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.