Late March

Outside
Where the soft, late afternoon light
Bathes the world in stillness
A stillness in which, crows perch
On road signs to clean their beaks
Ready for the next kill
Birds are few and small
Winged insects are waiting
For the cooler air an hour away
Stilled, I breathe the sweet Spring air
Inside

Inside
The house, all are sharp rectangles
Edges of boxes, packed
With a soul’s accumulations
Accretions that speak back to me
Needing reassurance perhaps
Of original love. Will you keep me?
The mug with the broken handle
My father’s sand wedge
Leaning against the shed door
Outside

Outside
The Sun is painting the sky
It is the end
Below the horizon
Out of sight, it does its best work
Like Julian of Norwich
Or Franz Kafka
When all its former glory
Is extinguished and
Stripped away, then I go
Inside

First Steps

Fish scales, Galilean glare
Soft feet, unused to walking
And the saline smell of a former life
Like their nets, left, discarded
And a pile of unused nails
A length of half-sawn cedar
The aroma lingering still

One, binding a broken oar, another
Hands black with caulk, and one
Brushing splinters and sawdust away
Mothers’ and fathers’ witness
A carpenter capturing sons
In his kingdom call, their sons,
Taking their first steps

And us? What did we discard,
Our feet now shod with
The gospel of peace?
The stripping began as the
Carpenter, saw and plane
In hand, fashioned us
With dove-tail joints to pilgrims

Walking, parable upon parable
Signs beyond sermons, the blind
Now seeing, seeing nothing
As the Son of Man,
Works his way to the place
Of his penultimate step, everything
Laid down, stripped, discarded

And then? Then
Sore feet planted
On the pressed soil and rock
Of a garden tomb before dawn,
He takes his first new steps,
One word forming in his eyes,
Mary! And, later, your name

The Ills of America

The last time I saw a boy
Dragged by his lug ’ole to
Stand outside
The Headmaster’s Office
Was half-a lifetime ago

Mr Laing caught
The unfortunate Franklyn
With stolen items
From the school tuck-shop
Tucked imperfectly in his
Worn-leather music case

The innocent Franklyn, named
Benjamin, made no sound
He had grown used
To being accused of the ills
Of America, even its creation, by
Sixth Form historian, Carl

The older boys with their muscles
And well-developed acne
Vietnam fatigues and Dylan
Graffiti on their exercise books
Demonstrated their outrage at
Lynchings at Carl’s command

Carl, window pole in hand
Inserted it through Benjamin’s blazer
And hung it, and its sudden owner
By the tall pegs in the
Cricket pavilion
Across the field from the school

It was the ever-watchful Laing
That detected silence
During after-games registration
And searched for the missing voice
…His wrath descending
Upon the culprit, Carl

Now subjected to the truth
Of his participation
In the ills of America
That lie in us all
Apart, that is, from
Innocent B. Franklyn

 

 

 

Unmade Bed

Deep-seated frowns
Wrinkle the youngest brow
I mean young, less than two
That deep-seated frown
Just prior to pushing away
Another bowl of tasteless rusks

I cannot trace the trajectory
From the child to the adult
Booking into a plush hotel
But here, the frown returns
I stand still, sighing at the cocoon
That has swallowed my debit card

Here, I am sluiced down a river of time
Double de-clutched into reverse
Hard rammed; suddenly
I am five, or four once more
Clamped in a bed tight with sheets,
Blankets, eiderdowns…no duvet

A five-star constriction,
Bound, mummified and squeezed
Between cold white sheets
Barely daring to inflict a crumple or a crease
As if doing so would
Incur the wrath of an outside agency

This will not do!
And, clutching the folded coverings
I erupt, and tear it all away,
And dance on its grave
Like the warrior I am, ha!
Man shall not live by counterpane alone…

Now the lines creasing my skin
Stretched ever more loosely
Across my facial features
Are mostly from smiles,
Gone are the days of unmade beds
Perfection takes approximately 9 seconds

Flowers

You stand there with half-flowers
Hidden behind your back
One eye glistening, the other
Flooded with immeasurable joy

Whilst I fuss and chatter
Battering you with
Requests I think you’d
Like to grant me

Exhausted by your silence
Eventually
After decades
I stop talking

And look up
And see your glistening eye
And the other, an ocean
For me to swim in

