GHOSTS IN THE WARDROBE

there's ghosts in the wardrobe
a flotilla of dresses
that stare at my crying

frock after frock
skirt after skirt
they mock me with your absence

your presence
now
only in this absence

this dress
remembers that
picnic

this skirt
the kiss...that kiss
falling at your feet

the so many yous
hung on hangers
float behind plastic

here your perfume
still clings
trying to outface Death

Death smirks
stares back
it doesn't blink

all the different people you could be
blue and yellow and
I slam the door on them

between finger and thumb
I pinch out the candlelight
the dark crowds around me

*

I was sleeping in my mother's room before her funeral and there were all the dresses I knew and the different personalities they allowed her to be. The clothes seemed to be lost without her and the shoes seemed to suggest that she was hiding behind them and would suddenly pop out and tell me that her death was just a joke. I gazed at them all night without sleep and saw her everywhere and in everything.

GHOSTS IN THE WARDROBE

there's ghosts in the wardrobe
a flotilla of dresses
that stare at my crying

frock after frock
skirt after skirt
they mock me with your absence

your presence
now
only in this absence

this dress
remembers that
picnic

this skirt
the kiss...that kiss
falling at your feet

the so many yous
hung on hangers
float behind plastic

here your perfume
still clings
trying to outface Death

Death smirks
stares back
it doesn't blink

all the different people you could be
blue and yellow and
I slam the door on them

between finger and thumb
I pinch out the candlelight
the dark crowds around me

Ghosts(Now Showing at...)

As we have our usual
early  morning fight

(our only row)

over who
will get the breakfast

bump into
each other's
efforts
to be there
...first!

I bear hug you
which always
undoes
(unclips)
your 'brassiere'

- although I didn't intend it to -

'You always do that! '
'How...do you do that? '

I only smile and.. chuffed
at my supposed expertise

bluff:

'Years of dedication and
practice...practice! '

(the kiss is warm & lasts ... forever) .

Was that really you? Was that really us?

I wonder as I pass your window
(a stranger now)

and catch a glimpse
of two ghosts

(who might be us)

re-enacting the moment
as it is

(held in time)

rerun by
the cinema of memory.

rerun by...the cinema of memory.

. . .giotán de spéir briste. . .

bits of broken sky
litter the road
the fallen mirror

broken bits of mirror
become the sky
they look at

bad luck you say
no. . . such beauty
a sky scattered across a road

GLASS

Only her red purse returns.


Inside it a sweet
some small change &
blood besprinkled glass.


It alone survives the crash.


Death is only a newspaper headline.
Still...this grief!


I weep tears that don't show up
on my face.

I push my fingers
deep in the purse
cut my fingertips to bits


the held glass
(all I have of you)
scarring my face

blind to the pain.

The old blood and the new mingles
and once more


if only for a second
we are together


for as long as the pain lasts.

GLASS

only
her red purse
returns

Inside it a sweet
some small change &
blood besprinkled glass.

it alone
survives
the crash

Death is only
a newspaper headline.
still...this grief

I weep tears
that don't show up
on my face

I push my fingers
deep in the purse
cut my fingertips to bits

the held glass
(all I have of you)
scarring my face

blind
to the pain
blind to the pain

the old blood
and the new mingles
and once more

if only for a second
we are together
for as long as the pain lasts

GLASS MOST
(VOICE BRIDGE)
- For One -

My voice
builds a bridge

word
(by word)  

thought arcing
through the air

defying the distance
between us

surprising birds
& clouds

reaching past Time
into the heart

of your mind.

This bridge wears
night well

throwing it about
itself like a shawl

the jewels
of you

its illuminations.

See now it is draped
in sunset

a solitary bird
(a poem in itself)  

pinned like a broach
upon the dying light.

Meet me
where  

here   is   there

& Time
is
nowhere

to be
found

here
on
this

bridge of sound

where words
become themselves.

it is raining in
the forgotten glass of water
filling it to overflowing

the glass empty now
tipped over by the fierce rain
glistening in the sun

a ladybird crawls inside
this universe of glass
bird song falls upon wet grass

GOD BLESS ALL WHO SAIL IN THEMSELVES TODAY AND THAT A BIRTHDAY DESCENDS UPON!



!!!!!!!HOPPY BIRD DAY!!!!!!!

Just shy of
almost 21 inches high

she perches on my arm
sobs into my shirt cuff.

Her 4th birthday looms large
for her

& us
...the big 04!

