#poem #poetry #amwriting #nowandthen

 now and then

she takes a bottle of special brew with me
promises a plucked pheasant in return
it's not necessary
                           drawn by the sun
I cycle to the river
down the chalk chipped road
tyres popping mudguards pinging
she sits alone
                     she sits alone to drink
always three bottles to calm the slab
facade of her body
                              she sits alone
by the rise of the cut the crucifix
taken from the church a gold bejeweled
child that will not suckle or confort
at her breast
                     will you take another
I ask clearing the winnings from the machine
pocketing the profit refeeding
the stake
              I sit with her
the fruit knife lies in the grass
it's tip red two swans
break a heart promenade jesus
turned from the river
                                 she takes another
and crisps promises a plucked pheasant

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

.....

 the children wept at king kong
indignant that cartoons lie
 learning a harsh lesson
from which parents protect them
 that no, the hero may die

.....

 blood and soil
how I loathe the inhumane idea
of mr lawrence
or perhaps I'm over reading
what he's over-written
blood and soil
noble savage

.....

 the crosses which we found
    have no nails
only in the searching
   were we bound

....

in this wind the rain will pass
quickly as the sunlight has gone
and I flinch at the trees
in which a robin clings to song

....

hems always hems
always boundaries and
beginnings always
 just glanced touches

no matter how hard we try
it is always edges that cut

....

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #elliott

it seems shiela has really gone and done it this time
    not only has she decided that sex is the best thing since sliced onions
       he laughs at this reference to shakespeare
    and produces a hand written draft
    he has written in response to something or another
    in this or that
    literary magazine

'response is never useful' I casually observe
    sipping a raspberry milkshake with a hint of coffee
    among the ice

oh know I am wrong
and we get it both barrels
with all the smoothness of imitated early elliott

as he reads a bus drools by time drips people do what people do
    pass unobserved on the most part
        certainly in art
        unless it is a low budget film
        when the same faces circling a window
        draws attention to the hair lip
        or the third extra in search of stardom

what do you think he asks
     is it not ts elliott
does it not stand alongside the literary greats
     will it be banned
I do so hope so

blood drips from the toes of the elegant woman at the next table
    her shoes are perfect for her style
       she leans over and thanks him for reading
       'poets must bleed or their words mean nothing' she says
            dangling her shoe
            adding to the puddle on the floor

            they exchange cards
            in the style of kindred spirits
            with an english degree of a certain age

while he is not looking
     I take his poem
          and eat it

his reputation must be protected

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchboard #saxon #church

the past comes as feeling misremembered fragments
we see in our mind beyond description or movement
without time or place or purpose

I can see the saxon church in sunlight but you cannot
come for beyond that memory of light seen in my left eye
there is no story and I

have no wish to learn the technical language required
to strip out my past into your present for the shape
and the smell and the taste

of that moment only remain in context of something
else that I have forgotten so we share the poetry of
nothingness and you

disappointed turn the page

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #cockles

gunnel laden
   net bulged
skipper's snaking pipe
down the dawn channel the little boat rolls
   on drunken hips
   two green lights
deckhand mending nets to aft

gulls follow dipping
    reflected rays
    first sun spearing dark depth
oily sheen glittering against
    the bubble chugged wash
far bank trees bristle warm winded morning

smoking up the break
   fagged muscles prepare
   last cockle cooking
blow lamp crusted jeans
   weathercocked on wages
   and a good days sleep

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

....

 I could stack as well as ron
 14 cases to the layer
16 layers to the pallet
4 ton o'beans an hour
 but I couldn't carry a bullock to the vet

......

 calm down freya
 just because I point out feminism is bullshit
there's no need to throw dustbins

....

 a happy breed
the food bank in which we serve
saves englishmen
from coward maddened dogs

.....

 ice cream in the mud
 cone spike in hand
the lip trembles
at the temerity of a second
 the vaguery of sugared wafer

.....

 she picked the mandolin
with the sweet potato
now everything's
 thumbs up
or thumbs down
and unopposable

....

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook cockles

smoking up the break the call goes in
fisheries gone coast is clear tip the wink
we're cooking up tonight tit warm poly bags
hot turning pan cutting shoulder hoisted

net sack the hopper wrenches joints shoulder
balanced slit the neck salve the cuts
in gas dried wash residue dawn up

at two spliff soothed the gunnel laden
sally ann splits tircolour black
slips alongside to make quick shore up

cook down raking sweating
we cook bag and away by morning
back pocket stuffed and knackered

.....

the nylon cuts your hands the shells cut the cuts
the residue wash heals 'em up before the bag is slit
runnign down the midriff dry before the belt
from the heat of the burners on the pans

up here on the bank winter and summer
is all one wet all one dry all one with the night
black river and black framed sky vince is on the hopper

he really likes the job it suits him I watch the orange tongues
as seeds part curling in the heat

#poem #poetry #amwriting #moonasbrightasday

moon as bright as day

back behind the conifers
   sap scented creosoted fence
splintered excitement tingles
to be alone

she shows me hers
and I show mine

thumb hooked market stall cheapness
   with cute cartoons stretch
we crane necks to inspect
       the unexpected

       as clothes rise and fall
   her face the size of the sun
our den becomes the world

#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....

.....

 Triangular Trade

occasionally I will shake my tambourine
crying sisters and brothers repent
repent the day of judgement
was last tuesday
and now we are all damned

but mainly I avoid angels except on utube
and live a quiet life of contented
drunken joy

sometimes I help others and sometimes
when asked directions
I deliberately send them in a circle
so they can shake their fist
through the help the aged window

but mainly I don't do that
as selfies annoy me
almost as much as other people's faces

I'm changeable you see
aren't we all
well you not so much

I draw the line at meths and weak lager
preferring the middle ground

though if I am feeling extravagant I will drink dutch gin
distilled by the desperate
each stone bottle contains a suicide note
and when corked
the factory throws them into the sea
without regard for profit
      then mermaids collect them
      taking care not to break their nails
      and deliver them to remote scottish islands on winter nights
      when half mad scotsmen put them in boxes
      and send them south to tangiers for distribution

the gin is terrible

but like the henna smoked by teenagers
it's the thrill that makes it worth it
and the license it gives

you do have to be off your head to pay for a bottle

but the blurred words of desperation
and the knowledge that creatures real and mythical
have died to bring you poor pleasure
makes it worth the need to top up on shiraz
if you want to feel anything at all

.....

 Trombone Voluntary

On blue days, when the sun breaks the clouds,
I like to take my lunch by the courthouse.
You might call it a fetish. I crunch crisps
and criminally profile the coming and going.