Only then can you surprise me,
A man, with flowers, half-flowers
Dressed in colours I’d never seen
Some already gone to seed

You hold them out to me
Silent me. Before I take them
I close my eyes and bask
In scents from another world

Then, I take the flowers
And wonder about the seeds?
And finally, I know
What lies there, behind your eyes

A Bus Journey

Top deck affords its randomly selected members
With eyes from steamed-up windows
One wipe with the back of a finger
Restores sight to view the world below

Two women, smiling, hug on the high street
A lady transported by the book she is reading
A man, impaired by less of a knee than when he was young
Making his way, shopping in a rucksack slung

And I, earbuds in, listening to a podcast:
Deitrich Bonhoeffer’s imperfect
But uniquely courageous
Opposition to the Nazi horror

Makes me wonder if I have eyes to see?
I wipe the window one more time
There is the departed Waterstones,
Its logo not quite brushed clean off

It’s raining icy splinters now
The rain gurgling its way to open drains
Each raindrop making a soft landing
The cold gnawing at my bones

The awkwardness of us in the rain
Dipping into pockets and wallets
Deep inside large cumbersome coats
Searching for library cards, bus passes, phones…

And a young man slumped on the seat
Leaning down to re-tie his wet
Unusually wide, very white Converse laces
All of us, heads down, quieter than usual

In Bristol we say ‘Thank you, Drive’
Then it’s off, following the feet
Of the one who alighted before,
Carrying two books, hidden from the rain

I stop at the corner shop, the owner’s Alsatian
Objects to me spending money
Always gives me a fright
Home now, book open, dry trousers on

Socks of Merino Wool

Trump is in the White House
Musk is on the Moon
Washington at minus nine
Did a chill travel down
Your left-wing spine
Or are your feet a-dancing
Your heart full of hope
As we walk into the future
Along an uncertain
Political tightrope?

There’s Gaza to rebuild
Hostages to repair
Putin to, frankly, stop
Ukraine’s wounds to heal
From years of bloody warfare
And let’s not forget
We were all slaves in Egypt
Refugees in a foreign land
So let’s give our neighbours
An open heart; a helping hand

Yes, Trump is in the White House
And Musk is on the Moon
It’s time for a cup of tea
We’ve made it thus far
We’ve made it to noon
And I’ve made a decision
To celebrate life to the full
To fill my glass with bubbles
Wear socks of Merino wool
And sing the praises of the King
And good old John Bull.

Dreaming

Vivid, well known
Characters to me
Fully fitted with souls
Personality, accents
Particular clothing
Walk onto my dream-stage
Without permission -
Not exclusively at night -
With stories to tell

When my defences
Are off-guard
Like Nathan the prophet
Illuminating the
Silver and the spiders’ webs
Treasure and trip wires
The whole truth
And nothing but the truth
Is acted out around me

Insecurities exposed
Failures examined
Sins confessed
Fears faced
Sadness
Hopes
And dreams
Unspoken prayers
Strutting and fretting

Colourful performances
Formed in less time than the
Flickering of an eyelid
Persisting for hours, often,
Evaporating in seconds
Characters retreating
Beyond some thick curtain:
Rarely stopping to take a bow

Coffee#1 Cold Friday

Writer, scarf, laptop
Flat white, tumbling syllables
Biscoff cheesecake joy

Remembering Autumn

It’s easy to look on
Ice covered windscreens
And frost-laden rooves
And dream of direct hits
Heat from the summer sun

And forget Autumn
That prelude
Before gloves, hats, and
Black tights favoured
By cold-averse runners
Are standard wear

Tilted forwards, our minds
Require a jolt to plunge
Into the past to
Be reabsorbed by
Whatever was witnessed there

Morning: minus 3
To rid the car of grime
Winter filth in my sights
Steaming soapy water
And I advanced:
Harbingers of Spring

Instead, I stumbled upon
Autumn
Sycamore seeds lodged
In every crevice, sleeper
Spies in a foreign land

The past, lest we forget,
Has a potency…
…I reached in and slung
Each tawny spy
Away with the grime:
Forbidden fruit

Dreary December

Dreary, dull December
Grim, grey skies
Bad as beige,
Shadowless, sunless,
Mushroom-soup-like
A miasma of mizzle

I cry out for contrails
Or blustery blizzards
I burst out and bellow
For January blue-sky bliss,
For wandering in the woods
In well-worn wellies

And filling my fingers with
Pure spotless snowballs
Then shall I submit:
Arrest my alliterations
Stop my stooping, and
Pause my petulant pen

Happy New Year!