She cries she doesn't
want to grow old & die!

Fears her birthday as
the Grim Reaper himself

calling
in person.

"Birthdays..." I console her
are just like breathing

in&out
stop 'em & - you're gone!

You don't have birthdays then
no more you!

Birthdays are how you
keep making you

happen!

My little eyass
all tears & snot

brightens up at this
sniffs & sniffles.

I tell her
you are the sky

all endless & blue

time the wings
that lets you fly.

Death, snickers
standing by my shoulder

"Ahhh...ya old haggard ya
that's a nice pretty lie

to dry
a nestling's tears."

I watch her fly
into the endless blue

of her
self.

Smile as she
embraces her now.

I hop on one
leg hoppty hop.

"HOPPY BIRD DAY!"
I shout

against the glare
of time and sun.

She squeals
excited now

as to the who
she is

going to
be

Both of us
hopping down

the path together.



And in particular for my little Miss Tilly who in the long long ago was my especial little monkey!

*

This is my favourite photo from our Indian trip in January to attend the New Delhi Poetry Festival. It is on the road to the Taj Mahal and the mist and the monkeys won my heart. The Taj itself only put in a shy appearance 4 hours later in a barely there kinda way.

Next I used it as my birthday greetings for facebook friends....

HAVE A HOPPY BIRD DAY...OR ELSE...WE SEND DE MONKEYS AROUND!

Then it became the cover of our new The 1000 Monkeys aka Pop Up PoetryPop Up Poetry Anthology .

People laughed at the corruption of HAPPY BIRTH DAY TO YOU into HOPPY BIRD DAY TWO EWE.

So yesterday I wrote the poem to explain why I always say HOPPY BIRD DAY and I've now tied that to the birthday photo....so. . .there ya go!

******* THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING




lost in Praha
lost in Kafka
losing myself


careful making deals
with old Nick
I said 'Beatle' not 'beetle'


*


WHEN FRANZ MET DÓNALL


'When Dónall Dempsey woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous version of a certain F. Kafka.

Someone must have been telling lies about Dónall Dempsey, he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested to find out he had been turned into this F. Kafka.

Where had his Dónall Dempsey-ness gone and why -  Kafka? He knew of but had never actually read any - Kafka He had knowledge of the tropes...what Kafka could be reduced to in terms of general knowledge that could possibly clinch a pub quiz victory so that people would nod sagely and say "I knew...you being a poet and all...that you would know the answer to that."

I found that what had happened to me...whatever had happened to me...was more extensive that I had thought so that even my initial "D" become the 11th letter of the alphabet instead of the usual fourth. I was now merely a  "K."

I realised I would have to go to Prague to bring some semblance of sense to this transformation. And when I did so...hiding myself among the many tourists...I discovered that Kafka had become me and that we had somehow traded places.

So that now there was a Dónall Dempsey cafe and postcards bearing my features and other such touristy attractions that would be sure to be a sure fire attraction to the traveller with a literary bent of mind.

I visited the grave...his grave...and sure enough...it was my name that was chiseled into the stone.
Meanwhile Kafka was enjoying my life and strolling around Guildford as if it was his own. He appeared to be enjoying being Dónall Dempsey.

"Ha ha..!" I thought. "Give it time...give it time!" And Franz would surely find that being Dónall Dempsey wasn't such a good thing.
And myself being a literary tourist attraction? I ****** well hated it  I wanted to crawl away and die or be trampled to a pulp by a frightened child who had discovered a cockroach in her cornflakes.

GOD GOES FOR A WALK

God goes
for a walk.

it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim

he makes it
...Spring.

Because.
He can.

I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk

& am surprised by
the sudden change of

the weather. . ?
...whatever!

He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.

He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.

He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats

which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.

He strides along with His
Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick

whistling the music of
The Spheres.

The World bows
before him.

He is well pleased
with Himself, un-

-til: He encounters me
coming towards him

dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora

the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.

I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick.

We nod politely
saying nothing but...

He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and

I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!

We pass each other
God & creature.

And God...**** if He doesn't
make it Winter

on the very next step.

He was always
a Jealous God.

