#poem #poetry #amwriting grizzly man

why complain of love
when you shouldn't be here

I could bite out your throat
rip the flesh from your neck
lock jaws to expose you

Why grasp for love
when nothing higher exists.


#poem #poetry #amwriting each day I pray

each day I pray for the death of Amerika
not the people, not the land,
but the fist, the crippled hand
of war, and secret empire.

each day I pray for the death of Amerika
to see the buildings turn to sand
all stripped of pride, of gold and
jewels that melt and tire.

each day I pray for the death of Amerika


#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook pillars

Four pillars, fluted and scrolled, stand now in support
of nothing: in nettles, behind wire. They do not hold
the sky. Nor is there sign of what might have laden;
no twisted rust, nothing. Only in a moment, on the path
when pausing to look at a thistle half blown, do I
wonder what has been taken, and that which remains.


#sea #photography boy and beach

Boy and Beach


#sea #lytham #photography figures at dusk

Figures at Dusk


#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook bliss

Let bliss be that moment, when footsteps slupper
in the dampness of sand and all sound rings with blood
in the ear. Where by reaching out without lifting
we may pull down the sky to rise, with tails flying,
with nothing more than the string of ourself
to hold us. And all around us glitters, pooled,
in the brilliance of light, for where we stand
and what we see reflected in clear air exhaled.

Let that be bliss. Let that be the bliss of knowing
that we have made track of steps without fear
or demanding eternity, for that moment we are.

#sea #sky #lytham #photography sea and sky - 360

Sea and sky - 360



#poem #poetry #amwriting Prodigal


In part the feast, part seen in dream, returns
in the golden light of summer eve:
when through the elm tree avenue we walk.

Perhaps the drift, of slow cooked fish, caught
amid the clinking glass of chatter:
from the deck of the restaurant across the way.

Or the rain of breath, falling from the trees
to lift the step, and skip the eye
to those scenes we keep in corner sight.

There the table, white of cloth, with silver.
There the grapes, and hams, and breads.

For no more seen, than gone, that place
between the stone pillars:
atopped with urns, on which hangs
the memory of that rusted gate.


#poem #poetry #amwriting the god thing

On days when the shivering chill water;
seen though sap wet spines; glints silver
and puddles out as cascading pennies
at each scudding bounce of flat stone.
When barely whispered clouds hang
peeking from the moor heads, not daring
bleach the sky. And, pert leaves no longer
than a mayfly's wing have left the tree
as yet unformed to mar the view in shadow
in their drooping; open fullness.
In that moment, of breathless new heated air
- perhaps - it is what we feel.


#poem #poetry #amwriting red onion

The older I get, the more like red onions:
I'd eat them as apples, if I still had the teeth.
There's something beneath ourselves
that in losing taste, picks at smells,
and tries to make of simple pleasures
for what they are. When I drove I car
I always drove fast, or balanced on the clutch
between the urge to stall, and the biting of second,
lies the sweet point; everything else is speed.
That soft mush. like a death row meal,
less grueling to chew than the walk.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo ....

Only breath, of all that connects us to the stars,
when held gently on the palm will trace the past.
No swiftless season there: to ripen lingered day
to that we might call wisdom, in folly unto art,
that meaning might be found. Then let it stand.
And, let it slip away across those ridged whorls
like dried apples; never bought nor bitten
but handed out for healthy teeth and minds.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Without Grand Claim

Without Grand Claim

This little lamp, unmarked by soot;
so coyly hides when asked to play
the game of belief.  Instead I send
a raven with a dove in it's beak
in answer as a hoped of peace.

But when the pale rider comes,
perhaps alone, without the pipes
and drums of transformed time;
this little light, of comfort warm,
without the need to mark me out,
will be enough, I trust.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #naporimo 2C 17 April


The unmoving couple sit and wait for the bus
that will not come. They sat there yesterday.
Tomorrow they will still be there: I suppose.

And, they are. In the same clothes, same shoes.
Though today, which is tomorrow, for you,
a magpie watches them from a nearby roof.

Just one. For sorrow. Yesterday the magpie
was not alone, but in a three. For a girl, perhaps.
But yesterday you did not see it, as two

because you cannot be happy with uncertainty.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Found


How long the rain, counted out like cotton
from a dandelion, upon her face: she would not say.
The distant hills grew dark and still she stood,
not waiting for the past, but for a present change;
when the telephone would ring, again, but not
repeat what had been said. In the growing glare
of evening, her silhouette mined sorrow
with all the sadness tainted silver bares.

Had she ever banged her head?
Or chipped a tooth?

At the third undrunk cup of coffee,
when the stain upon her cotton dress
hung heavy at the hem, she let herself
be led from the rain of the balcony to her bed.
There to take communion, of wine and pill,
as fretful faces murmoured low, she undressed;
stiff as a doll, staring at the ceiling.

Did she have any birth marks?
Had she ever painted her finger nails?

At the closing of the door, and the flicking of the light.
she held onto the crucifix, she wore before
as decoration. And sinking from unthinking
a prayer played upon the lips, for children....


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo doubles Within and Without 5 April

Within and Without

Snared leverets lie, as neighbours,
angled on the quarter hour;
the hindmost outstretched tendons point
to the fact it's half past three.

I have followed the sun up the hill
to where the barrows softly rise,
more natural than the turning wheat.
And from this highest vantage, now
appears painted on the lower sky, the sea.

And all around me sings of birds,
and, all brightness rises from the earth.
And over, under, piled below
sleeps a king from long ago.

I cross this out: and pull hard on my roll up.
My blister is hurting more.
I slug brandy,
swallow a couple of paracetamol:
hope the pathologist has the sense to check my feet:
take note of the Ordinance Survey map, my pack;
and not assume suicide.

There should be a poem in these rabbits.
The bloodied necklaces, their heads together,
their bodies butted out.

But there is not.
There is a blister, needing three miles of nursing,
and a bloodied sock that may not fit
the dusty, gaping boot.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo sansan Hollow 14 April


Within this wooden womb, my heart:
its timbrel louder than the devil;
is all that breaks the silence here.
The circled walls, on touch impart
to fingertips some gnostic will
to know, some part of us explained.
The blank of touch: thoughts appear
traced into sense in patterned grain.


#peom #poetry #amwriting #ilkleywriters #Ilkley Scry


I found the cord of honeysuckle, you made,
garroted in the stump. One flower remained
hyaline, embossed where bark had flayed
before the tree lay drowned, in waves
of sinking sand and mud. Ungrievous grave
so simple there, where land meets sea in play
of silted dawn, of squelching dusk; opaque in clay.


