the frozen winter rain
- and the coat wrapped round -

for summer is the dead time


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook

the herdish swine are skittish today
their fingers tap at their phones - as if to say -
something has changed but not gone away
and the tories are to blame

I didn't get laid - I didn't get paid -
I find old people far too staid -
but more than that I am terribly scared
of wit beyond the pale

out there - out there -
where the horses scare
and I in callow youth despair
of ever being debonair
or holidaying beyond the devon air
or much beyond my hardback chair

etc etc


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook elizabeth warren

last night as I tucked myself into a confederate duvet
wearing steam boat willy jim jams
and a clarins anti-aging skin pack

it felt so warm and snug
a gun beneath my pillow
half cocked to shoot my dreams

and as I counted my privilege
- that hopped like sheep over a fence -
a dog whistle blew from a far away

etc etc etc


The Blue Book

19/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting nina simone

you want to know the blues

freedom
freedom

I see your hollow eyes
you stand as shocked as mine
at the trolling script scrolling text of now

freedom
freedom

those words never crossed a track
nor found the spirit of bach's fingers

they only tippy tap
for the pennies that linger
in the butter fingers of accidental fame
and the false gods
in the three coloured triangle
of forced compliance

you want to know the blues

then sing with me nina

freedom
freedom

punch my nose flat
I'll suck up the pain
for the idiot prat
that will sprout liberal nonsense

freedom
freedom

for the child they condemn
and the father they reject
and those spilled words they offered
on the way to past

hold my hand
in a millionaires bargain
as I lead you to the stage
to express those things they can't understand

go on

see it

and then we'll see the blues

The Blue Book

18/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook from my notebook 3

excuse me but after eating paella - my recipe - and dealing with the craving I had for it - I was trying to find a way of typifying paprika and saffron as my experience of summer
....

the paprika and saffron fuse
as we get a taste for sunshine

...

the saffron and paprika mark
the opening of arms
to embrace the sun lengthened days
shadows undertone taste
the sweetening redness

...

sun warmed n saffron
the red tomatoes simmer
with paprika -
chicken skin picks up the colour
as each pimpled feather lost
seeks wings to fly

...

the summer soup of saffron
brings me to the bench
- the storm of winter
brings the sea ever closer -
as below - from the cliff
tumbles mammoth bones
or lumps of chalk
each more dead than written

...

peace:)


The Blue Book

15/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting friend's friend

friend's friend

whenever we met
she told me how I disliked her
and in what measure
   and the reasons
and I laughed

her room was draped with peacock scarves
   of purple print and pink bohemian hue
      burnt candle and saffron and wine

even in the stink of summer
   when children in buggies were gassed by buses
      the air striking in the surrey hills
her room had coolness

our disagreement lay
- or so I am told -
in an off-hand remark while drunk
for which no apology was asked
and full insult taken

she never drank tea - only earl grey or lapsang -
but I drank it with milk and no lemon

during one lecture about the perils of meat
I pointed out I was a vegetarian

she knew me better than myself
told me my opinions
defined my tastes and whims
laughed at my clothes
and my carefree contempt

and then one day we air-kissed
      without goodbye


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting entropy

entropy

he said he was waiting for death
   eyes watchful over the sea
and on his knee - neatly wrapped -
   a triangle wax-papered parcel
      tied with string

winching at the badly kept beer
   my eye is caught by a picture
      of the house now hanging -
      captured then - with a paddock
         between it and the cliff

on the wall - more pictures -
nostalgic for a time - when people lived here
   when the pub had trade in winter
   and the school was more vibrant
      than the tennis club

after lunch I take some time
to walk back to that bench again
- he's still there waiting - waiting -
for the slow erosion to take him
   like the open slab of house exposed


The Blue Book

14/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting seep

seep

in the gap between the tarmac
a pink opium poppy
                 - tattered - blooms

and she walks with splayed feet
- in pastel clothes - half dyed -
washed up from the toes
past the turned in knees
to the polka-dot double pram'd shoulders
- gurgling lullabies in plodding tune

they say she had to choose a number
                     - one two three -
and whichever she picked
                        would not flower


The Blue Book

13/07/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

...

today a local jeweler tweeted the sky is like a tahitian pearl and I have searched the bosomy moor for the warming touch

...

and the sun comes out words emerge from knuckled shadow where once the pool shimmered sky now reflected houses ripple

...

peace:)


The Blue Book