*

Two of my friends found themselves in that awful party situation where they turned up in the same frock and same hairstyle and same makeup. One would have thought it was done on purpose or that they had indeed been cloned. They had the good grace to laugh it off and pretended they were twins! This made me wonder what would happen if God decided to embody himself and take a walk about his world just so to see what it was like from our point of view. He choose the most outlandish style of dress( not knowing that it was exactly what I have been known to wear on many occasions )thus creating the ensuing fracas when our paths cross. Thus it is that a poem is created from the party/frock happening and an idle whim of mine as I find myself out for a perambulation. Ahhh...the mind of the walking poet...one would have thought that I would have seen a host of golden daffodils but instead into my ever walking mind came this thought. Mea Culpa!

GOD GOES FOR A WALK

God goes
for a walk.

it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim

he makes it
...Spring.

Because.
He can.

I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk

& am surprised by
the sudden change of

the weather. . ?
...whatever!

He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.

He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.

He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats

which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.

He strides along with His
Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick

whistling the music of
The Spheres.

The World bows
before him.

He is well pleased
with Himself, un-

-til: He encounters me
coming towards him

dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora

the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.

I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick.

We nod politely
saying nothing but...

He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and

I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!

We pass each other
God & creature.

And God...**** if He doesn't
make it Winter

on the very next step.

He was always
a Jealous God.

*

Two of my friends found themselves in that awful party situation where they turned up in the same frock and same hairstyle and same makeup. One would have thought it was done on purpose or that they had indeed been cloned. They had the good grace to laugh it off and pretended they were twins! This made me wonder what would happen if God decided to embody himself and take a walk about his world just so to see what it was like from our point of view. He choose the most outlandish style of dress( not knowing that it was exactly what I have been known to wear on many occasions )thus creating the ensuing fracas when our paths cross. Thus it is that a poem is created from the party/frock happening and an idle whim of mine as I find myself out for a perambulation. Ahhh...the mind of the walking poet...one would have thought that I would have seen a host of golden daffodils but instead into my ever walking mind came this thought. Mea Culpa!

GOD GOES FOR A WALK

God goes

for a walk.

it is the depths of Winter

but, at a whim

he makes it

...Spring.

Because.

He can.

I also, as it happens

have gone for a walk

& am surprised by

the sudden change of

the weather. . ?

...whatever!

He is wearing a yellow

gangster style fedora.

He looks like Marlon Brando

being The Godfather.

He sports the brightest of yellow

waistcoats

which compliments

the purple shirt...purple trousers.

He strides along with His

Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick

whistling the music of

The Spheres.

The World bows

before him.

He is well pleased

with Himself, un-

-til: He encounters me

coming towards him

dressed in a gangster style

yellow fedora

the brightest of yellow waistcoats

not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.

I, also, possess

a Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick.

We nod politely

saying nothing but...

He is miffed at me

wearing His outfit and

I also miffed at Him

wearing mine!

We pass each other

God & creature.

And God...**** if He doesn't

make it Winter

on the very next step.

He was always

a Jealous God.

GOD GOES FOR A WALK

God goes
for a walk.

it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim

he makes it
...Spring.

Because.
He can.

I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk

& am surprised by
the sudden change of

the weather. . ?
...whatever!

He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.

He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.

He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats

which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.

He strides along with His
Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick

whistling the music of
The Spheres.

The World bows
before him.

He is well pleased
with Himself, un-

-til: He encounters me
coming towards him

dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora

the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.

I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick.

We nod politely
saying nothing but...

He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and

I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!

We pass each other
God & creature.

And God...**** if He doesn't
make it Winter

on the very next step.

He was always
a Jealous God.

GOD GOES FOR A WALK

God goes
for a walk.

it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim

he makes it
...Spring.

Because.
He can.

I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk

& am surprised by
the sudden change of

the weather. . ?
...whatever!

He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.

He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.

He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats

which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.

He strides along with His
Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick

whistling the music of
The Spheres.

The World bows
before him.

He is well pleased
with Himself, un-

-til: He encounters me
coming towards him

dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora

the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.

I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick.

We nod politely
saying nothing but...

He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and

I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!

We pass each other
God & creature.

And God...**** if He doesn't
make it Winter

on the very next step.

He was always
a Jealous God.

GOD GOES FOR A WALK

God goes
for a walk.

it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim

he makes it
...Spring.

Because.
He can.

I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk

& am surprised by
the sudden change of


the weather. . ?
...whatever!

He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.

He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.

He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats

which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.

He strides along with His
Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick

whistling the music of
The Spheres.

The World bows
before him.

He is well pleased
with Himself, un-

-til: He encounters me
coming towards him

dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora

the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.

