01/05/2015

#poem #poetry #amwriting #micropoetry april compilation

for what it is to forget
to live bereft of regret
and watch the sun gently set
thus to wait morning come

..

 there is always that moment
when you say you are a poet
the wings sprout
and your fey nature is revealed

..

 one day manchester will be built
the cranes will take wing
without girders in their beaks

...

 across the valley rain hangs like ghosts
phantom shafted rainbow shimmered
they turn inwards entwining
sweep southwards on the wind

...

 and I switch off the radio
and put on some music 

for the fascists are already here

...

 the past is in my left eye
   emotion in my right
and if they come together
  then perhaps you might
see the scene illuminated


...


for the sake of thirty pounds
they stand her on a chair
and when the poor cow wets herself
they make her touch her toes

...

 only when the sky is blue
does the river run that colour too


...


outside the health club
   raisins and apricots scattered
- new found strength or despair
   the sparrows couldn't care

...

 the valley is gently green
unapologetic of it's beauty
the houses like tumbled quarry rock
fear their fate - weed their garden

...

 a bird rises like a soap bubble
from the heather
in two bobs and a bound
it is gone
as you tramp onwards
wishing for wings

...

 the turkey yolk
sinking of the sun
emphasises the tortured past
of the hillside oak

...

it's odd how the dull
- always have certificates
and complain about being provoked
- thank god for the world of bland art

...

 the real problem with criticism
is that critics so rarely heed
                                 the feedback

...

 if men had babies
they'd have to be small


...


the potted narcissus lay collapsed
on the four o clock pavement table
amid the crumbs and spilled tea
in passing I stood it up
 we loved me

..

 - up and down
the sunglasses
follow the clouds

...

  bob dylan touched my back
shame it doesn't mean anything
these days
more of a shame it wasn't joan biaz
I might have been a poet

...

 if you are mentally ill
than make sure you paint it black
or you'll be called a liar
by the compassionate

...

 the tree beside where I sit
- finally shows it's hand
as horse chestnut

...

the outrages that you feel
would be fine
if you were dealing with human beings
instead of constructs
from which you are excluded

...

 coffee coloured rounded silence
- and rainclouds pass -
as you await the clatter of satchels
       demanding food


...


I shall no longer be depressed
but simply unehelich of mood
- and see if the doctor has a pill for that

...

 today the mannigham strip was closed
supply lorries backed up westgate
from the lumb lane check point
toys r us was open

...

 only later did they find
I had not committed half the crimes
and recommended that I wear
gloves - when handling suspects hair

...

 methodist and town hall clock
dueling at midnight
two bells apart
- only bathroom lights -
it's a pretty town

...

 poetry is not the preserve
of jam bound old men
sharing in jokes with outsiders
- leave that to television

let poetry breathe truth

...

 two crows
sitting on the buss stop roof
not knowing
they will have to fly home

...

 fuck I hate poets
who say
'this is a series of sonnets'
and then reduce
the human condition
to joyless witless ash


...


take my soul packed like a snowball
- hold it to your breast
for no matter how inflamed our kisses
not once have you burned me

...

 we are the shadow of our shadow
collected stones gathered for their shape
a pear an arrow the face of a dragon

...

 These days I adopt the arsene wenger position
pile on the duvets
and hope to finish in the top four

...

 a small boy
at football
sitting on the terrace step
during dull games
he'd look up skirts
- that stitching on tights is scary

...

  a morning so lazy
not even the rain falls

..

 the sleeping child
gently snoring
on his breath
a gull's faint cry


...

 I am told - and never listen -
consider the reader
- odd
the writer is unique


...


I love this time
when my skin turns silver
no matter how hard you try
the day is over


...


beyond the vicus lies the ley
where fairies dance, all in green,
weave and wheel tumble 'round -
beat pan and pikestaff on the ground

...

 encircled by white lichen
a common lizard basks
atop dimpled grey stone
   cart-broad bridge
road long gone -
yellow flowered gorse advance

...

 I can no more intellectualise
this hungry self doubt
than the need to eat
a greggs sausage roll


...


the enjoyment index
is measured in
pine cones, sticks, and
stuff you really wished stayed outside


...


red groose break the gorse
skitter laughing at first
until annoyed they chunter
and gossip

...

  strawberry picking is the graveyard of millionaires
 arse in the air
you soon learn the value of college

...

  oft have I wept at a poem
    when full on wet with wine
and in cold morning's waking hour
    no poetry could I find

...

 peacock perks petty philpot
pickard plows pool
vortigen vowles waggott waggitt
field forrest geare gill

...

 bouncing blue stripe
haloed white
from tree to grass into flight


...


sun warmed air
 stretches flick flacked
as a bike freewheels

...

  I came to bradford as a refugee
from a country called england
through cracks in the shithouse wall
                             dandelions bloom

...

 blood bloated gangrenous drunk -
 he throws the can
the clatter and roll suggests half full

...

 it's easy to confuse sex with love
they (who know everything) warned about both
but only one requires you to be there

...

 blue - splosive into vowel
on sad days nasal catching
us low - flap tongued and sighing

..

  'oh thats great' he said
shrinking it to words
words to fit a pocket
ribbons in a girls hair

...

 mummy and daddy
 never changes
only the names they call themselves

...

 Oi biddy
if he wants to wave his foot
and roar at pigeons
let him
 they aren't dumb enough to get kicked
he will cry if he kicks one

buy a dog

...

  in loco parentis
I shout
stamp my feet
say I wanted to go up the moor
and not swimming

as all the broken promises come back
 in loco parentis

...

 namaste
for we do not say
 or go
just bump souls
and understand
namaste

...

  burnt nutty lace bubbled
you eat around
until resisting no more
you half the yolk
it falls like excitement
of a thrice checked raffle ticket

...

  it is not the whip of the cane which stings
but the act of bending over the desk
to face those
         who should have been impressed

...

  I was given whiskey the night my grandma died
to get me drunk and sleepy
so as not to see my mother cry

..

  it's inconsiderate of jesus to die
in the middle of the school holidays
where am I to find the energy for church
after woods, swimming, picn....


...


automatic writing I assume
would be genghis khan or hitler
 instead i get a housewife from hume
with ghastly tips for knitters

...

 let us sing the praise
of little people the modest
gentle kind people
that unfocused group
whom always surprise

...

  barometric butter
tells me to stock up on fat
 accept holy bread
or lay it on thick

...

 poets aren't as delicate as the cliche
 we don't mind
we don't care
and the good ones well...
they just try and improve


...


I met myself as a child today
 told him not to smoke or drink
 that the millennium was a number
 he didn't listen nor did I

...

 don't sing the 23rd psalm
was the instruction in north end yard
they've enough on their plate with the funeral
without being reminded of god



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