Unwanted Stone

It’s hard - moving house
That dialogue with yourself
To discard, to abandon to the past

The marks you made
The log burner, the
Handles on kitchen doors

Grey paint imperfectly slapped
Or forgotten shoes gathering dust
Under the bed

But leave behind you must
If, where you are going
Is smaller, narrower, more focussed

Puts a sculptor’s chisel
Into your hand, moving
A necessary circumcision of

Unwanted stone
Unveiling what perhaps
Was there all along

Standing on tiptoe

One day the Sun resolved
To pay a long-delayed visit
To the Moon
That grey, crusty, cold,
One-faced world

The Moon sensing
All was not as it had been
Slung its hook and dived
Under the Earth
In eclipsical shade

The Sun, knowing
In his innards that fear was at play,
Beamed, unconcerned,
Traversed the emptiness
Of Space and drew near

The Moon, half-afraid, half-intrigued,
Popped a crescent foot out,
Beyond the shadow,
And felt the warmth sink
Crater-bound, in, and in further

The Earth, meantime,
Alarmed at the thought of
Irreversible ocean evaporation
Made plans, and hid
Concealed beneath the clouds

Had Space not been so vacuous
The Moon and Earth would have
Heard the Sun crackle and pop
With laughing joy, chewing
On a delicious secret or two

Just when all was up
And elements should surely melt
An intriguing unprediction
Took place and, like climbing under
A heavy tog duvet on a cold night,

The Sun wrapped himself
In the Earth, like an old
Familiar t-shirt
And sat back feeling
Quite at home

The Sun, now clothed in the Earth
Bathed the Moon
In multicoloured lights
And the world became
An Inside-out wonder

The whole of creation
Standing on tiptoe had
Waited a long time for
The sons of God
To be revealed

Poem in honour of J B Philips, 20th Century Anglican bible translator

The Big Thank You

For the prison break – I thank you
For kissing goodbye to the wrong tree
Now tree-of-life hugging – thank you
For slave redemption, I kneel and sing
Free at last

For the courtroom drama – thank you
For my advocate – I thank you
And no solicitor’s fees – I stagger
Overwhelmed, convulsed with laughter
Free at last

For the invitation to the king’s table – I thank you
And again when I forgot holiness
Those new clothes, smelling fresh
How can I thank you?
Loved at last

For everyday’s content:
A dew laden spider’s web
A breaking wave crashing
On a long sandy beach
You did that?

For ungainly giraffes
Clashing necks
Or endless ants endlessly
Working for the common good
For the endless variety – I thank you

For Harry Redknapp, yes, really
And Olga Korbutt, Pink Floyd
Solzhenitsyn, all apostles
Beyond the frontier
Thank you

And for Mrs Late for Lunch
The Major with a glass eye
For friends, family,
Funny people, fiery people, people
Yes, thank you

God, for naming me – I thank you
For calling me – I thank you
For Your wind-blown Spirit
Carrying me like a seed
Purpose at last

But when all is said and done
When you kneel and wash my feet
I am undone by
Your greeting in heaven
Home at last. Thank you.

The Naming

Atlantic blasts unleashed
You unstuck my feet
Stood on a rock, but
It was no defence

I could have knelt, I suppose
But I did not, instead
Chin in the air, eyes closed
I shouted for you to come

Pitched over, drummed down,
I joined the snakes on the ground
Returned like a small child
To the lower places

But it was here in the dust
I heard of another storm
Brewing, boiling, roaring
I looked the other way

Who are you, wind-wild
And coming from the east?
Full of terrible kindness
Pulling up the fallen

I could name you,
Except you said ‘No, I am
Here to name you’
It’s time

Contentment Haiku 2: Early on the Water

Unlit, sunrise mist
Rhythm of oars, like breathing
In the day to come

Bonfire

Man in old rough clothes

Feeds a bonfire, broken wood,

Vertical white smoke

Far From Normal

Crimped, the brass nipple
Closed tight on a steel cable
And pressed up, docking
Into a recess
High up, ceiling high the thin
Cable dangling free

