#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