What really draws me though, is the statue
at the centre of the square to Delius.
Every time I promise to listen to his music
and every time I never do. Instead, having eaten,

I circle the bronze leaves, with the green
and amber glass, and marvel at the beauty
of art; of art in a city without much -
even Sir Henry Irving died to get out.

I'm never sure if you are allowed to touch
civic displays. There's no red rope. I want to -
I want to - to contrast the heat and light,
find imprints of the sculptors fingers,

embrace the shadows of the stained glass
on the shit strewn slabs. But - I don't -
instead I jab it gently, so that if a court official
challenges me, I will say, "just seeing if it is bronze".

Today I am disturbed. At the mouth sized stage
of my second sandwich, a girl sits down,
on my bench; next to me. I at one end,
hand in crisp bag, sandwich hovering.

She takes the guitar from it's case, and
for no reason that I can see, begins to play
the Adagio, Concierto de Aranjuez No 2,
I know this because it was on an advert

and I liked it so much I bought the CD.
Not being the rude sort, I set my lunch aside,
and listen. All the while admiring,
and appreciating, Amber Hiscott anew.

She played the whole thing perfectly.
I thanked her, and said she should try busking.
"Fuck Leeds", she said.

....

 suffer little children

it is always the slightly gritty scrape of clarkes shoes on stone
    mixed with the lingered perfume of candle wax and brasso
    and a subtle hint of incense from the high church vicar
         long departed
         to tend richer flocks in greener pastures
which strikes me upon return

at school christmas service we would squeeze into dark wooden pews
    nudging ever eastwards
    to chalk the elbow of the unlucky outsider
    on the damp whitewashed walls
and sing into our sleeves of sock laundering shepherds
    or the magi following the star by bus and taxi
                                                         and on scooter
                                                         bibbing his hooter

later I gathered from a church poster
    attempting to lure my return
    that god is in the smiles of the happy children
but in this church with the vicar and sir
    unamused by boys singing no-A no-B n-C noel
we learned not to mock the headless saints
    but to fill the holes in which their crumbly bodies stood
    with respectful song
at the price of the slipper or the cane

.....

 deafened, we scan the sky for breakage.
what lies seen and unseen between us
is behind,
forgotten, only in the now beneath
the tin roof of this moment will be remembered.
dragging you back, from the village,
which idles, in the fold of the horizon -
seen through cascading rain
we see those possibilities -
seen and unseen - rejected, taken,
carried in the bulb you fed me
and the promise of you - seen and unseen.

.....

 apronstrings

over-boiled summer has gasped
    autumnal dampened dust
    early winter rain
    joins muddy hands
                              for baking day

           washed to the elbows
                                  more more
                                  use the whole bag
that's enough
smacked hand
                                  draws flour faces

beneath the cairn of currants
     the scales
          rusted catching
     imperially
     await solemn jury duty

                                    mrs cotters jam
or dollied mrs laynes lemon curd
     line up
with homepride
                         echo margarine
                               cheery
                               bero booklet
                               (cherry always optional)

pastry brush bristles smelled of sour milk

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...


......


we only pull fossils from the cliffs
of this serene bay
 gorgeous scene
as we follow the yacht
not thinking of the soldiers providing the view

.....

 today I shall walk the long way
 confuse my routine
shake hands with hands with myself
coming back you can kiss my elbow

.....

 I give six bob to superman
chucked it in his bucket
 I don't know what he was collecting for
 kids or dogs or starving poor

....

 I know people died to get the vote
they also died for secret ballots
stop bloody knocking
I ain't gonna say
I'll vote how I want on the day

.....

 he drinks whiskey and milk
 through a straw
in his catheterised throat
sighs
 triumphant because he didn't give in

.....

 I've joined faithbook
it's nice
you wouldn't like it
women breastfeeding
and no ads
just pictures of people
as they are now

.....

 metastic darkness leave this place
have not care for grace - quicken pace
and go - just leave the door ajar

.....

 enlightened
the balloons rose
each tagged with a name
we watched them
and hoped to make a new friend

.....

 while the saudis whip the yemen
badawi still rots in jail
huzzar for the sharia astronomers
that target without fail

.....

 it's really pretty simple
not deep to comprehend
I seek to live a goodly life
 in hope it will not end

.....

oh what a lark we had
my hurrying son and me
looking for crosses around the town -
chatting away - thankful
we missed,the inauspicious tree

.....

 the yellow bicycles
say come back
 like you like us

......

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #elliott #tselliot

I am a little alarmed by the two shots of hazelnut syrup
   he has a jaunty spring today

'how's elliott' I ask, lifting chocolate powder
   from the froth of my cappuccino
   with the back of my spoon
alls well with elliott I hear
   and with shiela
he points and states that the world is as sunny
   as the day is overcast
   pleased with the double negative
     he sucks sugared coffee from the biscotti
     testing his denture against the hardness

         no
elliott is great he adds
he has no issue with elliott
    peachy

     no
yes
     no

     what do I think of americans
         and more specifically strumbert and weiss
nine peacocks fly past burtons
         the grammarians
fifteen peacocks float on silk cushions
              you know who I mean
one lone butterfly scimitars an ant by the drain
               the language police which dislike star trek and passivity
                   I refuse to name them
don't give them house room
    coldly grate them

'have you tried just writing'

but the english degree of a certain age has him by the throat

muffled in is black woolen coat
    with his red brick scarf
I watch his eyes whirl with syrup
    and maybe a touch of shiela

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

 woman in the beach cafe

she carries a air of treacled sadness
    from lip to nose
    from chin to breast
       again and again they come
in comfort and adventure to sit as lap dogs in the gloom

all silk flowers with twisted stem
     in thirsty foam distorted
     by the artisan glass of the vase
         obtained as wedding gift
for her third husband and the part of herself she gave

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...


.....


if you wish to top a career of anonymous poetry
go on TV with bad teeth

.....

 marry a novelist for money
though a poet will bore you less
        it will just be more often

....

 do I want to hand the country over
or torture everyone in it
 this election has left me torn
             there's an option for the ballot paper

.....

 in kings lynn they are so clever
and in a state of bliss
for the river is a ouseing
with cambridge....
           you're ahead of me

....

 always be nice to catholics
they might be damned
but be nice
god knows where my gran got that one
same place as black men and blood oranges

.....

 'you wait til I get you home'
arms crossing he stands immovable
 'I've got chocolate'
and so parents learn the rules
       they taught

......

 humpty dumpty fell off a wall
humpty dumpty was diagnosed with depression
ATOS couldn't put him back together
      but he was fit to work

......

she circled the statue three times
then said, 'I don't like your poetry.'
hopped off the plinth
and pecked at some chips
    Birds!

....

