Category Archives: Poetry

Bus Journey (?)

Bus Journey (?)

Earth and sky

Sea and land

Potato crisps –

One in each hand

Cold day weather

Didn’t catch a cold

Couldn’t catch the bus either

Gave up waiting – started to walk

No one around to hear my talk

I mumbled and grumbled

At having to walk – having almost stumbled

Got to the destination approaching dark

Down the main street through the park

Knocked at the door

They lived on the third floor

Lights came on and a window opened:

“No point in coming in here…” 

“We’ve got the bug…”

They shouted – making it clear

“There is no point in visiting us…”

So

It’s off down the street

to retrieve

the lost bus

The Spider-poet

The Spider-Poet 

A fly met a poetic-spider

The fly wanted to know

How the poems were written

Keeping his distance but quite smitten

“I don’t know they just come out that way…”

Said the poetic-spider to the fly – adding:

‘My poetic brilliance will catch you by and by…’

So up into the stratosphere he – the fly – did fly

Living to fly another day

Until the next poet he did encounter

With bootleg versions below the counter

The fly entranced with the spider’s dulcet tones

Got distracted into his web-zones 

All chained-up in sticky web and saliva

He now got the words recited in his ear

Amidst the spider’s dastardly sneer

Punishment-torture – were those rhymes

As the fly lay suffocating in the web – this time

His last gasp exhaled out-past the spider’s nasal

The spider had just asked for his critical appraisal

With gasping breath and stuttering words

The fly admitted ‘it wasn’t for the birds’

‘Not to my taste’ was his last farewell

The poet paused in his daily routine

Of performing his poems to tourist fly-teams

His poems were loaded with hidden meaning

As his long legs made their way across the ceiling

Lying in wait he started to recite

With a Nobel prize in his mind’s-eye

When suddenly the fly he thought dead

started to fly

Fry

Fry

Rustle up some grub

As hands are rubbed-in-friction together

Get the smell of bacon on the fry

Leave that window half-open

And let the draught enhance our smell

With it’s seasoning of quiet sigh

Set the table with fresh tablecloth

And make a good display

Cups and saucers, knives and forks

Sauce if you wish and pepper spray

Watch the gulping appreciation

Of you and I

Smiles and laughter at how we devour

What we have been waiting for at this hour

Impressionably irretrievably indelibly…

IMPRESSIONABLY

IRRETRIEVABLY INDELIBLY

Those were the days of my youth

You can’t change it

Turn yourself inside-out

And you can’t change it

The years have fallen like a pack of cards

And will not be put back in place

We have shuffled through time

And we find – ourselves

Emotionally –  irretrievably

Visiting our past

And gluing these memories

To six vinyl records, one old kaftan,

a bunch of magazines, a hippie hat

And a partridge in a pear tree

Long-grass ‘hippied’-through

With laughter

As the persistence of memory

In flights of fancy returns us to longing

And embracing of new faces

Time is the enemy that stops us

changing places with our by-gone’s

We can’t change this clock

The time in this watch is set

To go-off some place else

Other than fair memory-gatherings

Of moments of youth

Couched now in emotion’s hand

All generations have been similarly effected

And similarly are unable to retrieve

The experiences of the upside of life

It was all possible in those days

When music played its anthem to

Our manifesto of taste

And we – all-heads-together agreed

Speaking and talking the same language

This persistent movement of time

Will not allow us to return

Our wonderful days are gone

Our bodies creak with age

Our minds revisit but cannot visit

The days are gone

‘Things ain’t what they used to be’

