#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

#poem #poetry #amwriting oubliette

oubliette

the fond view now remains
not the keep of then

not the face by numbers forged
each a windowed glance

just the flare of struck matches


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook

the fond view now remains
not the keep of then

not the face by numbers forged
each a windowed glance

just the flare of struck matches


....

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

....

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

....


The Blue Book

#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

#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and sold hot dogs out of date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

#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

#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

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook

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

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

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


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwrting sketchbook goodbye

ciao she said without irony
twisting her bracelet pearl side out

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

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

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

......

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

as they line up to grin and be happy


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting psalm 23

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


The Blue Book

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

some notes and sketches on a train

...

that night -hurried bedtime
left a slash in the curtain

....

there stars held shining
at the spinning of all things

...

bundled in argumentative rush

...

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

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

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

....

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

....

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

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

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

....

peace:)



The Blue Book

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

Don't mind me...

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

....

friend's friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then one day we air-kissed
      without goodbye

....

entropy

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

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

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

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

...

seep

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

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

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

....

tanning

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

...

anarchist

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

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

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

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

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

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

....

francis harvey

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

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

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

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

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

...

peace:)


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting yellow

yellow

summer is the dead time

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

but now it comes
   and like birthdays
   it does not satisfy

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

but give it a month
and the august heat

give it the happy time of september

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

for summer is the dead time


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook

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

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

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

etc etc


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook elizabeth warren

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

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

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

etc etc etc


The Blue Book

#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

#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

#poem #poetry #amwriting friend's friend

friend's friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then one day we air-kissed
      without goodbye


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting entropy

entropy

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

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

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

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


The Blue Book

#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

#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

#poem #poetry #amwriting tanning

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


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting july

july

it's under the skin -
curls and quivers
and occasionally aches

it kisses you when sleeping
and mutters words of love -
so deep - heartfelt -

and your hands become paper
expensive and heavy
- the dimples holding ink -

when the sun rises pink -
it comes not as as opportunity
but as a chore

not unwillingly undertaken -
but it lacks the thrill of snow


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook from my notebook 2

in displacement you plait my hair
as we share that moment of imagining
lyric in extreme - you fall as I have before

it is admiration in our jealousy
of that we feel but cannot express
with any of the capacity

....

on visiting the new play-centre at the methodist church -

the room has that peculiarity
fresh wood - hamster damp -
mingled emulsion laden
up lit - three coated -
only in the shadows
does the previous exist

in the faint traced lining paper
the stubble of ghosting damp
or the re-plastered ridge
which once marked the relayed pipe

one half expects to see the face of jesus
bleach sooted in a vague form
but perhaps that miracle
awaits in the soldiered toast
of snack-time

....

smallness grows out of iced bun crumbs
reaches over the red-faced suggar-rush
to slide grinning once more
elbows tucked tight - frictionless -
through the nylon net - thumbs raise -
to the cry of awesome

...

it's not raining
a single balckbird sings
at the pool's end - the weir carries -
the excess to the river

and on either side of the rool
two boys duel with water-pistols
their cries laugh
as they spray each other's belly
until the water is spent
when they cry I don't like it

reload
and start again

...

tanning

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

...

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

....

one might be in paradise
secluded within this sheltered hollow
with the dash of waterfall
whiting out the traffic

...

peace:)


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting anarchist

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


The Blue Book

'poem #poetry #amwriting media

media

this isn't widely known
whisper it
build up the suspense
wipe the memory of the young
push the mammary to their lips

hate your parents
hate them
hate them

this isn't widely known
whisper it
build the suspense
wipe the memory from their past
implant the falseness of the present

sieg apple
sieg bbc

this isn't widely known
whisper it

whisper it

history doesn't have lines
only continuums
and you don't have to choose sides

and the symbols
that once would strike you down
are the symbols you are fed
with just enough change
to make poison daily bread

this isn't widely known
whisper it

sieg apple
sieg grammar

sieg life
in repose
without electric vogue

and love those who would hate you
and reject propaganda
of those who claim your love


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting francis harvey

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


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting sketchbook stuff in my notebook

stuff in my notebook

...

the past is not another world
just a waypoint to the present
that we present ourselves

gathering dust the books we read
spark and shift in ideas
incompatible often

with that we have misheard
conflicting in gossip

...