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchboard

it was a happy day when I found the dead fish
well I didn't actually find it
but I was the only one willing to pick it up
and down at the stream that meant a lot

and yes I did carry it home
no one else would

it made a nice change from soaking your arse in the sewer pipe
crouching low on entry to not crack your head

or finding the rottenest potato
to splat on a back

I was a hero
well when they didn't laugh at me for having a dead fish in the back yard

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #I

I

months have spoken of this place
broken song - tried -
here - beneath trees
in shade
this path on which the sun moves languid
and children kick sungleam

pine cones define us hardened
we open - needles -
unplanted -
our children
will grow will grow bending
genuflected on the breeze
                     in reflection

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

.....

 how can children eat chocolate
on this morning of blossom
do they not taste the sweetness
of the snow on the sunlit hill

......

 stepping from shadows on the lime tree walk
the house, stone bright, sandstone studied facade
aesthetically spreading balanced wings.

.....

sad friend, see the the hill
where we will rest, in daisies.
come sad friend, the cloud
will pass or rain but we
                          will look up.

.....


so perfectly the circle
of nose to lung to eye
to mouth to perfectly kiss

....

 let us read the carved names
     with our hearts
let our soul free to sing
     wing'd and soaring
 beyond the wall, the river

.....

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwritng #sketchbook #II

II

your hand, which was never touched
more than in passing - casuality -
again it reaches from the possible past
to rest on my knee.

                               everything here is fresh
without the need for food, or light.

- casuality - we only eat in tea rooms.
cakes, from three tiered plates, gentilitious
with tongs, raise fingers to drink
use forks to eat - carelessly formal.

the past is always formal and ordered

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #III

III

be bold be bold carry the wind
the birdsong the beggars tin whistle
carry them and cast them aside
do it in freedom
for now we can sing of dark night
now can we share the crunch of shared path
be bold in that love be bold
and do not turn or taste
our names or our faces
for we know the trees do not care
but only draw from the well

for the love you offered
and I rejected
at the stile by the lake

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #IV

IV

deafened, we scan the sky for breakage.
what lies seen and unseen between us
is behind,
forgotten, only in the now beneath
the tin roof of this moment will be remembered.
dragging you back, from the village,
which idles, in the fold of the horizon -
seen through cascading rain
we see those possibilities -
seen and unseen - rejected, taken,
carried in the bulb you fed me
and the promise of you - seen and unseen.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

....

 the tree has seen it
 before you say you know
let us root ourselves

......

 I must shake you awake
to read rilke, again and again,
not to express my love for you
but the love we share

.....

 it's beyond irony
that murderer in chief ms m sanger
should be on the $20 bill
lucky dem blacks won't see 'em
with her views

.....

 the girls called holly names
we said she could play with us
but she doesn't like boys
she says we smell
we still like her tho

.....

peace:)

#poem #poetry #micropoetry #poisoned #pigs #poisonedpigs

maggots

after a morning
throwing knives at trees
and each others ankles
we climb onto the bus shelter
roll on our backs
and watch the clouds

one looks like a dragon
another like dr mopp in his car
but our interest is taken
with the               
              fifteen furrows away
amid the seed potatoes
we uncomfortably giggle
at the squirming rats
on the poisoned pigs

penknife at hand
we all say we like it
especially
the rats eating out the eyes

after a dinner of rainbow
and spaghetti hoops
we drop bricks off the bridge
daring the younger kids
to show their face

#poem #poetry #amwriting #oxygen

oxygen

it's a funny age thirty seven - me not her -

she's fair enough if not to brag of
and from what I can see as a I blow in this pipe
her tits are alright for something to look at

my carbon monoxide is down
would I like to stick with the patches
or try the gum

these frigid types always ask dumb questions

what I would like is a half corona- hand rolled and cuban -
to accompany three hours spent with a rounded bordeaux
then a bit of sleep apnoea to scare the missus

instead I pick up the prescrition
wander home inhaling the dog-shit and woodsmoke
tongue hanging out like an hormonal teenager

#poem #oetry #amwriting #sketchbook #shiftend

shift end

'not a good night' she says
handing out the bowls of chocolate hoops
'is that coffee hot'
                            leave your willy alone
                            eat your breakfast
'mary died'            get dressed - in that order - thank you
toast pops up        you were saying
'I'll drink this and go to bed'

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #blonde

the blonde is to be commended for keeping it's head
to the bottom of the glass
these smokeless bars are soulless bastards
down the irish
whistle

                        jimmy riddle inhale the boiling cabbage
                        live today they say
                        under starters orders in trap one
                        and they're off
                        whistle

                        spin
                        kick it in

                        straighten up your tie
                             the blood follows the pimples
                             to the door

the blonde is to be commended for keeping it's head

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

......

 dear lord
can we. for once all want the same daily bread
and save on the washing up
 amen

.....

 facebook won't let me log in
who will like my cats
or admire this pink gin
I am preparing
for the school holidays

.....

her phlegmatic critique
of the street art picasso
bubbled encrusting
on the artist's third eye

......

eeee tha'day da' pass'd
eet wer't relief
but still ee were't bes'sunday dinner I ever 'ad

....

 vauxhall nova burning bright
up t'ginnel in the night
what immortal hand or eye
can set burberry cap unawry

....

 it is hard to be blake these days -
sitting naked in my garden
the angels came in stab vests

....

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwrting #apron #strings #apronstrings

apronstrings

over-boiled summer has gasped
    autumnal dampened dust
    early winter rain
    joins muddy hands
                              for baking day

           washed to the elbows
                                  more more
                                  use the whole bag
that's enough
smacked hand
                                  draws flour faces

beneath the cairn of currants
     the scales
          rusted catching
     imperially
     await solemn jury duty

                                    mrs cotters jam
or dollied mrs laynes lemon curd
     line up
with homepride
                         echo margarine
                               cheery
                               bero booklet
                               (cherry always optional)

pastry brush bristles smelled of sour milk

#poem #poetry #amwriting #children #suffer #sufferlittlechildren

 suffer little children

it is always the slightly gritty scrape of clarkes shoes on stone
    mixed with the lingered perfume of candle wax and brasso
    and a subtle hint of incense from the high church vicar
         long departed
         to tend richer flocks in greener pastures
which strikes me upon return

at school christmas service we would squeeze into dark wooden pews
    nudging ever eastwards
    to chalk the elbow of the unlucky outsider
    on the damp whitewashed walls
and sing into our sleeves of sock laundering shepherds
    or the magi following the star by bus and taxi
                                                         and on scooter
                                                         bibbing his hooter

later I gathered from a church poster
    attempting to lure my return
    that god is in the smiles of the happy children
but in this church with the vicar and sir
    unamused by boys singing no-A no-B n-C noel
we learned not to mock the headless saints
    but to fill the holes in which their crumbly bodies stood
    with respectful song
at the price of the slipper or the cane

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

....

 charlie's job
in blacked-out europe
was to shine a light for bombers
orange for the outward
green coming back
and run like hell from germans

....

 denial does not define you as in opposition
          of an idea
you are simply living what you hate

......

 on the sofa the chiropodists wife
french kisses the local bobby with no regard
for the six feet of lapwood fence between them

.....

 the ducks did not fly
      the day stan died
as a million knee-borne teacups
      wept with hilda at the spectacles
      without music

......

 in search of human misery
 I went to the daily mail
and found there all the tears I yearned
some things never fail

.....

 love is in the snapped silence
in things we remember and choose to forget
when years later laughing

......