I, also, possess
Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick.

We nod politely
saying nothing but...

He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and

I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!

We pass each other
God & creature.

And God...**** if He doesn't
make it Winter

on the very next step.

He was always
a Jealous God.

GOD GOES FOR A WALK

God goes
for a walk.

it is the depths of Winter
but, at a whim

he makes it
...Spring.

Because.
He can.

I also, as it happens
have gone for a walk

& am surprised by
the sudden change of

the weather. . ?
...whatever!

He is wearing a yellow
gangster style fedora.

He looks like Marlon Brando
being The Godfather.

He sports the brightest of yellow
waistcoats

which compliments
the purple shirt...purple trousers.

He strides along with His
Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick

whistling the music of
The Spheres.

The World bows
before him.

He is well pleased
with Himself, un-

-til: He encounters me
coming towards him

dressed in a gangster style
yellow fedora

the brightest of yellow waistcoats
not to mention the purple shirt...purple trousers.

I, also, possess
a Paisley patterned  Parisian walking stick.

We nod politely
saying nothing but...

He is miffed at me
wearing His outfit and

I also miffed at Him
wearing mine!

We pass each other
God & creature.

And God...**** if He doesn't
make it Winter

on the very next step.

He was always
a Jealous God.

GOD HAS FALLEN...

. . .in love with me.

He sends me roses.
And other flowers.

Tells Spring to deliver them
into my eyes.

Suddenly He is
besotted.

Can't see anything
but...me.

Proclaims I am His
greatest creation.

Says he will cease to exist
if I don't believe in Him.

Says He waits by the prayers
but I never.....

"Yeah, yeah...!" I say.
"You probably say that

to all the mortals!"

I go my own way
creating the world

as I see it.

God continues
to stalk me.

I've changed the locks.
Changed my number.

I tell Him to go the Hell.
He looks harrowed.

It will end in tears.
I know it will.

For one of us.

Or both.

I am, Sir
God's spider.

Or, to be
more precise

Christ's.

I hanging about his waist
as he hangs upon this cross.

See how he talks to the leaves
in their own language

and they chatter back
with a slight sunlight accent.

I, meanwhile
despite my exalted position

continue to be
Sir Spider

spinner of tall tales
and of juicy flies.

delighting in my very being
yea exulting in my spideryness!

I am, Sir
God's spider

and who, if I may ask
are you?

Ha...attempting to trap me
in the words you weave!

Are you
not?

What! A poet...you say!
That human machine for

the making of words!

I'll have none of your
verbiage Sir!

Mere human
garbage.

I turn on my heel & leave

hear the laughter
of the trees

as they cheer
Sir Spider.

Christ forever
staring at the heavens.

GO GENTLE

my father is dying
I stop at the airport church
prepared to pray

despite my unbelief
raise my hands and eyes
to a cloudy  Heaven

but Heaven is not
prepared to hear
this prodigal son

I hold his hand
as he lies dying
this good man

he the only religion
I could believe in
I pray to him

"Go gentle...." I tell him
stroke his dear face
". . .leave this suffering behind."

GO GENTLE






my father is dying
I stop at the airport church
prepared to pray






despite my unbelief
raise my hands and eyes
to a cloudy  Heaven





but Heaven is not
prepared to hear
this prodigal son




I hold his hand
as lies dying
this good man






he the only religion
I could believe in
I pray to him





"Go gentle...." I tell him
stroke his dear face
". . .leave this suffering behind."

GOING ABOUT ITS BUSINESS

'Oh wall! I'm amazed you haven't collapsed
under the weight of drivel you're holding up! '

the graffiti laughs
in self mockery.

'Happy the man who is sleeping with you
tonight.I'd be much happier if I were! '

another wall
mutters to itself jealously.

'You ask, beautiful girl
how many kisses I've snatched?
I've snatched these ones and...
I'm not the only one to do so.'

yet another wall
kisses 'n' tells
in a red on yellow voice.

In the silence
the walls are shouting
(a babble of voices)          

Time is smiling.

'I came here.
Had a ****
- then I went home! '

another announced
in a who-gives-a-f**k manner.

'Lucius is stuffing it
into Caesu's mouth

a drunken scrawl
pronounces

amongst the inns of
THE ELEPHANT...THE LITTLE EAGLE
THE MERCURY & APOLLO.

It is the 23rd
August

AD 79

Mount Vesuvius
hasn't yet exploded.