#poem #poetry #amwriting Return


They used to hang bodies over the black-water creek;
picked bodies of picked men, their entrails pulled
by the birds in greedy jerks. The dead glass eyes watching
over and out to the waves and the clouds:
or with a twist of wind, or the collapse of a gull tugged neck,
those same dead eyes might turn back, to the landward
from which they came, a week or so before.

We step across to the sand, as through a rent veil
which locks out the sound of the marsh, and the traffic.
These riddled sands, caught between the turning tide
in expanse, hold only ourselves and the wind.
We do not look back, but sometimes down
to the dry, to the empty, to the occasional shell still sealed.
We do not look back, too tempted by the coldness of the sea.

On each ripple dies a star, combed clean as morning.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Index Poem 12 April

From in the Shadow of the Sword
by Tom Holland

Attitudes to slavery enshrines Mecca
as pivot of cosmos. Wilderness on borders,
competition for proselytes, earthquake,
and the flood, pays little heed to the Prophet.
Ancient manuscripts and Rabbis in Palestine
bargain with Constantinople over heresy:
contextualising tradition of charity
as cockpit of global affairs.
Harbingers of end days
Arab desert spirits decrees compulsory baptism
of Jews and Samaritans, re-minting of coins
and mercenaries patrol frontier.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo On the Day of First Dead 10 April

On the Day of First Dead

From the postbox on the corner
I watched the people come and go.

My mother in a sheepskin coat,
hunched and hurried, through the door.

And all the world was held within
the circle of the shadow there

in which, I chatted out the tale
of why I turned and turned, around

the postbox, cold against my hand.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Spine Poem 10 April

On the beach Tolstoy learned
that Anna could not hear the silence of the lambs.
Her great expectations craved high windows.
a wonderful life, and bloody victory:
she hated little women.
Not for her the writers handbook,
with its female eunuchs taking tea with Kingsley Amis.
No. Ecce Homo.
So prick up your ears Tolstoy,
for Anna has the Inter-railing Handbook 1987
and is off to the promised land.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo things you thought you would never write 9th April

I have writer's block.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Black Narcissus 8 April

Black Narcissus

The dried ring of yellow piss in the mouth
of the gusset: moonlight on the moving moor
rebounding with the dead reply of silence.

More precious than a common ring, this thing
elating from the act; more worthy than the weeping
common kindness of the common bond.

For echo has met echo in assumption
of their perfect love. In searching for a glove
their hands, dripping at the wrist, entwine.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo 352 7 April

(in memory of Keith Bennett)

Not gentle, not like home, these moors
lack beauty: lacking light the shadow lies,
a godless fleer hangs leering still.

Treeless, moulded, never still,
the passing clouds define the moors.
Looking from the bus, to folds and lies,

black ditches dark as witching lies
and creeping rocks that then stand still:
a single raven, on a wall, surveys the moors,

for on these moors, not like home, still lies...


#amwriting #poem #poetry #napowrimo Food 6 April

My little lad climbs on my knee,
picks out the letters off the screen,
'Am I a cereal killer?" he asks.

#amwriting #sketchbook woods

My father always told me not to go into the woods on Spittal Hill, or the beast would get me. But, my father was gone and my mother didn't care. She was obsessed with the new bloke, and he didn't care either.

So there was no reason not to: so I did.

Or rather I didn't, I daren't. I stood by the 'Keep Out' sign as Martin picked his way through the barbed wire fence.

It still puzzles me why he turned to say goodbye before he slid into the ferns.

It was like he knew.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Bad Seed 5 April

Bad Seed
(for Mary Bell)

We murder so we can come back
purple where the white once lay:
to grip the stem with tight figures
cure sore throats we like to say.

Daddy bee too drunk with nectar,
mummy she has gone away:
come join us little children
all fall down we like to play.

See the little babies sleeping
peaceful, with a hint of grey:
see their mummies all o'grieving
skip away, away, and never say.

We murder so we can come back
we children crost with the fey:
We murder so we can come back
out all day in search of play.


#shortstory #amwriting 3


They followed the path down through the woods, until they reached a gulley cut by a waterfall. The night was barely moonless, and the woods enfolding. Beyond the approaching rush of water, and the occasional car: the very occasional car, to remind them that they had not stepped back in time: the only sound was the breaking of twigs and the crunch of their boots.

Josh kept close to Mo, who was clearly in no mood to talk.

At the gulley, Josh could see down the narrow gouge the lights of what he took to be a farmhouse by the looming shadows of the outhouses. And, in the fields in front the dotted outline of what he took to be sheep. The path here turned back up the hill, but to Josh's surprise Mo slithered down the bank to the stream and set off down the steep incline. Josh followed. At the bottom the ground was marshy, almost ankle deep mud, they waded through this until they reached a thicker tree-line again. Here Mo rested, ducking down behind a tangle of brambles.

"Ok," said Mo, taking off his back-pack, "we wait here for the others."

"Others?" asked Josh, dropping down beside Mo.

"When they come, you say nothing. Let me do the talking."

The darkness here was almost total. The only real light coming the slightest reflection of moonlight on the head of the waterfall. The shadows ran down the hill in a perfect gradation of grey, into it reached the blackness with the arching cave of the brambles, And just as Josh's night-vision adapted, so his hearing in the stillness began to pick up on the sound of the woods. The faintest creaking of trees, the splash of bird-wings, the distant squabble of late roosting crows.

"Mo," he whispered, indicating movement away to the left.

They both stared at the shape, which hung frozen, listening. Then hearing nothing, the shape moved again, slower than before. Josh thought he could see the head, which seemed to be sniffing, but at the angle they were viewing from, and amongst the trees it was difficult to make out what it was. Mo, angled his body to get a better look. Josh noticed Mo's thumb moving above the trigger of the assualt rifle. The shadow was moving toward them, less concerned now. As Mo moved the rifle to his shoulder, Josh could see that the shadow was a deer. Josh's heart began to race, realising that Mo had taken the safety off of the gun, and was intending to take a shot. The creature was less than twenty metres away, it's eyes glinted, and it was clearly sniffing at something. Mo braced the rifled into his shoulder, his movements matching the deers for stealth.

Then suddenly deer startled and sprang back in the direction from which it came, Moments later they heard the sound of splashing, stumbling, and guttural curse. Mo clicked the safety back on, lowered the rifle and said, "that was freaky."