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

I recall my father as a godly man
though he never went to church
    or joined a union
his faith found expression
without need of intercesson in a purer protestantism
    unalloyed with dogma

he would laugh
                were he not dead
to find his simple joy in animals and birds
reflected in the new age revival

in unfair moments of my youth
I would scorn his independence
unrealising
that his brand of tory whiggishness
more closely resembled my own high tory values
    that masqueraded in socialism
    seeking to find something or someone
    to belong to
 more closely than either of us would accept

and I was reminded of this somewhat yesterday
when I happened upon a screed
that passed as poetry 
                                 - just barely -
taking as it's theme who reads poems

    no doubt it was a crie-de-couer
an ernest evocation of the youthful contempt
of that enevitable moment when childhood ends
    when all assumptions of fraternity float like lilies
and one learns the hard lesson that money buys time

laughing at the absurdity of the author
   who was
   rejecting and condemning their nationhood
   for past crimes
   without which they would be here
clutching shame to their cliched heart
with all the passion of a four year old denied sweets

took me bad to those evenings
when gentle discussion of waterhouse or pilger
    would circle into a vortex
    always ending in a theoretical condemnation
    of a theoretical conception of our opponent's position
    full stopped by trading hitler and stalin
as each of us led the other to the guillotine extreme                                   

It saddens me to think of the satire and poetry of a waterhouse column
                                                                           and how lucky we were
                                                                              without ever knowing

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

on salad cream days the neighbours would gather
unashamedly around the hedgehog pineapple and cheese
whiskey and light ale gin and bitter lemon
whilst the adventurous would indulge martini rosso

swirling wallpapered living rooms
dark t-junctoned hallways
hung with thick velvet like widows parlours
and blue newly appliance'd kitchens
in which guests would gather
to create inescapable village stories
indelible as spit

the world was brighter then
night sneaked with slower slippers
as we children knelt at the alter of the tele
free to turn the dial as we wished

the revellers would appear at the door
with offerings on paper plates
or some uproarious father's story
and invitations to help ourselves
to lighten up to keep an eye on father

then Norman in sky blue dress would enter
to wild cheering and whooping
and groping of his squeaking breasts

this was always a sign that the food was gone

the tele retreated to a single white dot
as we retreated to the mansion
beneath the table behind the cloth
to play out our parts in the proper way
fisher price farm mum dad and dog

and on the sofa the chiropodists wife
french kisses the local bobby with no regard
for the six feet of lapwood fence between them

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

.....

 I need the house to be still
the boiler to stop
 the tap not to drip
my feet not to smell

I doubt they will

......

 how brightly was the light there
that rode upon the rippled sea
unabash'd in it's gayest glare
 so unlike the inner me

.....

 as second cousin she still smarts
to sit with the friends and not at top table
with the family and the good champagne

.....

 only decent wine can match
        the pleasure of a well turned phrase
yet both are candle waxed knuckles burned
        to a kind word on rainy days

........

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

it's that dreaded question 'what do you do'
personally I have always prefered
'have you been to dawlish'
or 'how's it hanging'
they are just as informative
and tell one a great deal more about a person
than how they fill their days

of course the question being asked is
'are you a useful person to me'
and like grammar and punctuation in the written word
    or lack of it
    or it's incorrect usage
        it is an excuse not to engage

scared as I am about my teeth rotting
   and no longer being about to eat french bread
   the advantage is that I am no longer asked
      for the coffee fuming from my pores
      the brown finger stains
      and the inability to maintain eye contact
      is far more informative of what I do
         than launching into exchanges about costumer service
         tricky big ends
         or the time I made a bit on the side tarmacing a driveway
         with contraband bitumen meant for the bypass

all of which I enjoy hearing from others
for there really is nothing more delightful
than asking 'what do you drink'
and waiting

either before or after
you discover an unexpected passion for voltaire
from someone you discover is a municipal gardener

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #acting

not being much of a conversationalist
always forgetting to ask the small importancies
    like 'I would so like to hear you tell me what I already know'
    and
    'is it true you only got the job because of your father'
it was odd that I thought myself fitted for the stage

perhaps odder that others thought so to

one imagines actors to be artists
and in uncharitable moments I imagine so to
but years of drama school
with backstage vaginas thrust into my face
    during quick costume changes
          at other times too
          but one does not like to boast
and a love of poetry drummed out of anyone with a soul
    for fear of vowel sounds incorrectly rounded
it is hardly surprising that I abhor television

all that remains of that dream
is a love of drink
and the pleasure of applause
     providing it does not last too long
     or lead to conversation
     unless it is obscure and interesting
     preferably about a subject the fashionable think dull
          the theatre of craig
          brian pattern
          the origin of street names

at around the time that I decided to not even try
    I would have dropped out
    but I was too fearful the council
    would pursue me for return of the fees
I would sit in the back row of the Drayton Arms
    affected Joe Orton style leather cap at a jaunty angle
and scribble lines of verse
                                         of the worthy self important kind
                                              what other ideas does a student have
                                              except revolution
but privately the verse I wrote
took delight in the ordinary
in the deliberately unartistic
small cartoons of life in a most cartoonish style

perfectly suited to the increasingly bit parts I was assigned

#poem #poetry #amwriting #remembrance #stillbirth

#poem #poetry #amwriting #lighthouse #DRINKCOKE

to the lighthouse

in the background the missus is watching one of her shows about vampire alien *CHECK YOURSELF FOR COLON CANCER* hunters in search of the secrets of the anunnaki on rocket powered segways controlled by the third eye

while I once more am drawn to the sea

its probably best if I *DRIVE BMW* wait until she goes to work because the tinkles of the actors brain cells as they work out in seconds what the most powerful computer *DRIVE BMW* takes years to calculate is bugging me