Pompeii
dozes

in the lazy sun
of this

new morning

going about
its business.

GOING ABOUT ITS BUSINESS

'Oh wall! I'm amazed you haven't collapsed
under the weight of drivel you're holding up! '

the graffiti laughs
in self mockery.

'Happy the man who is sleeping with you
tonight.I'd be much happier if I were! '

another wall
mutters to itself jealously.

'You ask, beautiful girl
how many kisses I've snatched?
I've snatched these ones and...
I'm not the only one to do so.'

yet another wall
kisses 'n' tells
in a red on yellow voice.

In the silence
the wallls are shouting
(a babble of voices)          

Time is smiling.

'I came here.
Had a ****
- then I went home! '

another announced
in a who-gives-a-fk manner.

'Lucius is stuffing it
into Caesu's mouth

a drunken scrawl
pronounces

amongst the inns of
THE ELEPHANT...THE LITTLE EAGLE
THE MERCURY & APOLLO.

It is the 23rd
August

AD 79

Mount Vesuvius
hasn't yet exploded.

Pompeii
dozes

in the lazy sun
of this

new morning

going about
its business.



The Pompeian graffiti still exists in all its extraordinary ordinariness and just goes to show that humans will be humans no matter what peroid of history we come to rest in. Most of it could be...now. And it amazes me that their 'now' is little different than our 'now.' People will be people. It is the day before the explosion and Pompeii is just being Pompeii and hasn't yet stepped into the history that will surround and preserve it. How fragile we all are and life is and how alive and fluent are their voices. Only history is static.



This 'exchange' dug up from the long ago when time is history and myth combined is worth more than gold and the voices that come back could well be our own.

NOTHING CHANGES

In the lost city
of Ur

a fragment
survives

The father/son
divide.

The conversation is
a confrontaton.

startling in its simplicity.

Father: 'Where have you been? '

Son: 'Nowhere! '

Seems like there's nothing
new under the sun.

Nothing...
...changes.

***

THE STONES SPEAK IN A GRAFFITI VOICES

“You...have got me pregnant! ”

“You...are a mediocre man! ”

“I hope your ulcerous pustules
open and burn more than ever before! ”

An ordinary day
in Pompeii

then all is
forgotten

as Vesuvius
enters history.

GOING BACK INTO THE LIGHT

Every year your memory
fading

'til you are nothing
more than

a figment of my imagination
than the man

you were
to me.

Photographs of you
in an old shoe box.

I can't bear to look
at them

size 9
brogues...tan...if I remember rightly

the photographs I mean
the shoes long gone

one at a seaside
sailing out to sea.

Each year I take a photo
out

( Polaroid of course
a craze of yours ).

Set it in the sun
let the summer eat into you

giving you back
to the light

that made you
when the shutter clicked.

Here you are
now

nothing but white


nothing but white.

GOING BACK INTO THE LIGHT

Every year your memory
fading

'til you are nothing
more than

a figment of my imagination
than the man

you were
to me.

Photographs of you
in an old shoe box.

I can't bear to look
at them

size 9
brogues...tan...if I remember rightly

the photographs I mean
the shoes long gone

one at a seaside
sailing out to sea.

Each year I take a photo
out

( Polaroid of course
a craze of yours ).

Set it in the sun
let the summer eat into you

giving you back
to the light

that made you
when the shutter clicked.

Here you are
now

nothing but white

nothing but white.

Here, in country dark

the black so thick
one can almost

touch it
feel it

ooze out of the moment
...before time.

I am 9.

Cork is a somewhere
adrift in space

as I
this midnight child

steal from sleep
& into Granny's garden.

The dark erases
my physical body

until there is only me
thinking me

as if thought were
the only thing

keeping me alive.

I take a leaf
hidden from my sight

known only
by its touch.

smear it against
the house's wall

(Granny inside
snoring in sleep).

Here, an invisible berry
seen only by fingertips

squashed colour
staining the moment

with its magic
my hands all goosegog  & damson.

And now
the stolen match

struck against
the world itself

making the crudely
drawn

emerge into being

the flame's flicker
making it come

alive
in my mind.

9 year old me
reaching...reaching

back through
the ages

touching time
as if it were

a tangible thing.

Knowing now
how the caveman felt

as he created
a creature

made from the destruction
of leaf and berry

springing into life
in the shadow's dance

a creature made of fire
and dark.

And then
the match goes out

& I am
9 again

hopping around
with burnt fingertips.