#poem #poetry #amwriting #nopowrimo Hinge 4 April


When just in lingered scented air
outstretching in unbalanced days
without the fullest heat of summer
   or forgotten cold, you, without reply
   before the month is ended: slowly
start to die.

              Not waiting for all flower bloom,
or trees to plump, their fruit to swell,
in single primal pivot hour,
our longest shadow turns, our hands hung loose
   at our side.

Sill, the rain hangs in season
   coming from the early year.
Still the turning, turning still
   in orange haze upon our eyes
   grown used to useful, useless days,
counting less.

June you are more cruel than May.
If it may be said that hope is worst;
   than failure, or success.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo Fan Letter to Betjamin 3 April

Fan Letter to Betjamin

The crumpets, and sunsets, a set won at three,
countryside dashing to afternoon tea;
dull tick of a clock at the end of the day,
as the 'help' pulls the curtain at passing away.

Of Bovril, of Ajax, of chewed Merry Maids,
of England, its seasides, its sadness and shades;
circling Terns evoked on the waves,
cove crashing Atlantic, or bright esplanade.

Bicycled churches tucked behind leas,
noting the sedge, and the changing of leaves.
Declaring that houses belong on the ground
and the love of child is deeply, greatly, profound.

The anger at the mock-timber peroxide-wavey-set
with their boorish way of remembering always to forget.
At 189 Cadogen Square they all sleep safer now, and,
bombs do far less damage than planners do to Slough.

The window smashing Teds, are all safe tucked in beds
in retirement homes. Though the way you said
their Monica, still tickles me to laughter: as among the broken glass
you documented something lost in the breaking broken past,

#shortstory #amwriting 2


Josh had made it his mission to leave college without any debt. He was entitled to a small grant, and took every chance he could to earn money: including some small-time pot dealing for Mo's uncle. He also had two part-time jobs, one in a book shop, the other in a coffee shop, both on campus. In the holidays he took factory jobs or picked vegetables. With the result that after two years of study, he had a net debt of £162, and had passed every examination and assignment.

"What the hell is this?"

"Cammo," answered Mo, daubing his cheek with black grease paint, "put it on."

"Is this necessary?"

"It is if you don't want to be seen. Hurry up, we need to get this done before midnight."

"Or we'll turn into pumpkins?" asked Josh sarcastically, taking off his jacket.

"No. Because after midnight the Old Bill will be out stopping drunk drivers and Dark-Skinned fellows in Four-by-Four's. Which means me," he nodded, at his uncle's car. "and they might get a bit suspicious is they find the boot full of dead sheep." He threw the cammo-paint to Josh, who missed it, "Right. Do you want the AK, or the shotgun?"

"What are you talking about Mo?"

Mo took the two guns from under the passenger seat of the car, and held one in each hand. "You have a choice, an AK-47 or a sawn-off shotgun."

"Where did you get those," asked Josh, picking up the cammo-paint.

"You take the sawn-off." Mo thrust the gun into Josh's hands, and disappeared round to the driver's side of the car. He re-appeared with a two large hunting knives, "come on, come on, we haven't got all night. Look, don't worry about the trousers. Those black jeans will do just fine for now."

"But, but..."

"Look man! Stop whining. You either want the money or not. If you do, get ready quick. If you don't, stay here."

Josh made two smeared green-black lines across his cheeks, and another down the bridge of his nose. "I was going to say..."

"Yes well don't," said Mo, securing the the knife belt around his waist. "There's a first time for everything. The guns are for our protection. We'll do the killing with this, if need be." He thrust the other knife into the ankle of right boot, and took a large lump hammer from the rear of the truck. "Are you ready?"

Josh tossed his jacket onto the passenger seat, "Ready," he said, putting on his 1-D beanie.

"Good," said Mo. The indicators on the truck blinked twice. "Two rules, don't touch the trigger on the gun. You're not a cowboy. No matter how tempting it is, leave it alone. And two, don't puke."

"No shooting or puking. Fine."

Mo slung the pack on his shoulder, handed Josh the lump-hammer, and set off into the woods. The headlight of a car passed on the top road, the sloshing sound it made seemed very far away.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo The Bomb 2 April

The Bomb

It ticks, it sits like spit on a coat.
The flap is up, and photos are at home:
a left envelope between the cruet.

We make a rather perfect pair
to spend a nice forgotten hour,
unclaimed, amid the furled urning steam
tannin as the walls of the railway buffet.

Stabbing the crumbs on the plate,
the tealeaves tell to look, so I do.

No note.

The crimped edges of the pictures
and the yellow tone hint of summer,
glossy summer,

two children, a boy and a girl, with spades
kneel smiling by a four bucket sandcastle;
flagged and shelled, damped moated.
A suited father eats ice cream.
The mother, with an elaborate permanent wave,
her hand beneath her chin, as she
is joyfully caught with an eclair.
No note, just three photographs, fading
to sepia.

No one died.

The last crumb on the plate, still carries
the crystalline crunch of Bath buns.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook ufyweiuf

I don't seem to have the knack
of forcing my children to eat things they don't like
but later adore.

I dangle pork pies above their sleeping noses
in the hope they will dream about
and crave the jelly between the pink and crust.
Or will they come to appreciate
the sublime silkiness of tinned pears
with tinned milk, on a wet Sunday
with the shops shut and Upstairs Downstairs on the tele.
What hope they will ever know
the taste of bird's tongue and top of the milk
on frozen snowy mornings,
mornings so cold the thick warm cream
froze your teeth, in equal proportion
to the three teaspoons of sugar, on each Weetabix.
They will never the agony
of school summer milk, curdled to the taste of crayons.


#poem #poetry #amwriting 2A


Forgive me for not knowing
the view from those lost shoulders.
Chin resting on that balding pate
and the strong hands that held your ankles
when rolling with the gait, and you pointing
to the world seen above the knee;
you then now free. Free to see the boundless
days, the outstretched: when to be ten
was more real than being old, and more grown up.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #napowrimo #lune 1 april

at the edge of clouds
wait mothers
swelled with childish pride

#shortstory #amwriting 1


"NAZI'S OUT! NAZI'S OUT! Hey man what are you doing?" whispered Mo, between exclamations.

"I'm rolling a fag: OUT!: what does it look like."

"NAZI'S: the cameras are rolling. NAZI'S: Amy will do her nut, if she sees you."

"OUT!," Josh licked the paper, "fine."

