#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

2C

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

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

Hollow

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.

#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 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.

#poem #poetry #amwriting #nopowrimo Hinge 4 April

Hinge

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,

#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 #napowrimo #lune 1 april

at the edge of clouds
wait mothers
swelled with childish pride