standing on the headland
feeling suicidal

no its not working *EAT KALE* damned television

o sea of memory
wash over me
let me be free

well there is no need to be rude I was only asking you to *DRINK COKE* turn it down a little its got to the good bit apparently they've just *DRINK COKE* found out that ra is having an affair with *DRINK COKE* george washington's niece and that the liberty bell was a wedding gift that got irradiated and now is the centre of a worldwide conspiracy to undermine the freemasons and bring down the sheriff of nottingham who is currently disguised *spoiler *DRINK COKE* alert* and I only know this because someone in finland has somehow got hold of an advanced copy and spilled the beans on the forum well not literally *DRINK COKE* spilled the beans metaphorically *DRINK COKE* spilled the beans as it would be absurd to suggest that beans other than in a jpeg could be spilled on the internet unless perhaps no I'm thinking *DRINK COKE* about this too much so yes dear I will type more quietly I know it is annoying whats ru paul doing in this show oh youve switched over

through funnels carved by the ages
white horses thrash the cliffs
their hooves beat and scramble
for one brief chance to evolve
and breath

though what bugs *STOP LISTENING TO PODCASTS* me more is that for all the hype about the internet of things and robots taking over the world the reality is that computers are incredibly dumb at the most basic things like oh I don't know reading long sentences *STOP LISTENING TO PODCASTS* without punctuation and then hopping on one leg before driving to Tulsa for a milk shake and a fight you tell a computer to *STOP LISTENING TO PODCASTS* perform that sequence of the most basic and normal actions and it will not have a clue or it will perform each one in turn and then act *STOP LISTENING TO PODCASTS* *STOP LISTENING TO PODCASTS* completely irrationally by actually driving to Tulsa when even an ant knows that there is no point in reading a really long sentence with no punctuation because a cupboard door needs closing or your leg itches or your 3rd footman *STOP LISTENING TO PODCASTS* needs a jolly good telling off if not a horse whipping for being rude to the prime minister of Malawi at the reception you held in the ballroom last week

shes *BE A WINNER WATCH TV*gone out now

so once more to the lighthouse

#poem #poetry #multimedia #amwriting

excuse me....

I've gone all multimedia.....



amusingly my hurrying son thinks I should call my channel POETNO1 - a bold statement indeed
my dawdling child was excited until he learned it was poetry, and not opening blind bags,  and declared it 'boring'

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #totenby #recording

For those who wish, here is a reading of to tenby.

https://soundcloud.com/jeremyyoung-7/to-tenby

the text of which can be found here - http://bluemedia68.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/poem-poetry-amriting-tenby.html

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #bakingday

over-boiled summer has gasped
                                            autumnal
dust dampened early winter rain
joins muddy hands
                              for baking day

washed to the elbows
                                  more more
                                  use the whole bag
smacked hands 
                                  that's enough
draw flour faces


beneath the cairn of currants
     the scales
with their rust caught weights
     imperially numbered
await solemn jury duty

                                    mrs cotters jam
or mrs laynes dollied lemon curd line up
with homepride
                         echo margarine
cheery
          bero booklet
                  (cherry always optional)

pastry brush bristles smelt of sour milk

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #micropoetry

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

 .....

 when I told the daffodils  
#Obama wants war
they nodded
                     they knew

.......

 contumelious malapertery
two words to silence any bus
and set tongues wagging
about foreigners and their saucy tongue

.....

 maybe whiskey or Bach
will ease the disconnect
between gnawing gut and head
or maybe both
                       and not care

......

 the past does not welcome today
photographs more curio than curiosity
only toothache rotten tooth
 shows the slightest interest in marmalade

.........

 In Spain babies are born
 with a baguette under the arm
generosity needs
only temporary stitching

,,,,,,

 judging by the shops
#ilkley is charitably caffeinated
with beautifully snipped hair

.....

 mrs sir all bosom and buttocks paddles the organ
as twenty four children stand and sing
then voluntary unaided sit back down again

......

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook #kipling

I've been wrestling with Kipling,  for really quite a while;
chased him round the Hindu Kush and up and down the Nile.
talking with the Tommies while a sharing of a fag
our general conclusion is the chap ain't quite so bad.

he's really not so bad me boys
he's really bot so bad

Of course he gets a bad rap now for his tales of Gunga Din
in this age of people falling out we're not for falling in
 no longer do we rally to the charging of the guard
the colours are for burning now which makes it him rather ba-r-d

he's really no so ba-r-d me boys
he's really not to ba-r-d

#poem #poetry #amwritng #elliott #tselliott

bitter about elliott

we meet for coffee on wednesdays
and discuss his problems with ts elliott
his legs are thin and he does want to eat peaches
but more than that he cannot find the energy
to switch from long stanzas
to short

I'm tired of writing about myself
he says without quotation marks

clearly we have a barista
a law school drop out
for our coffee is patterned in honour
of something or another
of which we have no knowledge
and do not care

he stabs the design with his spoon
and unquotably sighs

for the clean air act
that deprives him of yellow fog
and the english degree of a certain age
that stops him writing rythmicaly
in long sweeping sentences that break out of the implied concrete structure
and then short ones

it's the bloody full stops he continues
if I leave them in they get in the way
and if I take them out I want to put them back in

and all this bloody spring everywhere
bloody daffodils I paint them red
and then shiela says that I am stealing her coffee spoons
that's her trick you see
blood everywhere
why she can't enjoy the relief of the menopause
oh don't quote me

we sip coffee and watch the world pass
wishing a black and white photographer
could catch us atmospherically not smoking

I'm just pleased he has dropped the silver cane
and the caution

#poem #poetry #amwriting #caught

caught

somewhere between long division and the capitals of the world
we found ourselves behind the door by the butterfly cabinet
smokey bacon fingers  high arched windows

show me yours and I'll show you mine
holly blue painted lady speckled wood and brimstone

how cruel the pins how cruel

and the white door gloss painted
the dust in the tar black stripes of the wooden floor

as hail pounded the roof we cleared the desks to the far corners
swung out the runnered ropes to climb like pirates
smokey bacon fingers high arched windows

show me yours and I'll show you mine
small copper orange tip red admiral and peacock

how cruel the pins how cruel

and the leather headed rope still swings
the ink we spilled still stains the lids the desks long disposed

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketcbook

trestles high with dressed white elephant
the kitchen wafts out steamed urn
over-boiled tea in vile green cups
three ridges about the vase tapered middle
the immersion of summer has gasped empty
and now the rain feels warm and luke
autumnal dust yields no longer
but joins muddy hands for baking day

dollied jumbled jam
                  mrs cotter's damask strawberry
                  tart mrs laynes citric curds
the scales with their rust caught weights
imperially numbered for their solemn jury duty
the homepride echo margarine cheery bero pamphlett
milk smelling brush whom lived below the breadknife
thicker womens realm with adventurous coloured picture plates
and always the optional cherry the devil may care

elbow washed and inspected I beat the rolling pin
against my palm draw faces in the flour
as round the pyrex bowl the ragged pastry ran
gathering the errant in solidarity in hurried anticipation
for our turn in power cut candled adventure
gathered beside the leatherette roberts radio
switching between what passed for news
and the police by way of berlin and luxembourg