Josh made his way to the edge of the crowd, and ducked back behind a large concrete gatepost to make sure he was not in view of the news-crews. He lit the cigarette.

"Herbal is it?"

Josh looked up to see a policeman standing in front of him, "I wish."

"Oh don't worry sir," said the policeman, moving into the gateway beside Josh, so as to be equally unobserved. "We are under strict instructions to only arrest toublemakers today. It would be awfully bad form if any of your lot were to be arrested. Very bad PR all round. What with Austin-Maxi making hay about the corruption scandal."

"My lot? What do you mean my lot?"

The policeman adjusted the radio on his shoulder, "aren't you with the anti-Nazi's? I was sure I saw you venting you spleen not two minutes ago."

Josh shrugged his shoulders. The policeman had a cocky air that Josh did not all together trust: not least because the number on his shoulder had been obscured by a piece of black elastic. "It's a free country," Josh replied, hoping the answer would be sufficient, the policeman would take the hint and leave him alone.

"I take it you are one of the rent-a-mob then?" continued the officer, not taking the hint. "How much did they pay you?"

Josh was about to answer when Amy appeared. "There you are," she said, however her gaze immediately went to the policeman, and then back to Josh. "What's going on?" she asked, a note of heavy suspicion in her voice. "Josh?"

"I'm trying to have a quiet smoke."

"We need you in the demo. The film crew are having difficulty filling the frame. You are letting the side down. Come on." She grabbed the placard leaning against the post, and thrust it into Josh's hand. "Now!" she said, pulling him by the arm.

"NAZI'S OUT! NAZI'S: how much longer do we have to be here?" Josh asked, waving his placard.

"OUT! I'm not going on the march," said Mo, "they've had their twenty quid out of me already. Do you want to go somewhere afterwards?"


"Oh wait, I have to see my uncle."

Amy turned to them, "will you too stop gossiping and protest, please."

"I'm sure she fancies me," said Mo, winking.


The door of the tanning-salon-cum-party-office opened and out came Max Straw, the object of the protester's anger. The crowd jeered and shouted insults at the rather small man in a neat suit, who smiled, and blew a kiss as he got into his car. A few of the protesters, closest to the film-crew from the local BBC news, jostled with the tight-head from the police rugby team; and an egg was thrown, but didn't hit anyone. And with that Mr Max Straw was gone. Leaving only the local candidate, Noreen Plum (Mrs), and her election agent, Henry Plum (Mr), and a few of their supporters on the far side of the road, to shout at.

Giles on the megaphone tried to get a chant of "SCUM, SCUM, SCUM" going. But the autumnal afternoon was growing cold, and most of the crowd wanted to be like the news-crews: namely pack up and go home. Besides the Plum's spoiled the fun, by going back into the tanning-salon-cum-party-office.

"Wait a minute," said Josh, holding out the money in his hand as proof, "I'm two quid short here."

"I docked you for your unauthorised smoke break," said Amy, turning away, to deal with the sundry hands outstretched for payment. She was checking the list of those to be paid, when Big Malc, the local convener, intervened, by pointing out that this was hardly the best place to conduct such business, and bustled Amy, and a trailing gaggle off students, into the Nice Buns cafe: where the affairs of the League might be conducted in private.

"I can't believe she did that," sighed Josh, pocketing the short change.

"It will be worse when the revolution comes." It was the policeman again. "Still, it will good for me. I'll be on triple time come that happy day."

"I'm so pleased for you."

"Don't spend it all at once," mocked the policeman, as he moved off to join his colleagues laughing and joking by the van.

"It looks like you made a friend," observed Mo. "Oh, and don't feel too hard done by, they ripped everyone off by two quid. I was seen on camera yawning."


#poem #poetry #amwriting 29


The less I talk to my mother
the more we say.
The more the laughter rings between us:
the arms length mechanics
of fading connection, gripping on yesterday.

#poem #poetry #amwriting 28

(the Anne Sexton tapes)

The greatest sadness of a female poet
is not to be overlooked; or out dulled by men;
but to be revered by tight faced virgins
in amorphous black clothes, and finger nails.
Black-holes suck them in, closer than
the cunt walls feared by boys, and neurotics
who have just given birth, confusing tightness
with thoughts exchanged: the lolling dildo
of projected voice. One might almost weep
with laughter, were such things allowed.
Jokes mangled, points missed, statues
raises for the pulling down, of panties,
in some quiet bearded backroom,
between one revolutionary, and the last.

#poem #poetry #amwriting 27


Crows hang heavy on the hill light dusk,
lung-tarred they call against the night

encroaching craw. And bite, down
the grassing path, speckle dotted

daisies peek, angled from the tired track
of downward toiling trek. It is then

you see the circled crash of fox:
breaking, startled, and back

into the unfern crisped dry brush;
and you stand; still. You taller then, spotting

the cowered yellow ears, snarled in weighing fight.
The invisibility of reality plainly sees

the ermine in the fur of waiting grass, but not
that snare that holds your gaze, and its.

Of what is too clear. A tunneled tube
to hold all time, and the very air
of inhaled worlds and gone.


#poem #poetry #amwriting 26


How dull to talk of rain, again,
again cold piercing spiked assaults
to sting the plodding foot
from knee to almost coat.

How dull, again, to errand out for food,
and sugar, and count the flexing
money spent, How dull, to look to the hills,
and once again imagine
that a poem will come crawling.

No, no, now we wax wood
of pencils broken, on paper, unlined
as the swirled rain of limping sleep.

No, no, in this light
no onions chopped, or drool, or longing:
just cardboard and bright words
of passing time; between the drops.

Hope, drab hope, of days beyond
the kerb, the terraced sprawl
leading to harsh lights that stun
food hopping into baskets
to pull the arm to waste upon the waist.

How dull.


#poem #poetry #amwriting 23


I'm rolling them loose these days,
saggy and loose, and hard to pull
with arthritic fingers.
Loose on the bone and hard on the lung
that's how. Drooping down,
more out than in, and hanging.
I'm rolling them loose

And every time I see him
he asks when I'll stop
and I say when death comes calling.
And every time death comes
I take an aspirin
and he whimpers like a puppy
in a box beneath the tree
at Christmas.

And every time I see him
he asks how you are
and I say I haven't noticed.
And every time I notice
you are much the same.
I thank
whatever sets your compass
and keeps our light burning.

And one day the doctor
will say I'm a miracle,

I'm rolling them loose.

