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
29/12/2015
#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
......
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
...
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
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
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
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
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
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
....
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
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
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
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)