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

in the autunm after jumble sale mrs cotters jam
or mrs laynes lemon curd would line up
beside the echo margarine the currants the homepride
that brush that lived below the breadknife
and smelt of sour milk and
the grated the cheese bicarbonate of sodium
for baking day

dampened by early winter rain
colder than the dusting summer my fingernails black
from digging trenches for the unpainted army
in order to help first I would wash to the elbows
 returning to the find the first round of pyrex pasty

the scales with the rust caught weights
imperially numbered for their solemn jury duty
hands smacked pushed aside softened margarine squeezed
and pulled into it longed for burial
beneath the cairn of currents or bathe it's wounds in milk

baking day was serious schooling
forehead mopped with the back of the wrist
the heat of the oven plate
turned knife trimmed pies
maids of honour lording it over jam tarts
tap topped fruit loaf
and the oddments made of spare pastry pigs
mustardy cheese straws

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

....

 dead bathroom light bulb
instinct pulls the cord
bow down once proud bishop
 and wash my feet

,,,,

 I have sold my children for poetry and my art
    the missus bought the children back
    they were much less work

......

 a real man only beats his wife
 at cards, carcassonne
and to the remote
                            that works

.....

 two confederates smooth bored
rifle handbags in perpetual retreat

.......

 he doesn't knock her off the cot
 just kisses another
                             and rolls her away

.....

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #lasttrain

rolling fast against the walls beneath the thames
I can only guess the driver is on a promise

half stoned a quarter drunk and merry with company
I go with the flow counting down northern line stations

reading the soon to be yesterday's standard
I learn that princess diana is at it again

well who wouldn't well perhaps not now
but it was yesterday and the driver wants home

how wide is this river recalling conversation
I retort too late to the jibe about my looks

a retort more clever than the comment
not clever enough to be made at the time

what is the time oh I better catch the last train.

well that went well

oh what the fuck
he fucking is
the fuck who doesn't fucking understand the fucking basic physics of fucking space

is fucking gonna
fucking wow us
with fucking derick fucking walcott

oh this is gonna be fucking fun
fucked up fuck with his fucking mortgage
                                            paid by the fucking council
and his fucking certificates
                                       from the fucking gaurdian
                                             fucking poly fucking technic

fuck off you fuck
with your fucking lecture and
fucking write something worth
fucking listening to

O

and so into a fucking vacuum we fucking slip
barely fucking touching the fucking sides

#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....

 To Tenby

that moment at the end of bleary chivvying
summer special on my lap sweets already half eaten
in that moment when with a thunk
unclunked or clicked we were sealed into our holiday

brown vinyl burning legs below my snake belted shorts
father's cigarettes virginian sweet ashen flicked midges
caught on the wind sucked back through the window
sugaring minnie the minx or ginger and numbskulls

all the while mother asking 'are you feeling sick'
brown paper bag ready in the footwell
with the tupperworn buttered ham sandwiches

into an A-road world of trees and hedgesrows
square council housing jig-saw cottages new build bungalow
portico piles down long yellow driveways
and tractors and caravans bicyclists and muttered
white knuckling grip cursing lost time

through country towns with one set of lights
church clocks and women wandered markets
wearing chemically printed polyester

                        i spy sky road car 'can I see it'
and groans for the unguessed three cows drinking
five miles behind
                          
as we ingested the size of the journey
and digested olympic breakfast pancakes fizzy orange
tartrazine brightness free lollipop
the afternoon sibling squabbling
the threats to sit still and put your feet down
then songs would begin

how young my mother was
as she slipped a fox's glacier
                          into my fathers mouth

.....

 Triangular Trade

occasionally I will shake my tambourine
crying sisters and brothers repent
repent the day of judgement
was last tuesday
and now we are all damned

but mainly I avoid angels except on utube
and live a quiet life of contented
drunken joy

sometimes I help others and sometimes
when asked directions
I deliberately send them in a circle
so they can shake their fist
through the help the aged window

but mainly I don't do that
as selfies annoy me
almost as much as other people's faces

I'm changeable you see
aren't we all
well you not so much

I draw the line at meths and weak lager
preferring the middle ground

though if I am feeling extravagant I will drink dutch gin
distilled by the desperate
each stone bottle contains a suicide note
and when corked
the factory throws them into the sea
without regard for profit
      then mermaids collect them
      taking care not to break their nails
      and deliver them to remote scottish islands on winter nights
      when half mad scotsmen put them in boxes
      and send them south to tangiers for distribution

the gin is terrible

but like the henna smoked by teenagers
it's the thrill that makes it worth it
and the license it gives

you do have to be off your head to pay for a bottle

but the blurred words of desperation
and the knowledge that creatures real and mythical
have died to bring you poor pleasure
makes it worth the need to top up on shiraz
if you want to feel anything at all

.....

 Trombone Voluntary

On blue days, when the sun breaks the clouds,
I like to take my lunch by the courthouse.
You might call it a fetish. I crunch crisps
and criminally profile the coming and going.

What really draws me though, is the statue
at the centre of the square to Delius.
Every time I promise to listen to his music
and every time I never do. Instead, having eaten,

I circle the bronze leaves, with the green
and amber glass, and marvel at the beauty
of art; of art in a city without much -
even Sir Henry Irving died to get out.

I'm never sure if you are allowed to touch
civic displays. There's no red rope. I want to -
I want to - to contrast the heat and light,
find imprints of the sculptors fingers,

embrace the shadows of the stained glass
on the shit strewn slabs. But - I don't -
instead I jab it gently, so that if a court official
challenges me, I will say, "just seeing if it is bronze".

Today I am disturbed. At the mouth sized stage
of my second sandwich, a girl sits down,
on my bench; next to me. I at one end,
hand in crisp bag, sandwich hovering.

She takes the guitar from it's case, and
for no reason that I can see, begins to play
the Adagio, Concierto de Aranjuez No 2,
I know this because it was on an advert

and I liked it so much I bought the CD.
Not being the rude sort, I set my lunch aside,
and listen. All the while admiring,
and appreciating, Amber Hiscott anew.

