Thursday, May 25, 2017

February sunshine silvers bare branches.




She, sitting at her kitchen table,
turns her hands upward to run her eyes
down the insides of her arms,
to see how the water will drain
when the clouds burst.

She lights a cigarette,
then sits in the snake-pit
listening to the slitherings around her,
till deafened, she flails at them
so they become smoke.


February; heavy drops knock on her window
and she, conscious of  the thinness of  glass,
of the thousand mile spate that's around her,
crosses to the hob to make tea,
to forget  branches. 

Monday, May 22, 2017

Hughie

Hughie thinks of sex without faces;
he often thinks this way
because there never was a welcoming face,
so he never had sex,
and this July he'll be 46.

Hughie lives alone and is settled in his ways;
people think him peculiar,
never ask him to join them in the pub
or wherever.
He is growing more peculiar, they say.

Hughie has an office job;
colleagues bid him good morning at coffee-break
but sit at a different table.
He eats his lunch in the Arms bar,
and always sits facing  the wall.

Sunday, May 21, 2017

Beautiful Killing

"One of the things we will discuss is the purchase of lots of beautiful military equipment because nobody makes it like the United States” 

With one word, Trump demonstrates the obscenity of our acquiescence in the never ending killing industry. 20 million people facing famine in Yemen, South Sudan, Somalia and Nigeria; how far would $110bn go?


Our greatness measured in heaped up bodies.
Our refinement in not contemplating them.



Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Dead




His marbleised features are set at neutral;
a look that never was his.

So this is not him,
but was so recently.

Container and contents perhaps?
How does one distinguish?

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Attitude

Intended to catch the 'does he take sugar' attitude to people with physical disability, the poem relies on the word 'owns' being recognized in the spirit I intended; I'm not that I've achieved it. 



Attitude.


Who owns the child
with the withered arm-wings,
who carries the mutation that weighs a ton;
who, when the air is full of flight, hops
and hops and hops.


See how the children littering the yard
launch like torn pages into careless flight.
Like gulls they hog the sunlight
while a sea worries far below.
This is the currency.


But who owns that child,
the child with the withered arm-wings.

Monday, May 8, 2017

The other day Louise and I promised each other our lives without speaking.




We made love and stayed in each other’s arms
for a long time without opening our eyes or talking,
                          but enjoying the lisping leaves and the guttering of the stream                            
between the yellow stones.


                Those sounds in our ears and the sun’s breath on our bodies           
held us, one heart.
For there is nothing to say that is not understood
when two feel themselves one because they are within each other’s arms.

Thursday, May 4, 2017

Short Coversation

The moon is a hubcap
  fallen off the earth.

I am a pendulum
  treading time.

“I'm blind”
   says the moon.

 “I'm paralyzed”
    says I.

  "Let's go"
    says the moon.

  "Where"
    says I. 

  



  

Saturday, April 29, 2017

A Balmy Day in July


On a balmy day in July,
I sat outside with a few tins,
watching wispy white clouds
alter shape, and the afternoon too
as, sooner than wished,
the sun moved westward.

And that was the day, missiles,
delivered by the US,
killed 56 civilians in Syria.

I suspect that none of those 56
considered that tax-payers,
in the country the sun was travelling to,
would pay for these products
and their delivery
from God’s round blue sky.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

"Never smile at a crocodile and never give Messi that much space"



Simile, hyperbole, metaphor, idiom: Ray Hudson should be mandatory on all ‘creative writing’ courses.

Messi scored the winner against Real Madrid last Sunday and Ray’s celebration was epic.

"The menacing man arrives and sinks his flaming spear into the hearts of Real Madrid ……………..born in the crossfire hurricane, and he is jumping jack flash right here.............. Messi, you could drop a Tarantula into his shorts and he'd still be cool………………… As cool as the seeds inside of a cucumber".

Earlier he described Messi ‘s finish as “cleaner than Neutrogena” and “ wonderful control. He tattoos the ball to his feet.”

Mind you it’s hard to beat some of the praise he has previously showered on Messi, here are a few more:

“Defenders try to follow him on Facebook and he comes out on Twitter.”
“He burgulates the defence. He violates the intrusion. And in football, it’s legal!”
“Messi needs help like a shark needs a dentist”

Watch:        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQZQADpna9Q

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

The trees in the moonlight



The trees in the moonlight are silent,
and the trees in the pond are still.

If there is malice,
it is not here by the pond in the moonlight.
Neither violence
nor hatred
nor greed.
There are no prejudices here,
but, sadness, oh my God,
sadness fills the air with the voices of thousands
whose throats have been slit,

here, where the trees are silent in the moonlight
by the pond.

Friday, April 21, 2017

An Alternative Interpretation of Megalithic Art



There's been a lot of water collecting in this blog lately, but before pumping it dry, here's one more interpretation of the megalithic art at Loughcrew and and other megalithic sites in Ireland.


Conwell engraving: detail from Cairn L, Loughcrew c. 1870







Concentric rings,
raindrops’ pockmarks,
undulations,  zigzags.

Rivers teeming life and light  ̶̶
smithereens of sun,  
spicules of stars  ̶

we took them from the water,
embellished the stones,
so they would flow into the bodies of our dead,

who would run with the rivers,
live to be old as the earth
shine bright as the stars.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

SUMMER ORCHARD EVENING.




On an evening
when apple was eating the worm,
tree grating the sun
with some clouds, dusty birds;
the green cloth
was spread to the orchard wall.

I watched bees collecting post
while cat was a tea cosy
with dozey trip-wire eyes.
Suddenly dog alarm in the hedge
comes bursting from the undergrowth:
big game hunter
and cat gone steeplejack.

Then dog winks
and we stretch out,
and I go back to being a microscope
eyeball deep in daisies.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Thinking out loud.............faking politicians

When we tolerate lies from those who lead, don't we cede all rights to principled government, not just for now, but for the foreseeable future. Encourage future contenders for leadership to be, not just lax in their accountability to their people, but to be downright fraudulent in their practices; whatever is self-serving. Our tenuous regard for the truth, so often highlighted in our treatment of whistle-blowers, will leave us open to forms of leadership normally associated with dictatorship.

Sure Sight


I see
pearl-like
dawn
in
your face

a desolate
blue
yonder
in
your irises

the wash
of slivered
moonlight
in
your smile

I know of
nowhere
less trodden
more
perfect

I contract
to be
forever
an explorer
in that universe.

Saturday, April 8, 2017

Rivers run



Eternity


Rivers run over the land:
slivered sky and light,
spindly bodies flowing,
fish and ripples one,
alive.

Clamouring in the high places,
lisping in the  low;
spry in youth,
sedate in old age;
always journeying to their end
to run again.