the past comes dripping back
in angry scraps that conflict
with themes

or the fraying seams tugged
they pull apart leaving wheat straw
of unburnt fields

the ashen earth to grow
hopeful sapling stirring
of the flower we wish to be

....

since they came I find myself unsure
though the truth remains
the facts change
moving to find a fitting lug
in the fluid flow of thinking

yet nothing remains intact
or fits exact

and the fret holes of emotion
will not bite or hold the pattern

for if that scream holds true
it will not fit with the time
and if the space is changed
this picture remains unframed

bare of shape
I am but mad

...

waiting for the heatwave
for the shortage of sun burnt air
the clatter of ice cream scoop
squawk and chatter the bread fed ducks

on the radio dire warnings
we must check on our neighbour
and pay particular attention
to the young and very old

everywhere reddened shoulders
draining becks stone-peeped and dry
the thunking clunk of picnic rugs
under trees in the park

....

where has the sunlight gone
everywhere is green and bright
swelling proud in sunlight
sweat mopped brows under tinted glass
at pavement tables
tan to brown
arms hand heavy as knotted cords
swing like elephant ears

...

home is where the heart is
they say
ignoring the soul
and that part of god
which longs for silence

that peace
stretches it's divinity
to a size beyond capacity
in which all the world is in one's grasp
in sublimation of our petite self

for all the riches of the earth
are base as flint napped wood

....

between the breeze sweet burns the skin
as single air-liner rises on four tales
the vapour in folly zipping the sky

....

glissando grey the night hides
in lingered slide to dark
above the rain glossed slates

gentle plasma in reflection
of the spectrum candle
on the window pane

...

peace)


The Blue Book

#photography #ilkley june compilation

peace:)

prints of my pictures available - here 

The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting june compilation

the education of norma

she's too brass tacks banged into the head
but there's something else
seen over coffee
a stifled creative thrust
which if allowed to fly free
would shatter the basis of everything

you see it peel the curtain aside
in stories of school mistresses
redolent with tapioca topped with jam
and cold backsides
in coal-tarred outhouses

she just wants to be heard
wants that fire
   instilled in her daughters
to somehow reflect upon herself

but she's too brass tacks

...

 back eye

today my youngest son climbed a tree
using all his might balance and strength
standing amid the highest boughs
he reached out his arms
               crying 'look at me'

a girl in his class told him to 'stop showing off'
for he had climbed higher than she

and I thought of pentheus
- that most stupid of men -
who failed to see
that aside from tampons
and wiping their arse backwards
   there is no mystery

misogyny misogny
they've all got misogny
for we can't climb the tree
let us cut him down

and old dionysus
laughed
that poor old pentheus
had never seen his sister in the bath
and learned that pipes that pass piss
are little more than a whores kiss

assuming the whore will kiss at all
for her body may well be on call
but her soul is somewhere else

had he never seen a hen party
dressed as nuns or naughty nurses
tottering on heals too high
handbags clutched against the thigh

leery as any idiot man
clutching a lager can
on the first train of the morning

so I called my son down
from that tree
to teach myself the lesson
that men might climb
from time to time
but they must never question

...

then

just before we parted
in the space between the final word

just before a blackbird sang

evening rose with a sour milk moon
the countryside beyond
stood but a single broad bounded step

just before that final word

in that time
when our as yet unremembered day
trailed out to the low grassland


a shrouded whiteness fell
as cobwebs on happiness
threaded by the hope of love

that final word that breaks the glass
from which none can go back

and in which there is only parting


...


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting infidelius

infidelius

a whole week of work
wrapped into an ankle
to see if it is tanned or stockinged

one grows too old for hope
of that moment when plucked from a shelf
two souls affirm together

and do not see the swelling breasts
but dance in joy to tasted tongues
and slide and slip unguilty in the pleasure

wine does not ask
nor does it tell

so like the gate-keeper of macbeth
I shall grumble to bed
filing that ankle of desire
              among my books


The Blue Book

#poem #poetry #amwriting you

you

you
for whom everything is certain
brush through the late spring
with the eager disinterest of a spaniel
stealing sandwiches from a stranger's picnic

you
do not notice these ferns
curled around in turning cartwheel
fingers held in buddhist contemplation
of shared energy of the body

you
want to know why I am interested
in these plants immemorial
that have not been mentioned
in this week's newspaper opinions

you
bring a book next time we walk
to refute my claims
of greatness
for the leaves now spread


The Blue Book