She played the whole thing perfectly.
I thanked her, and said she should try busking.
"Fuck Leeds", she said.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #counted

counted

it is consolation
                         as I step aside 
from the expanding universe

the lady jogger                             
                        of my era
pavement pistoned passes
      her heart
      recorded ergopedantially

that I can no longer touch my toes
       which is lucky
last week
              I kicked the bottom of a chair
the nail turned black
                                dropped off

#poem #poetry #amwriting #tenby

To Tenby

that moment at the end of bleary chivvying
summer special on my lap sweets already half eaten
in that moment when with a thunk
unclunked or clicked we were sealed into our holiday

brown vinyl burning legs below my snake belted shorts
father's cigarettes virginian sweet ashen flicked midges
caught on the wind sucked back through the window
sugaring minnie the minx or ginger and numbskulls

all the while mother asking 'are you feeling sick'
brown paper bag ready in the footwell
with the tupperworn buttered ham sandwiches

into an A-road world of trees and hedgerows
square council housing jig-saw cottages new build bungalow
portico piles down long yellow driveways
and tractors and caravans bicyclists and muttered
white knuckling grip cursing lost time

through country towns with one set of lights
church clocks and women wandered markets
wearing chemically printed polyester

                        i spy sky road car 'can I see it'
and groans for the unguessed three cows drinking
five miles behind
                          
as we ingested the size of the journey
and digested olympic breakfast pancakes fizzy orange
tartrazine brightness free lollipop
the afternoon sibling squabbling
the threats to sit still and put your feet down
then songs would begin

how young my mother was
as she slipped a fox's glacier
                          into my fathers mouth

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

....

 OoOoOoOo moon you send me mad
 i'm gunna blame my dad
 he's the one that made me bad
 and sad sad sad

and dark

...........

 maybe it's me
but I have yet to see
something marked boldly obviously please look at me C
that I would want to pinch

.........

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwritng #whilemotherwashes #newborn

While Mother Washes

wrinkled hand held head stretching
to fall toe short of elbow crook
where are the bones
           there is too much skin

screwed eyes open brief we share faces
           my burbling ceases
gone are the statements of beauty
as I state the fact that I am your dad

          satisfied skin warm nap
half voiced song whispered
we rock comfort rock side to side
in shared breath

name bands
          finger thick
          ankle and wrist
pegged umbilical drips

you are not my child
you are new life
                         of mine

#poem #poetry #amwriting #embers

embers

without children the world would burn
in obsessions to fill out the hours

dear aunt elsie
thrice widow woven
veiled bete noire
she roams the streets for eleven o clock tea
to talk of hospital
whiskered chin
two small dogs
percival and ramielles

and my gran never let's her in
but will not bolt the door

so from my place
by the colouired bricks
I gauge my drift from cherub
to unlovely tackler on the rec
weaving through the guy fawked ashes
to plant between the jumpers
brambling victory leaves

they share black cats
end on end
dispute in details
birthdays jubilees who lived at forty three
while licked fingers
keep my hair in place

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

it's alright for athiests
they don't have to believe fuck all
bung some stats together
deny your humanity
get a certificate
and a big mouth
and dawkins your live in lover

but what of people of faith
who live with the spirit of charitas

they can't just say it's 97%
when the figures show it's not
they too smile at elliot's magi
the passion plays of york
so what if there's a black madonna
there's a black christ as well
but it makes neither less white

etc

#poem #poetry #amwriting #two #dancers #twodancers

two dancing

how sexless we were our carnal affairs
stopping for thunder run naked in rain
to decorous light of front kitchenettes
neighbours tut-tutting politeness


your jete perfect puddle grounded
umbrella folded pike straight fifth
in blue fluff cocoa scented towel
bonjour bourgeois twice pecked kiss

'poem #poetry #amwriting #watercolour

Watercolour

the london we shared was barefooted on the kings road
edging even'd to sloane square guinessed and giggling
always carefully establishing to those guessers
that our tokens of affection were friendly gifts

on sundays we would accidentally meet regularly
on the same bench in kensington gardens by the pond
always at two for effect you read barry waiting
I liked that it showed awareness of our situation

we filled a fruiterers bag with satsuma skins
as I revelled in your rendition of richard bach
interrupted on the sand track coming back
by two fine cavalrymen exercising their mounts 

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

at night you would find him down the allotment
pitch fork in hand agaurding his onion
bessie he called her and bessie he loved
three stones she weighed beneath the foxgloves

with phosphate he dined her he watered her well
to all else he was blind  which proved the knell
for his marriage he was banned from the marital house
so he slept down the allotment in a shed with a mouse

now the twitchering mouse became his foe deadly
it wanted his onion so he employed a medly
of poisons and traps and all manner of death
air gun in hand he's stalked it holding his breath

one night the mouse crept from the hole in the shed
his intent it was clear was the onion bed
it evaded the arsenic and the cheddared up trap.... etc

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

at night you say viking ships come to spray
flame fire peat burn lime'd green metholate
the hot single malt melancholy flat

green amble island make no attempt at
blocking the mainland mountains that drag
waterborn remind us how deadlines slip

from the life we have known life of noise
life rush run run come come sit gently
by my side on the cold stone terrace wall
silence broken gull cry crack flame

carry us in bondage still silent
nosed bouquet peaty we would say
over dinner now it is just a reminder
of the rekindled passion of words

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

this is a meadow made for God
busy buzzing nature lain bare
should I thank each seed

this is a smile made for God
pizza smeared child eyes alive
should I thank each cell

should not I thank them
long gone
who shared in belief
that one day
I too might share this joy

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...

......

 like that moment when you sit and sigh
and say 'oh that hits the spot'
at a cake or the first sip of tea
like that moment just like it

......

 #WorldPoetryDay
gadzooks
yesterday was colon erectile dysfunction monday
tomorrow is moanbeam preservation awartness weak
keep up

............

 take the dorritos from you beard
 nibble em loose let d20s fall
 laying soft against a diplomacy check
goblins jumping off the walls

........

 sparrows crows blackbirds and tits
what choice does a poet have
without resort to the jetset crowd
with their traveling tales

........

 writing out a sum is literacy
working it out is numeracy
4b is the level expected of year 6
and here's his matisse
easy

.....