#poem #poetry #amwritng Women


If I live ten thousand years
I could not approach the hatred
of women. I would walk away.
Not bother with hemlines,
and entitlements,
and the endless little traps.
Not batter my eyes with knives
and then accuse you of murder.
Or endlessly drag up some rotting squid,
of some species unthought,
and identify it,
and catagorise it,
and fight to have it catagorised,
and legislated,
and then deny it existed,
until later.
I would walk away
punching it as I went.


#poem #poetry #amwriting Dance


The fish are blowing out their cheeks.
The fish are blowing out their cheeks
at the woman on the bank reading Ariel.

The woman blowing out her cheeks.
Misses the pearls the fish spit at her:
the pearls, the fish, the sunlight, the rain,

making rainbows, making rainbows.
Making music to the drumbeat of laughter.
Making music to the drumbeat of laughter.

And the laughter makes us dance
and blow out our cheeks, at the fishes.
At the fishes dancing in pearls on the bank.

Around the woman reading Ariel on the bank.
Around the woman reading Ariel on the bank
who won't blow out her cheeks and dance.

#poem #poetry #amwriting 25


While I, not writing the great novel,
you sewed cherubs onto guaze
and read my thoughts.

You would say 'that I was drifting,
too ambiguous, of too weak a plot,'
and I would agree

burning the thoughts, seeking a new hook
I would watch with amazement
the picture grown from stitches.

'If only words could do that,'
my great un-started novel would say.


#poem #poetry #amwriting 24


When my father lay mute and dying,
and not the man I knew: his eyes revealed
a memory, shaded blue.

Men live in solitude, like the last goose
always falling back. They belong,
and then do not.

#poem #poetry #amwriting 22


In my madness I write letters to angels
and flinch at the hanging cobwebs
formed by the frame of my glasses.

Sometimes, testing the elasticity of things,
tapping each rib in turn, I hold my breath,
hold it, hold it until I dare sign each note
of hollow music. And, when echo brings
a sound of who once inhabited my soul
then is the time to breath out, and live.

#poem #poetry #amwriting Happy Easter

Happy Easter

Curled around in neat segmented sanded sections
behind glass misted by ten thousand eager noses
dragged back by the collar, lie the fossils.
Somehow they have more life now.

More life than the moth I squashed with my thumb:
its blood drying on the kitchen cabinet door,
it's millennia of wings, patient in the laundry
to be washed off my jeans.

There is a graphic, to earnestly describe,
the process by which certain individuals
attain significance. A cautionary tale
of constipation, that isn't very healthy.

Then this happened, then that happened,
then we don't know what happened,
but then this happened, viola! a horse.

And hey! If you don't believe me!
Strike a match, drive a car,
look at the internet and abort all Down's kids.
This would all be condemned as witchcraft
years ago.

Now move along...
to the animatronic dinosaurs:
now with new and improved feathers.

Then this happened, then that happened
then we don't know what happened
but then this happened, voila! we're in the gift-shop

eating chocolate eggs.

'Did Jesus really die for our sins?' you ask.
'God can do anything.'
'No, he can't.' you say.

And I don't disagree, for who
can doubt sand?

or swim against the silting tide
pressing down upon the bones of that
we seek to remember
without context.

Nothing has the weight of stone,

And I hope, but not pray,
that when your teeth have cocoa rotted:
that you will not idly lay down,
think back
to the generations who got you here

to this place of insignificance.

#poem #poetry #amwriting 21


Scent of light still haze hung: wakened,
opened to day more now than dim
ridings of the moon; curtain trees

starkling in their elemental twigness.
A brutal sheet inviting not
to enter in. but softly lay

a palm upon the skin:
as knowing as your face compared
in mirror to old photograph.

This place of sharing breath tricks
in puckered kiss, finger cross,
slopes that lull us onto steepness

to keep the timid bayed. Feel what
you cannot say. The flinching
flashed phantom thrilling scene

brought to sense by folly, as by faith,
that we connect with all things
and with all things we too vibrate.

Our heart, our pumping doubt,
forever knows this moment, it is
the thinking eye: will never....


#poem #poetry #amwriting Beta


Drunk and alone, beneath
the tree below the golden window
drunk to the point of wondering:
on the fag I pull.

I'm not cold here, just wondering
if the late bars you know
will still be serving
and if the last bus is gone.

My buttoned lip upon the Marlborough
as I a cowboy of night, waiting,
await your happy carnal laugh
and wonder why I stand awaiting.

#poem #poetry #amwriting Sod


I happened upon some argument
between an atheistand a neo-neo-christianist
about creation.
The crux of which

(no pun intended)
related to the proto-legs of whales.

Since atheists know nothing
and christianists refuse to look beyond the pale

I felt sorry for the whale.

I measure myself in stones not tons
and get little buoyancy from the air

but I can imagine that
a whale needs a little help
without no pubic hair.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook hfjvut

No doubt at some point
when seeking the light, it might
have occurred to you
of something or nothing between your legs.

And then it spoke.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook fhsdlfhk

Looking down; the criss-crossed twigsof the living and the dead:
the seedless cone, the pink flower beside
spiking buds like caterpillars hatching;
one might almost be one year older.
These woods lie open now in possibility.
Only the deepest streams still run
here. Here where wet winter winds
topple trees complete to spread their root
without earth: the bluebells, ancient
as the stars, grow against the vertical
in this shadowless transition, weak sun.


#poem #poetry #amwriting The A Most Often Missed in Suicide

The A Most Often Missed In Suicide

It isn't the daemon within me that talks of death;
but the angel. People often get this wrong.
They think I am fighting it's calling message.
A wicked hangover
from the time they would bury me
at crossroads, standing up, driven over, spat on:
it's sheer jealousy. If it were the the daemon
it would be more fun. Certainly.

#poem #poetry #amwriting New Politics

New Politics

Perhaps we should all be Jews,
not in body, but in mind.
For within us all we lament
a temple, we once revered
now crumbling, stone on stone.
And, somewhere, somewhere,
there will always be
some bright young person
with some bright idea
that we are to blame: for everything.
'No, no,' but to no avail.
We the disavowed of the future tense.
For we are jews
to be locked in, by the colour of skin
or party, the unengendered
in a gendered, coloured world.
For to refuse the revelation of language,
to not go with every new messiah,
to hold on to the quaint notion of tradition
marks us so. Jew is a four letter word:


#poem #poetry #amwriting Beard


Everyone should grow a beard, too long,
without regard for your face. And lick it
to taste the coffee. Lick it, to taste the thoughts
wound round a finger when not thinking
but simply indulging in the pleasure
of twisting hair. But one must not watch
the grass grow. Or notice the way
your children change, inch by inch:
sometimes reasonable, sometimes
so shriveled as the puckered skin
you held whole from palm to elbow.
No, wind that into your greying beard.
Wind it in to be licked later,
or brushed out when trying to be smart.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook left wing love

I like to imagine we remember those moments
when touching tongues
we ran through the sensations of sex
to emerge in each others arms.