But impact has been made

Indelible is the feelings returned to – 

These are the springs of youth

That linger in old age

The highlights of the journey

The best sought moments

Are the best thought moments

This is so strong – tight rope walking

Between hope and melancholy

Still we cannot reach the past

We cannot go back

Though back we would go

In a minute

If only we could

Our life consists of this

But shining brightest and

Strongest of life’s sum

Is what got – into us

First time round

When our teenage minds

Opened like flowers

to the possibilities of a new world

Always sought – but always gone

In a moment

Grasped – but slipping away

I can only tell you of what I have found

With feet firmly on the ground

Affections set on things above

Full provision for the journey is made

The past and the future

No longer memories to make

In the future eternal now

Lining up

Lining Up

And one man said to the other

And the other said to a friend-connecting

And it was printed in notice form

And a text was exchanged about the death

Two passed within a few days

A generation dwindling – while others line-up

For departure – they have no ticket

And it’s treated with laughter

Side-stepped with a quip

Forgotten about

Going about

All engage in their daily business

Then another procession to slow down for

As the cortege makes its winding progress

And over dinner the mind thinks again

About the departure all must face

Then the bill is paid

And life goes on – getting into the car

The business of the day continues

At night lying below sheets

The mind wanders through

The orders taken – the stock ordered

The lunch bill paid

– the cortege

Hero

HERO

The heroine could – no hero find

She looked around –

and encountered every day

Nominees for the laurel crown

But no one worthy could be found

She looked with a long take

Or glimpsed for a short time

The behaviour and way they moved

How they treated ladies

And how they cut a caper

How they studied and searched the paper

How their frowns were worn

And how their clothes were crisp or torn

What they cared about

And if confidence was deserved

Or prideful arrogance

caused their loss of doubt

She continued her search

Until the dawn of a new year

left her quest undone and unwon

No hero was to be found –

it proved an uneventful task

Having reached the end of her tether

And having given up her study

A young boy lent a helping hand

To his mother

As she shuffled across the

cobblestoned street

This at last was her hero

as his heart was in the right place

And he gladly lent his hand

Without the mother’s demand

Though young – he knew –

and didn’t need to be told

That his precious mother was

his best friend indeed

So our heroine went to shake his hand

And asked “Will you be my hero?”

“Of course” was his reply

Without even asking why

The few-and-far-between’s of Art Conversation

The few-and-far-between’s of Art conversation:

‘Converse intelligently’ was what he said

That’s what he was looking for

Nothing like that around here

Nothing remotely like intelligent conversation

on art – it’s maxed-out at that puerile comment:

“looks just like a photograph – and how long did it take?”

No nuances of observation in that field of looking

No appreciation of Van Gogh breaking new ground

“Just marks on a piece of paper”

is an intelligent observation or the voice of ignorance

all depending on the context of the remark

about the marks made

“A child could have done that”

said to prohibit an adult from doing so

No room here for a perfect rhyme in paint

Painted with the eye of the adult

who manages to reclaim his lost or dying years

or taps into his childhood innocence

The art critics of the uninformed

Prosaic eyes in unstudied heads –

from plain-wallpapered minds

No hope of stirring further interest –

They think originality –

a misnomer of a dictionary definition –

so thought – 

as made up by thoughts of stunted growth

Some just won’t take the time

And sure it doesn’t come naturally to them

So what can they do?

Don’t be too harsh or hard on them

It’s in you – or it isn’t – will have to do

Go some place else to talk your nuances

Withdraw into your chosen class of three or four

Pick those who have been smitten by the where’s and

why-for’s of art and all it’s wonderful debate

Shopping Young

SHOPPING YOUNG

The shoe-shop experience

Calling all lads

In your prime of youth

Just ignore me

If the criteria is twenties thirties

I’ve nothing to say – you might say

But cast your mind back

To the – ‘I too’ time

When I was looking for fashion

Mind you…well never mind…

But here’s the thing – you get your kicks

On shop excursions into the unknown

Eyes light on new stock

Time flies by – as you are self-absorbed

And absorbed with what’s before your eyes

You ponder and try-on and waltz around

You put on / take off and generally spy upon

All delights of shape and pattern

Of feel and length and size

Changing the light – seen-in –

And looking sideways and leaning-in

You perform some fun-caper

While your friends banter back

You want your wage packet to stretch

a week – non-stop spending spree

No thought for frugality – just the need to get

Who – you are trying to impress

Starts with you – before others

Part of being young and handsome?