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #triangular #trade #triangle

Triangular Trade

occasionally I will shake my tambourine
crying sisters and brothers repent
repent the day of judgement
was last tuesday
and now we are all damned

but mainly I avoid angels except on utube
and live a quiet life of contented
drunken joy

sometimes I help others and sometimes
when asked directions
I deliberately send them in a circle
so they can shake their fist
through the help the aged window

but mainly I don't do that
as selfies annoy me
almost as much as other people's faces

I'm changeable you see
aren't we all
well you not so much

I draw the line at meths and weak lager
preferring the middle ground

though if I am feeling extravagant I will drink dutch gin
distilled by the desperate
each stone bottle contains a suicide note
and when corked
the factory throws them into the sea
without regard for profit
      then mermaids collect them
      taking care not to break their nails
      and deliver them to remote scottish islands on winter nights
      when half mad scotsmen put them in boxes
      and send them south to tangiers for distribution

the gin is terrible

but like the henna smoked by teenagers
it's the thrill that makes it worth it
and the license it gives

you do have to be off your head to pay for a bottle

but the blurred words of desperation
and the knowledge that creatures real and mythical
have died to bring you poor pleasure
makes it worth the need to top up on shiraz
if you want to feel anything at all

#poem #poetry #amwriting #jesus #wept

Jesus Wept

somewhere between the 23rd psalm and another
call for revival the trollopian
charicature we call vicar peeping

out of the choir stalls while the x-factor
lot were busy working their repertoire
of hymns dull groovy and modern the four

horsemen of england joylessness on
guitar scantity on comb and paper
zeitgeist penning tunes on the amped

stylophone feminism droning bassoon
a blackbird flew through the unrepaired roof
crapped in the communion wafers then

sang nearer my god to thee very sweet
a revelation the bassoonist clubbed it
on the grounds it was methodist scum

promoting rape there's always an excuse
to general cheering from the vicar
service resumed eclipsed sun shone again

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

I found her down by the brown sealine rocks, a hunched bagg'd
windcheater aged; long dead roll up clinging for light. Anne Briggs,
Anne Briggs, I call to the waves; picking the bass
of her lowland love song. Desperately hoping for reflection
of glory, my backing track on the wind it moves on.


O youthful sweet mermaid of gone folk club sircuit,
whose voice cut scurfed the smoke of the ales;
dreg'd long life again from washed out old sailors,
take my heart wandering through fresh syth'd May.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...


........


his pet a wheeled shopping trolley
 when it bit his ankle
he would say 'orj op it i tol yoo oo behayv'
children threw stones

...........

 to what purpose
            chocolate roses
do you suppose
            which is surplus

...........

 solar eclipse hap-hazarded
just at exact moment
the chinese were handing over the martian spy

 I THINK NOT

vote labour

..........

 when unmortal'd day come bright bidden
clart booted parted angel combed
gilt'd be t'hand of childhood
once more the bed'om door gently close

...........

 sweet hope
 sun drench river
skim stone
fair bank lie
bounce defy
 sweet hop - I

............

 painting nails
counting the grains of self obsession
flat iron face
 when hammered painting nails

.........

 today we melt lead
giddy with madness
fist bump padded glove
solid liquid flow

.........

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook

I've been scribbling again...

Poems in 140 characters or less...


......


I think we passed parents evening
in truth
we didn't understand the answers
and they didn't understand our questions

.......

 I'm rushing this line
because I want it to rhyme with sublime
 before killing
something about overly satanic dim dark milling

......

 chips or smacks
parents evening again
 time to glow with pride
or glower in shame
and wonder why they are so behaved at school

.........

 I watch teenage contortionists lick themselves
phew
thank god the missus didn't catch
me reading TS Elliot in the dark

.......

peace:)

#poem #poetry #amwriting #song #ilkley #summer #ilkleymoor

Summer Song For Ilkley

sun come up                       *stamp*
early over cow and calf
beats a path to white wells
the summer's on it's way

let you and I with alacrity
lace our boots
         and flask up tea
pack backpacks
               pay taxi - (kerching) -
to tramp the day away

sun come up                       *stamp*
early over cow and calf
beats a path to white wells
the summer's on it's way

come gather one
                    come gather all
cock your head
                    and hear the call
of moorland grouse
                    they ain't shot 'em all
to tramp the day away

sun come up                       *stamp*
early over cow and calf
beats a path to white wells
the summer's on it's way

o let us sing of swastika stone
                sat up there forlorn alone - (ahhhh) -
misunderstood since adolf come - (booooo) -
turn thine wheel
                          belight new sun
to tramp the day away

sun come up                       *stamp*
early over cow and calf
beats a path to white wells
the summer's on it's way

twelve apostles they're standing stones
widershins three times she roamed
sprained her foot but carried on
to tramp the day away

sun come up                       *stamp*
early over cow and calf
beats a path to white wells
the summer's on it's way
 
sun come up                       *stamp*
early over cow and calf
beats a path to white wells
the summer's on it's way

........
sung to the tune Hal-An-Tow by the Watersons
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qs9PMky7Fj0

#poem #poetry #amwriting #satire #death #narcissus

 Death of Narcissus

'I like my poems to rhythm and rhyme'

wounded stabbed damn'd eye
of the internet poetry buff
                                        did you not
 see the swift the gabled end
where you not punched in the gut
by the change in tone
did not Phibus car drive you yonder
              did you not
 wander alleys you will not go
in shoes more pinched
speckled finch o mourning cloud
                                      did you not
 did you not
                   did you not
poor worm plucked eaten in three parts
                    while children laugh

                                                      so forget
                                                    sweet regret
                                                      beget yet
                                                    gone sunset
                                                   signet egged
                                                         in blue
           will that do
damp churl

#poem #poetry #amwriting #stunted

stunted

the visitor from porlock is offered
coffee cream ernest thanks more tea friendly
we talk of poems spoiled by quick visits
from excusory friends oh we laugh now
and then when seen in bitter night of thoughts
regret those marvellous swift turns bobtailed
the ascending fright of the lark the craw
of the raven we wonder why caffeine
ten beats to the line is not the poem

we were meant to write

#poem #poetry #amwriting #bradford #delius #hiscott

Trombone Voluntary

On blue days, when the sun breaks the clouds,
I like to take my lunch by the courthouse.
You might call it a fetish. I crunch crisps
and criminally profile the coming and going.

What really draws me though, is the statue
at the centre of the square to Delius.
Every time I promise to listen to his music
and every time I never do. Instead, having eaten,

I circle the bronze leaves, with the green
and amber glass, and marvel at the beauty
of art; of art in a city without much -
even Sir Henry Irving died to get out.

I'm never sure if you are allowed to touch
civic displays. There's no red rope. I want to -
I want to - to contrast the heat and light,
find imprints of the sculptors fingers,

embrace the shadows of the stained glass
on the shit strewn slabs. But - I don't -
instead I jab it gently, so that if a court official
challenges me, I will say, "just seeing if it is bronze".

Today I am disturbed. At the mouth sized stage
of my second sandwich, a girl sits down,
on my bench; next to me. I at one end,
hand in crisp bag, sandwich hovering.

She takes the guitar from it's case, and
for no reason that I can see, begins to play
the Adagio, Concierto de Aranjuez No 2,
I know this because it was on an advert

and I liked it so much I bought the CD.
Not being the rude sort, I set my lunch aside,
and listen. All the while admiring,
and appreciating, Amber Hiscott anew.

She played the whole thing perfectly.
I thanked her, and said she should try busking.
"Fuck Leeds", she said.


The Blue Book