Those events so intense
when you purred like a kitten at my stroking
that I sent you death threats
and you showed me opinion pieces in the Guardian
to prove you never came.

Oh the joys of left-wing love.

So I'm not surprised that the unlovely, and unlovable,
blow themselves up in railway carriages.
And that you find reason to defend them.
You were always resentful
of the fireplace in my rented room
were pleased when when I gave up hope
of finding a world that matched your own.

#poem #poetry #amwriting True Dead

True Dead
(for Anne Sexton)

If she didn't wear knickers,
but for that dress she would be naked.
The cigarette
at odds to the angle of her hand.
Her hands set for back-hand
and her hair set
for a ruddy cheeked 'well played'
between the games;
fingers resetting the fringe
in a gesture of 'will you play me again'.

It's all so grown up.
So effortlessly measured

but what of the dead left eye,
and the right that burns more bright than love.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #aketchbook Wanting to Die

Wanting to Die

To those who have gone beyond
and woken to find themself there
death holds no fear it never had.
We all make mistakes.
We all look at gargoyles in churches
and then read the guidebook in wonder,
that anyone should question
or even bother to seek explanation.
Just make sure, if you're a woman,
to wait a few days before being found:
it's not so important for a man.
But, try to be drunk, and try to discern
between the pleasure of the idea
of not being, and who might find you.
If you have children,
unless you wish to scar them
best not to be found hanging from the banister.
In fact it's probably best,
if you have children,
to not take a direct route, but set a moral lesson:
like smoking, or drinking spirits,
or driving too fast. Though driving too fast
might be exciting, and give you a desire to live;
so best make it driving recklessly.
And wear clean underpants.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook if

If... I want to start with the word if...
but you will not let me.
You will ignore the premise and dive,
seeking your own reason, for the literal,
for the fish below the water:
for the tree I marked, or the flower I picked,
or the perceived of confession
couched in the tender word if.
You will not look inside yourself
if I ask. You are the face at the window,
the mouse half seen, the itch that does not itch
and then itches in the night.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #ilkleywriters jfhksdbfkj

I have given everything away
for want of love and hate:
to find returned this space to dwell.

What hell is other people;
who from this well draw cups of hope
and bid me drink of bitter charity.


#poem #poetry #amriting For Brussels

For Brussels

Night does not follow day,
when drowning.
Let the way of love and hate unite
in chalk, and let the wind wipe it clean;
without meaning.
Let all the dust swirl
as we swim towards our mirrored self,
and away; when we find the face,
we find is not our own.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #kingslynn Tuesday Market in Lynn

Tuesday Market in Lynn
(coming from North End)

Sometimes we'd go by Devil's Alley,
where the houses sagged and drooped like teeth
and no rain would never fall

but mostly we went the long way. There to stop
to buy cooking-chocolate at Southgates shop,
round by the fort, to walk on the solicitor's wall.

And turn you down past the pub, to the market
where the voices flowed up the street
like they was still burning witches.

With the briefest of glances, and a creak of basket,
we was in: to the crowd. To the up and down
of sight and sound, 'hello missus', and the smell.

'Hold my hand'. Past carpets and brasses,
Pink Elephants and fabrics we'd go.
And, the cooking-chocolate shrinking all the while.

Everything at nose height. Part dragged, part bribed,
part scolded most the time; 'til you stood on the step
of the hot dog van, eyes wide

knowing next was toy stall. And the auctioneer
with his jokes, and what he would not take
for the plates and cups he'd often break

tossing 'em up high. Hold my hand, 'hold my hand
I don't want you to get lost,' while I talk to this woman
I hardly know. 'Yes hasn't he grown'.

Weaving through the women there feeling up
and weighing out, and all is chatter: 'til fruit
where the market ends, and the town begins.


#poem #poetry #amwriting A Better Place

A Better Place
(for St Kilda)

To them that winged, and legged and gutted,
and salted for the winter; all the world
was yolked around the Fulmar and the Gannet.
Spinny weaved and woven farthings
sing louder than the sea, of Sunday blessings,
as they watch the sky fill with crosses
of the winter closing in. Then only waves
of the mournful ocean, unbroken in imagination,
as the fiddle's reel, and the comfort of the fire
to await the tapping beak of spring.
Grinding bones for barley and the corn,
liver lighted lamps to ward the mice
they held around the bible's reign. They knew
themselves not chosen. For bold men fall
for reaching beyond what hand may grasp.
Until the last: until the last when they saw
the high cliffs depart the spray.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketcbook sasquatch

The Choctaw word is forget.
And, like Darwin's heavy brooding brow
it is not easy. When there are pigeons
to boil, and a wife to keep sweet,
how does one forget, seeing what no-one
should see?

The physical pleasure of knocking a tree
or screaming into the dark of night.
Rather ignores, the common link
of iron bars, at the zoo, at the prison,
at the asylum, or at the concentration camp.

Toughened glass, smeared with fingers:
and noses and tongues.
Behind a Gorilla eats an apple
as disinterested of us as the tree that dropped the fruit.
We might play a flute,
but seeing is not connecting.

And your marrow sustains in winter.

The Choctaw word is forget.


#poem #poetry #amwriting Fuck Freud

Fuck Freud

There's this mong, who I see,
spawned from a best before egg.
And he vocalises like a yeti.

There I am, one hand on my trolley,
my finger on my cheek,
hips thrust to the left,
weighing up the merits of crumpets versus pikelets;
'Oh sorry'...  *move the trolley...
'Or should I buy muffins?'

And up goes this low frequency noise
not unlike a foghorn.
And I grab potato cakes.
Bloody mong! 'The kids won't eat these.'

And round he comes, trailing his trolley,
his drooping face almost in front of his dragging body:
knees splayed, pigeon toed, iris pinched and closed.