Watching time
as it collapses

become the boy
once more

frightened out of his
20th Century self

journeying through time
in the sudden

scratch of a stolen match.

the dark deepens
the tiny candle holds its breath
dives under the night's waters

halfway across
the little universe of a room
the candle drowns

& I am left
bereft at the bottom
of nothingness

I feel my self to see
if:I am...still here
if:I...still exist

I think I do
therefore I am
...I. . .think

"ooooOOOO!" cries the wind
pretending its a ghost
the trees snicker

"OOOOoooo!" cries the ghost
pretending to be the wind
the trees snicker

"...& if I die before I. . ."
I hurl the prayer
at the blackness

a-not-put-away shoe
catches me by the foot
I fall. . .

"Come to my arms!"
the bed mumbles
I tumble into its embrace

suddenly sleep seizes me
"Come with me..." sleep whispers
I make my escape

safe inside
a snore
the dark don't worry me no more

in the morning the sun
throws lances of light
at the retreating dark

the shadows flee
in desperate disarray
make a last stand behind the mirror

on the floor
a dead candle
with a right big toe(imprint)

the sun advances
the shadows' slaughter
emperor of light...conqueror of morning

https://youtu.be/fFScAChsp00

GOING LOCO

the train screamed
impatient to be off
we watch the station pull away

the train huffed & puffed
placing cinders in girls' hair
belching soot on boys' faces

train throwing
a scarf of smoke
over its chugging carriages

cows running by
so fast
the world a blur of green

the train chuffed
to be chasing the landscape
crossing that bridge when

it came to it
destination achieved
downloading passengers to the station

GOING LOCO

the train screamed
impatient to be off
we watch the station pull away

the train huffed & puffed
placing cinders in girls' hair
belching soot on boys' faces

train throwing
a scarf of smoke
over its chugging carriages

cows running by
so fast
the world a blur of green

the train chuffed
to be chasing the landscape
crossing that bridge when

it came to it
destination achieved
downloading passengers to the station

GOING LOCO

the train screamed
impatient to be off
we watch the station pull away

the train huffed & puffed
placing cinders in girls' hair
belching soot on boys' faces

train throwing
a scarf of smoke
over its chugging carriages

cows running by
so fast
the world a blur of green

the train chuffed
to be chasing the landscape
crossing that bridge when

it came to it
destination achieved
downloading passengers to the station

GOING ON WITH ME

Never did like my own
birthday.

All that cakes and candles
stuff.

You could keep it.
Strictly for the birds.

Every day was my birthday
far as I could see.

Birthdays...who'd
have 'em....eh?

But to have one
is the only way to go

on to be
someone.

Miss one and
you're gone.

Every birthday
always called my Mam.

After all she did
all the hard work

when push
came to shove.

All I did was arrive.

Thank her for
having me.

"Ahhh  go on with ya!"
she'd forever  laugh.

This always the best
bit of my birthday.

Celebrating
my mother.

GOING ON WITH ME

never did like
my own
birthday

all that cakes
and candles
stuff

you could keep it
strictly
for the birds

every day was
my birthday
far as I could see

Birthdays...
who'd
have 'em....eh

but to have one
is the only way to go
on to be someone

miss one and
you're gone
out like a candle

every birthday
always called
my Mam

after all she did
all the hard work
when push came to shove

all I did was arrive
thank her for
having me

"Ahhh  go on with ya!"
she'd forever
laugh

this always the best
bit of my birthday
celebrating my mother

GOING ON WITH ME

Never did like my own
birthday.

All that cakes and candles
stuff.

You could keep it.
Strictly for the birds.

Every day was my birthday
far as I could see.

Birthdays...who'd
have 'em....eh?

But to have one
is the only way to go

on to be
someone.

Miss one and
you're gone.

Every birthday
always called my Mam.

After all she did
all the hard work

when push
came to shove.

All I did was arrive.

Thank her for
having me.

"Ahhh  go on with ya!"
she'd forever  laugh.

This always the best
bit of my birthday.

Celebrating
my mother.

GOING ON WITH ME

never did like
my own
birthday

all that cakes
and candles
stuff

you could keep it
strictly
for the birds

every day was
my birthday
far as I could see

Birthdays...
who'd
have 'em....eh

but to have one
is the only way to go
on to be someone

miss one and
you're gone
out like a candle

every birthday
always called
my Mam

after all she did
all the hard work
when push came to shove

all I did was arrive
thank her for
having me

"Ahhh  go on with ya!"
she'd forever
laugh

this always the best
bit of my birthday
celebrating my mother

GOING ON WITH ME

Never did like my own
birthday.