Perpendicular,
Taut, tense, a still leaden bob
Hollowed-out, tied, and
Hung like the guilty
Facing ultimate questions
Ready now, to swing

Filled with Indian
Ink, its black blood emptying
Hesitantly through
A small orifice
Spilling onto a canvas
Stretched out on the floor

Shoulder to shoulder
A crowd, as for a hanging,
On tiptoe, craning
Waiting for the bob
Its unseen earthly artist
In fine oscillations

Petals of jet black
Painted each day for a year
Until death draws near
A gallows-crowd back
To watch the last ink-drop fall
A final full stop.

Its legacy gift:
Spiral art and animation
Of life spent, ending
In shocking beauty
Condemned, maybe, but so,
So far from normal

Caught Unawares

Everything was in the right place:

That morning blind routine

Requiring minimal conscious thought

I mean, the toothbrush and paste

We’re waiting, parked neatly - check

Second finger found the kettle switch – no problem

Fridge door opens, chilly jam and marmalade jars

Casually thrown up with right hand and caught in the left

No milk, no matter

Shoes on, front door unlocked

It’s a two minute walk shuffling through the autumnal leaf shower

A comforting orange red stillness

So quiet as if the pavements have stopped breathing

Or the trees have witnessed a rapture

I press on, disregarding the silence

There’s the shop, lights on

Checking my jacket pocket for the wallet I occasionally forget

I extend my hand to the door

It doesn’t open

It is difficult to convey just how deep

Is the shockwave that is travelling

In and out of my mind, my grip on normality,

Like some untold tide

For twenty years, maybe twice a week

The door, often left slightly open, yielded

But not this early unassuming Friday morning

I push again, my brain and my sense disconnecting

Cleaving into non-identical twins: wisdom and will

The one locked into a fierce debate with the other

One, calm, the other incapable of reading the runes

As ever committed to hopeless causes trying the handle once more

It is then that I’m shaken awake

The lesson once again makes me laugh quietly

As I turn, no milk in hand

And kick the leaves into another random pattern

Knowing again there is no right place

For things to be held

Like time itself, caught unawares

In it own spider’s web

Awaiting an unknowable fate:

The order of things is to be shaken

Before the final things to come

Yes, it’s good to be reminded

And walk back to where the cup of black tea

Is calling forlornly for what is missing

A Tale of Two Pubs

These two pubs, unpaired
Not by compass and meridians
But by a subterranean,
Inexpressible knowing,
Where words are crude
Instruments failing to
Distinguish differing
Smiles of satisfaction

On a Saturday, for lunch,
Lynch and I and others
Traipse through slate-grey
Winter wind and drizzle
Like intent pilgrims
Discomforts disdained
To the Ruby Lounge
A meeting place for toothless old men

The real Ruby Lounge was far rougher and more dilapidated

And us, barely shaving
But young and old shuffle their way
Across the sawdust-strewn floor
To an altar rail, for communion
The priest, taking our offerings
Clasped with tattooed hands the tap
And poured forth the weekly libation
A pint of Youngs

Eyes meet, publican priest
With his latest converts,
Silenced initiates,
Their inexperienced hands
Still tracing the bevels
Of their fathers’ jugs
Embarrassed to show
Too much satisfaction

Smiles concealed,
We return,
Across the sawdust
To the wobbly table
Sticky with yesterday’s beer
And spoil the moment with
Mundane talk of Monty Python
And Parmesan cheese on toast

Maybe a bath and some spray later
And a trench coat if cold and dark
A collection of poorly paid pilgrims
Stomping their feet against the cold
Nudge away from minor village roads
To find the path across fields
Illuminated by a watching moon
Towards the waiting lights

Sadly, the Share & Coulter in no more…this pub has a similar feel if a bit busier

The Share and Coulter
There, eight animated souls,
Bums on wooden seats
With tied-on cushions,
A polished table and dry beer mats,
And a roaring fire just beyond…
Clueless to how daringly close
To heaven they’ve come, huddle

Pictures of long-dead Shires
And their barrelled drays
Looking on from the walls
Witness my blaspheming
And Christ’s secret agent asking
‘Why did you say that?’
Unseen angels lean in
Licking their lips