I wonder how much his house is worth?
No that's unfair.
We should judge his privilege to discover his worth.
He's white, he's male, he's vocal.
He's clearly bad.
Just look at him.
He's everything that's wrong.
I bet he doesn't work.

But for all that liberal talk
I rather like him.

*hang on while I put the potato cakes back
and pick up the crumpets that I will eat even if the kids don't*

I like him because...

well just because he has hung to testify
against the testing
of liberal's who would deny him birth
and measure his worth
in terms of the wages of his support worker.

But if I ever catch him
eyeing up the marked-down steak on Friday night...
I'll let him have it.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook girl

There are times I wish I was a painter.
That I could just walk up to that girl, I saw
and flatter her to pose
for me
in a fashion that desperately tried to recapture
what it was I saw.

I'll have her with an urn on her shoulder,
or reading a book naked,
or floating down the river with flowers.

What I won't have, is...

That passing moment of time,
when happenstance caught her on the back-steps of the church
when I happened to be passing:
in an idle moment of dis-satisfaction;
and startled her in the action of lighting a cigarette.

I won't have that.

Nor will I have the perfection of her youth
caught in the revulsion at my form
and the interplay between the two:
that makes an old man's heart skip:
and jellifies the female form.

But if I could paint her
I am sure I could find countless other old people
willing to admire my eye.

But as a poet one must rely
on those moments when thinking nothing
inspiration comes without words...
to be lost in the telling
unless you resort to the lying
of the visual arts.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook ...........

I might make you laugh, or orgasm, or crybut connect?

What does that even, literally, actually, mean?

I can connect with strangers:
by not bumping into them in the street,
by not sitting on their lap on buses,
by not staring into their houses,
in a hundred and one way we can connect
but don't....

Yet in the lingo of the age
to connect
and be connected
is of the highest importance.

Could this be because the individual is dead?


#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook plath

My abiding image of poetry,
is being dragged to hear Frieda Hughes.
And sitting
on a children's chair in the front row
and looking up into her vag,
draped in bottle green slacks,
while she read verse about Rumpelstiltskin
to generous applause.

It's not Frieda's fault.

One can not more refuse to be born
than go back into the ocean
in some vain hope
of one day becoming a whale from a mouse.

#poem #poetry #amwriting On My Son's 8th Birthday

On My Son's 8th Birthday

Life expands, like the awkwardness of a child
with coxcombed hair, and teeth too large.

And I, as a parent, in my role of little God
laying out rules, expressing love in letting go,
ever-so jealous as proud;
bewilder with each birthday.

The crown of the head that slowly climbs each rib
will soon look me in the eye.
And then look down.

He is already the man.
He will be.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook late night poetry

Ok, while I'm waiting shall I masturbate now....
or after... come on... come on...
Oh yes.... hello....
first time poet, long time reader
... hello... uh yes...
I just wanted to make sure you could read this....
Oh you can... great...

Yes, well I found it really interesting that you mentioned daffodils
and I was wondering... and this is more a question for your guest....
if you ever thought them over-rated? at all.
I mean, just because it is spring,
and I have never written a poem before,
and don't really know if I can... or want to...
but you know if I was to take up painting...
I wouldn't start with the Mona Lisa...
I might just start with a window sill or shelf... or a box room...
you know, just to get a feel for the brush.

Hello.... can you hear me,,,
Yes, well I know this isn't the topic of poem,
but do you think mother nature hates us?
I mean, all these people who go missing, and have cell phones...
I think you call them mobiles....
well I can never... you now... it never let's me turn the GPS off...
so I don't know how people can go missing,
and certainly not starve... ok perhaps if they are in the wilds...
but everywhere else... not so...
why they only have to give their GPS
and they can get pizza delivered.
So there must be something else going on,
and I think it is mother nature.
She clearly hates us.
Why else is always raining on school run?

What? You want me to what? as a question to the guest?...
What guest?... I thought I was writing a poem here....
waxing lyrical, you might say...
Ok... uh.... you've stumped me now...
Oh yes daffodils....
Why does no one ever write a poem about... say...
the orbs of light in the woods...
I see them all the time where I live
when I'm out wandering lonely as a cloud... bang... there they are...
and the shimmering silver mirror of dimensional travel....
And yet I never read a single poem about that.
I mean.... I ask you.... and I'm not using divisive rhetoric here....
or hateful.... but of course you don't have the right to not be offended....
I mean....

Yeah, why can't I turn off my phone?

And I'll take my answer off the air.

#poem #poetry #amwriting box

It yields with the coy resistance of weak magnets.
Of artful sublunary skill constructed
this box, embossed with marigolds
burnished the colour of plasters, once held a ring.

#poem #poetry #amwriting The Familiar

The Familiar

Behind us, a black-man is telling a work colleague
that she mustn't like pork chops, with a few potatoes.
The world passes our left shoulder at living room height,
each normally private room revealing
as the bald spot of the man at the traffic lights.
Rice and peas, like his mother's, that's the only thing to eat.
He begins to give the recipe.
She tries to get on board, but at every turn he stops her:
not that rice, this rice, no, no, she can't like that rice,
that rice is no good,too commercial,
you have to get it from the Jamaican grocer;
and never buy Uncle Ben's.
You roll your eyes.
The countryside never quite gets going
before we are into the next village,
and the next set of living rooms over shops.
She tries to reroute him, by talking about work: but to no avail.
Since, if you have been listening, you will need fish
to go with his mother's rice and peas.
Not a nice bit of battered cod or plaice,
you have to go to the fishmonger from St Kitts
who has a stall in the market.
A woman,
in a towel,
changing channels
catches my attention,
so unfortunately I cannot relay the details of the fish:
that you will need.
Though I do know it needs coconut milk.
We drink the last of the tea from the flask, cold,
nowhere is yet quite familiar enough.
I don't share the Twix, on account of my teeth.
You need to let the rice cool a bit
before doing something or other with the fish.
But you'll be glad you did.
It's far better than a pork chop, with potatoes.
It will make your mouth sing.
But if you must have a pork chop,
then you need to cook it like his mother.
A white haired lady stands at the window above a baker's.
We have paused at a zebra crossing.
We both look away, though I have the urge to wave,
but that would be unfair.
I am already invading.
As we move off, I look back, she is crying.
Some kids, at the front, get off.
If you can't get banana leaves then greaseproof paper will do:
at a push, but you have to grease it with oil: lots of oil.
And make sure the oven is hot.
We almost make the effort to move
but a man with a dog takes the front seat.
The backpacks relax into place, again.
It all seems so long ago, that we were stood on the brow
looking out across the valley, with the shining lake,
and nothing but ourselves.
Reading my thoughts you scroll the pictures on your phone.
Diffidently you say you were just checking time.
I like this about you.
The partial pleasing lie, like when I took two buses
to be just passing, and you said you were just about to ring.
And then we got into that nice stage
of apologising for saying I love you.
And do you mind if I say how excited you make me feel.
You need spices, lot's of spice, to make a good pork chop.
And rice and peas, you can't beat rice and peas.
Then she says, bluntly, that she grills the pork chop
to the point of crisping the fat, and that's how she likes it.
With potatoes, and sometimes a few peas,
on a plate on her lap, in front of the tele
with her slippers on, and the door locked.
I notice a shop I know.
And we hold hands.