All that cakes and candles
stuff.

You could keep it.
Strictly for the birds.

Every day was my birthday
far as I could see.

Birthdays...who'd
have 'em....eh?

But to have one
is the only way to go

on to be
someone.

Miss one and
you're gone.

Every birthday
always called my Mam.

After all she did
all the hard work

when push
came to shove.

All I did was arrive.

Thank her for
having me.

"Ahhh  go on with ya!"
she'd forever  laugh.

This always the best
bit of my birthday.

Celebrating
my mother.

GOING *****

using uncle's bowler hat
for a *****
two turds full

GOING TASADAY

The Tasadays
(remnants of a Stone Age culture)        

recently discovered in the Philippines

have no words
for war, hate or weapons

but favour
the communicative power

of skin

indulging in constant
warm enfolding embraces

loving touches.

So, this Tuesday
let's be Tasadays

hark back
to Stone Age practice

and indulge in

the process of osmosis

soaking each other up

skin to skin.

*

Oh how I yearn for...hunger for this woman's skin...a touch mutating into a caresse...transforming into a kiss...a kiss becoming...!
We spend hours just holding each other...the skin of the other offering love comfort and security and sensuality. Ever since we met in Stratford and inadvertently our thighs touched when seated together...that one touch conveyed all that could be said for now and forever. In that one touch we had everything we needed to know about each other and the rest of our bodies just had to catch up!

GOING TASADAY

The Tasadays
(remnants of a Stone Age culture)        

recently discovered in the Philippines

have no words
for war, hate or weapons

but favour
the communicative power

of skin

indulging in constant
warm enfolding embraces

loving touches.

So, this Tuesday
let's be Tasadays

hark back
to Stone Age practice

and indulge in

the process of osmosis

soaking each other up

skin to skin.

GOING TO THE MOVIES

Now in these nights
without you

I go to the movies

alone
this time

all the time
remembering

the times of you.

Escaping
the absence

of you

(losing the plot)  

sleeping the film through

smuggling my loneliness
past my sleeping mind

catching the pain
off guard

until it’s time

to walk the long walk
home

to what used to be
our home.

GOIN' UP!

Here on the 60th floor
of my life

I step out
into the hall

hear the cables snap
and the lift plunge

to the tremendous crash
of the first floor.

"Good God..!" I gasp
"How lucky can one guy get?"

I close my eyes
listen...listen

to the life
I've left

&
then

. . .take the stairs!

wounded
with bird song
the moment oozes time

the sunlight playing
cat-&-mouse
with the shadows

the bird nails its song
unto the sky
passing clouds pause to listen

("Oh!")says the water
where the stone has gone
(("Oh!"))  ((("Oh!"))) & ( ( (  ("Oh!") ) ) )

the dead standing
outside time
looking in on the living

the hedge grows
a crop of sparrows
afternoon lessens

Ireland is almost over
for another day at least
the planet turns in its sleep

a gondola
glides through memory
cutting through time

GONDOLA AT GLENDALOUGH

wounded
with bird song
the moment oozes time

the sunlight playing
cat-&-mouse
with the shadows

the bird nails its song
unto the sky
passing clouds pause to listen

("Oh!")says the water
where the stone has gone
(("Oh!")) ((("Oh!"))) & ( ( ( ("Oh!") ) ) )

the dead standing
outside time
looking in on the living

the hedge grows
a crop of sparrows
afternoon lessens

Ireland is almost over
for another day at least
the planet turns in its sleep

a gondola
glides through memory
cutting through time

GONDOLA AT GLENDALOUGH

wounded
with bird song
the moment oozes time

the sunlight playing
cat-&-mouse
with the shadows

the bird nails its song
unto the sky
passing clouds pause to listen

("Oh!")says the water
where the stone has gone
(("Oh!"))  ((("Oh!"))) & ( ( (  ("Oh!") ) ) )

the dead standing
outside time
looking in on the living

the hedge grows
a crop of sparrows
afternoon lessens

Ireland is almost over
for another day at least
the planet turns in its sleep

a gondola
glides through memory
cutting through time

GOODBYE TO THE CIRCUS

( 'Oh! Nellie the elephant packed her trunks
and said goodbye to the circus...
off she went with a clumpity clump
...clump....clump... clump!
The head of the herd was calling...
far far away.' )

Auntie Nellie
died of:

drink, loneliness: & whatever...