Or not so handsome needing the help of clothes

Anyway either way – it’s a pastime of yours

Spending on-line or off

You still prefer that wander and dander

In-and-out of stores

On your day-off

Coffee offered in some

You have bought –

Orange, green or gold

You fit the mould

Of youth looking for love

Mr. Jones

MR. JONES

And regardless of your generation

Regardless of your notched-up years few or many

You know for a second or two

Or for hours into days

That something is amiss

But you can’t quite put your finger on it –

Can you Mr. Jones?

 

You try to be different – set a path of no confusion

Maybe stay in the background even at the office party

But you are drawn-in and spat out

Hurt again – second set – of ten times

Maybe the answer lies within – but within you find a prison

So maybe outgoing – from scene to scene

Is where the answer is – that you hope to glean

Determined not to lie down – you lie-in – instead

Sleeping through till a new task alarms your rise

This person is wandering on through –

Life’s journey on track – but mostly – askew

They are giving away their years in pursuit of happiness

Over there is the side of the pit

The quarry has been dug – but

you’ve enough sense remaining

to give it a miss

Haven’t you Mr. Jones?

 

The old Ecclesiastes is suddenly by your side

With nothing new under the sun

You’ve tried it and bought the T-shirt

But you are still confused

You’ve done that too – far flung journeys I mean

To find your place – but it wears-off

Like the sole of your shoe

You think you are all washed-up

Don’t you Mr. Jones?

 

But there’s a light on the horizon

A horizon comes into view

You haven’t seen it before

And It’s dimensions are unfamiliar

I tell you now it isn’t cool as cool defined is known

So let me easily knock you off-course

As you find no fellowship to explore

You just have to settle for the status quo

Don’t you Mr. Jones?

The Countryman

The Countryman

Cutting down the thorny bushes

splitting wood right up the middle

takes it’s toll in huffs and puffs

Progress made in stacked piles

Places cleared and looking new

like new surroundings lost and found

The country man – man of the soil

Thrusts his daily scythe

and digs his spade in sods of dirt

The countryman is a half-townie-lad

Likes a beer and a monologue

“That will do” he often says

Climbing back on tractor seat

Starting up

he can hear above it’s crackling shiver

Dirty clothes in daily grime

He reasons: “I’m clean” – if jacket left-off

Clean-shaven once in a blue moon

Sleeps in a rocking chair

Then back to the sheep

Intellect buzzing on cow techniques

Amusement creeps-in on the stage of farms

Funny mishaps and the odd alarm

He’ll be glad to converse about hay and history

History of hay that is…

And if he smokes –

he raises a pipe to panting puffs

And leans on the byre with studious look

As though these moments

were time stood still

Early mornings and late nights

He’s content to mix his pleasure

With his work

And to take a brew of tea

If you’re offering

Brought in a can

To the countryman

Strange things…

STRANGE THINGS…

Here they all are – arrayed before me

There was a time – yes, there was a time

When such things did not exist

But now with their – at’s and dots and coms

They are part of life

Taken-over they have – from the stamp-addressed

Here they all are – arrayed before me

In a special folder – set apart to hold

their strung-together-look

Their spaceless in-between

To take my communications across the ether-world

I stop – I stare – at their part in my life

These that once did not exist

All embraced – differently by me –

than the younger generation who have them

Embraced as ‘second nature’ interludes

like burps or pauses

Or as real as clothes they wear

Essential codes oft-dreamt-up to just be different

My eye scans old ones – now defunct?

Mailer daemon – may be their destiny or fate

As I reflect on the persons behind these syntax mates

– Old friends long since not seen

I wonder if I can reach them – all thirteen

And to my chagrin – none of these email addresses

Bring me warm greetings in return