#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook jdlkjsakl

she died at nine of the complication
of a bone in the leg and shortage of breath
well is a hole and hay is for horses
you've got to die sometime she always said
buttons and bus-tickets paid for the wake
bread and iffits were laid out on plates
where there's a way there is a will to be read
I'll send you ten bob but maybe next week


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

Don't mind me...

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


Heart of Spring

    Late and late, here and now golden glimmers spring
upon the whisper rippled river, who begs, 'let me sleep',
among the stones;
    late and now. Across the bridge,
in the park, couples stretch to take their ease
among the bawdry budding flowers,
the scattered showers, of purple, white and yellow Crocus,
and the melting Snowdrops.
    Here and now.
The violent songs take wing from every new-build nest,
to fool our ear, to trick our sense,
unaware of the worms and eggs that every note defends.
    Now while late, the smokers gaggle at the pub' house door,
expend upon their passion louder than before without
the fizzing wet car tyred roar, and the hush of night to chide them.
    Here and here. Now guided by our retina to longer sight
by clearing air, and everywhere the colour lifting,
dotting, brighter than each yesterday.
    Here and now,
and ten feet on, beyond the fringe of the wood
three twisting elms contort balletic from a common root.
Beneath the sister's entwined arms, Bluebells mass
upon the bank, waiting with wild Thyme and the Eglantine
for the frost-less nights to come.
    Here and here, the fallow passes
greening into growth. Yellow winter, slow departed
from the muddled earth of pathways,
slips away to the single grained white, brown and grey.
    Here and now, one sees the trees for the opened woods.
The etching, flexing, branches on the spooling sky
and the slender warty frames. Naked, more than leafless,
no glade nor ley delights the mind to fancy,
or invites the weary to rest in shade.
    Late and late, here and now.


US and Them

I was sat drinking DDT on the porch with my ol' buddy
and we got to talking about the good ol' days,
when the Democrats didn't never let them coloureds vote,
on account of them being too violent.
That there big ol' sun was shining, in the big ol' sky,
and if you could'er heard us, you'd of laughed fair fit to burst.
A Whip-poor-will whippled in a Whippletree.
My buddy sucked the juice out' his beard.
An' bright eyed, he pointed to the trees
and cried, 'I do declare a Sasquatch is looking at you!'
Well, I declare I saw the eyes,
but I can't rightly say, what it was I rightly saw.
Whatever held my stare, was not of this world.
Then it up and went.
I measured out another finger. Downed it straight.
Settled down, I asked, 'who do you think will win the election?'
My ol' buddy paused a while, leaning in his rocking chair,
'Putin,' he said, 'he always wins.'


Sunday Walk

Flashing rainbow blue, the trout, darting,
breaking the darkling bank;
to the lolling depths: where no sunlight ever goes.

Haunched parental pointing finger
wrapping round that eager child,
who seeing only glinting light,
suspects no fish.

Strange the urge to magic then,
as in the super-natural
glimpsing game of seen unseens,
that later are rememberings.

For even now we doubt. Even as I know,
the trout is in the river beyond our eyes.
An angel now would be more real.
For we have walked this path before,
swishing grass with sapling sticks,
and split the world with tales tall.
Yet never in our glancing,
have we yet caught hide
of angled prize chancing into open sight.

Though we have not looked.
As we look now.
Too busy with our company to watch for hints,
from that world, from which we are removed.


Last night, after dark, I went out defacing statues
when I met the nicest chap. He was doing the same.
So, we combined our chisels and went to work
on a some dead white fellow:
you don't get arrested that way.

I took the nose and he took the brow,
the lips came away of their own accord
with a satisfying smash.

I asked the chap what he did, and he said teaching.
How we laughed, when we read the plaque.
The the fellow we cracked, was in teaching too.

And we moved on to the dove of Victory,
on the war memorial. Chip, Chip little dove:
coo, watch it fly; crash.

Not being vandals we balanced a Coke can
on the empty hand; in a sort of ironic way.

And posted the picture on Facebook.
Well, before we had got to work on St George
we had nearly twenty 'likes'.
And a comment, 'to let the Dragon win'.


starts at 8 for 8.30, at the Beehive on Westgate... do come along....

Tonight there are gest poets, including Cathy Benson


#poem #poetry #amwriting Heart of Spring

Heart of Spring

    Late and late, here and now golden glimmers spring
upon the whisper rippled river, who begs, 'let me sleep',
among the stones;
    late and now. Across the bridge,
in the park, couples stretch to take their ease
among the bawdry budding flowers,
the scattered showers, of purple, white and yellow Crocus,
and the melting Snowdrops.
    Here and now.
The violent songs take wing from every new-build nest,
to fool our ear, to trick our sense,
unaware of the worms and eggs that every note defends.
    Now while late, the smokers gaggle at the pub' house door,
expend upon their passion louder than before without
the fizzing wet car tyred roar, and the hush of night to chide them.
    Here and here. Now guided by our retina to longer sight
by clearing air, and everywhere the colour lifting,
dotting, brighter than each yesterday.
    Here and now,
and ten feet on, beyond the fringe of the wood
three twisting elms contort balletic from a common root.
Beneath the sister's entwined arms, Bluebells mass
upon the bank, waiting with wild Thyme and the Eglantine
for the frost-less nights to come.
    Here and here, the fallow passes
greening into growth. Yellow winter, slow departed
from the muddled earth of pathways,
slips away to the single grained white, brown and grey.
    Here and now, one sees the trees for the opened woods.
The etching, flexing, branches on the spooling sky
and the slender warty frames. Naked, more than leafless,
no glade nor ley delights the mind to fancy,
or invites the weary to rest in shade.
    Late and late, here and now.