(not necessarily in that order) .

And the farm that was
our young days summer holidays

cast her youth like so much pig slop
to the squelching grunt of

cow dung days
moo cow lowing years

until the dust collected and
settled in the corners

no one could reach....

Time left her like a Holy Picture
high above the mantle piece.

See the children
take the coloured cards in their hands

go play 'Fish in the Pool! '
Scream: 'Snap! '

Laugh at who is left to be:
'Old Maid! '

'Not me! '
'Not me! '

Time never took her
hand like a lover's...touch...

... Time...

...only...

...waited...

. . . for her.

In her loneliness
she read and re-read and lived on:

Aldous Huxley's - ISLAND.

She said...this said: 'Everything! '

Years, later...when she reads
like a fictional character in someone's story

when time no more ...mattered.

I travelled to her
ISLAND

and touched her LONELINESS.
felt her LONGING.

Auntie Nellie died of:
drink, loneliness: and whatever

(not necessarily in that order) .

...said goodbye to the circus......calling far far away...

GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

Not stated
( though it’s understood )

she will not say a word

like dust
swept under a rug.

Good
Housekeeping.

His anger
ripens

into the bruise
she wears upon her skin

a jewellery
of fear

written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.

Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first

the tattoo
of boot and fist.

Holds her hand
under the grill

until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.

The bilge
of his vile

vomiting insults
upon her scared face.

“****...****...****”
his screams in a rut

matching each word
to each rising fist

a blow by blow
account.

He the liturgist
in the nightly rites

of violence
uglier than can be imagined.

Lilies cower
in a vase.

He the high priest
of her despair.

An ugly bruise
upon her soul.

Her eyes now
null and void

slit wrists
upon polished table tops

in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.

GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

Not stated
( though it’s understood )

she will not say a word

like dust
swept under a rug.

Good
Housekeeping.

His anger
ripens

into the bruise
she wears upon her skin

a jewellery
of fear

written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.

Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first

the tattoo
of boot and fist.

Holds her hand
under the grill

until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.

The bilge
of his vile

vomiting insults
upon her scared face.

“****...****...****”
his screams in a rut

matching each word
to each rising fist

a blow by blow
account.

He the liturgist
in the nightly rites

of violence
uglier than can be imagined.

Lilies cower
in a vase.

He the high priest
of her despair.

An ugly bruise
upon her soul.

Her eyes now
null and void

slit wrists
upon polished table tops

in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.

GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

Not stated
( though it’s understood )

she will not say a word

like dust
swept under a rug.

Good
Housekeeping.

His anger
ripens

into the bruise
she wears upon her skin

a jewellery
of fear

written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.

Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first

the tattoo
of boot and fist.

Holds her hand
under the grill

until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.

The bilge
of his vile

vomiting insults
upon her scared face.

“****...****...****”
his screams in a rut

matching each word
to each rising fist

a blow by blow
account.

He the liturgist
in the nightly rites

of violence
uglier than can be imagined.

Lilies cower
in a vase.

He the high priest
of her despair.

An ugly bruise
upon her soul.

Her eyes now
null and void

slit wrists
upon polished table tops

in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.

GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

Not stated
( though it’s understood )

she will not say a word

like dust
swept under a rug.

Good
Housekeeping.

His anger
ripens

into the bruise
she wears upon her skin

a jewellery
of fear

written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.

Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first

the tattoo
of boot and fist.

Holds her hand
under the grill

until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.

The bilge
of his vile

vomiting insults
upon her scared face.

“****...****...****”
his screams in a rut

matching each word
to each rising fist

a blow by blow
account.

He the liturgist
in the nightly rites

of violence
uglier than can be imagined.

Lilies cower
in a vase.

He the high priest
of her despair.

An ugly bruise
upon her soul.

Her eyes now
null and void

slit wrists
upon polished table tops

in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.

GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN

night ****** the light
out of the sky
until it became the dark

the heart attack
said only one word
"Come!"

and he came
because he couldn't help
but come

the heart attack
smirked
at his obedience

he stepped into
the dark
seeing the world fade

but he thought
of her smile
and

came back
to himself
saying only one word

"No!"
he said with a smile
and again "No!"

the heart attack
left in a rage
furious it should be so

"Well...well...!"
smiled Life
"...good to see you again!"