Gospel

I read a lot of self-proclaimed brilliance

From poet’s old and young.

I don’t get it.

No-one ever said

Poetry would be easy.

They said it would be worth it.

In failing absence of acclaimed credit,

My own declaration of genius suffices.

My self 5 star review

“A poet messiah amongst mortals”.

Amongst my tawdry tat those

Of polished glass fakestones –

My blood stained thorn crown.

Beyond that rugged hill,

There’s Little Me, hiding, frightened

Behind a bookcase,

Threatening to get my Dad on you

If you don’t like my words.

Poetry: My last confession

Science leave me alone!
I was busy,
I dared to mention your name.
You care less for me than of HER?!
He raged and stomped,
Threw atoms and algorithms at me,
Reminded me I owed him,
That great debt of wage,
He helped reduce my redundancy, kept me normalised.

Science, I said in softer tones,
I will always hold you close,
But you must see?
My first love has always been for HER,
This thing we have, was only to help me
Find my feet, heart, brain.

Silence. No protestation. Nothing.
Awkward gloom hung heavy.
I peered into the monitor
Looking for a response,
All I heard was the dim hum of a fan
Spinning inside his case.

Twilight

Grey ghost fog,

Faint shrouded morning,

Pinprick night lights,

New day’s adorning

All and each,

Generous gifts given,

Bless’d by beauty,

Dogged by duty,

Working day calling,

Heaven ready a-risen.

 

 

 

 

Poetry: An Apology

My head was turned

by the lyrics of life

that wailed from the black discs.

I gave up on your beauty,

Your gentle elegance and intelligent phrases

For the coarser sounds of

Sex and drugs and rock n’ roll.

We’re through you said

As you threw

Those bastard records, blasted

Into hundreds of pieces like your heart.

Years have passed –

Those black discs are gone and maybe,

I found you again

Like a long lost open book.

52

I heard on the radio

About a 52 year old man who died

In a 6 vehicle, road traffic collision

(as there is no such thing as an accident anymore).

I am sure I know him,

Called Bernard or Ken,

Plays Golf at the weekend,

Wears brown corduroy slacks,

Holiday in the Algarve, with his wife of 25 years,

Works in Insurance, protecting with assurance,

His loyal customers whilst passing praise

Onto the younger middle management man-child,

Never jealous, nor over-ambitious,

3 bedroom semi, walled garden, concrete drive, 4 door saloon,

Sipping white wine, quaffing the odd ale,

Leather patched jackets,

And family – 2 kids.

I looked in the mirror.

Reflecting back is an 18 year old I am sure I know,

He is hiding underneath a mask covered in wrinkles,

He looks a bit like Ken.

 

Built

We fit together

With familiar symmetry.

Like countless pieces

Every connection clip-tight locked

Only released by sigh, breath or beat.

Rebuilt countless times

Reconnected perfectly

Block into block.

 

 

 

Trinity

Those gallant young men,

Lives lost for valiant cause;

For love, for King, for country.

To die in foreign fields surrounded

By enemy, by comrades, by horror.

Our waiting Maker takes each alone

Dismissing those deadly duties done,

Until silent falls that bloodstained ground.

Let them sleep;

Those men, Those boys, those children,

Safe knowing their loss

Gave us our tomorrow.

For then, for now, forget them not.

Seaside

Little boy lost

Ice cream sundaes

Screeching gulls gusting

Bingo callers calling

Kiss me quick kissed

Garish sweet sticks

Rain macs showered

Sky blue sky

Drifting clouds floating

Sea air carrying

Onioned hotdog scents

Battered fish frying

Vinegar and salt

Teaspoons chiming

Little boy found

Sighs of relief

Tear stained laughter

Long journey back

Sleeping dogs laying

Perfect day out

Home sweet home.

Ink

I’d love to hear her thoughts. I know she does not show her face all the time, but when she does, she stains me. She is my tattoo, my ink, my love, my lust. A desire that breathes life into my aging bones and turns back years. I am sadly addicted to her – she who is you – and for many good reasons. It is more than coming or fucking. It is passion, love and life. It is the secret story of us, the secret of what makes us who we are and what we are. Alone. Together.

An extract from “Letters”.