In the pub where it's always ten past two

I'll wait for you.

Tucked in the corner - you know the booth.



Like the clock face

waiting silently and immobile.

Time standing still without you.



And the piano man will be here

playing to a thankless crowd.

But we'll clap like your papa would.



The pub who's clock remains still

and with airplanes circling above;

That's where I'll be.

Here we stand.

Somehow elsewhere from the world.



At times unable to comprehend what’s in front of us,

Happening around us.



It’s us and them,

Us and them.



You say you’re an alien

And I tend to agree.



As no creature exists

Quite like you.



At least not that I’ve seen.

Does that make you an alien?



Regardless, we’ll continue to go through

Life not really understanding



Until, maybe, one day we do.

But are we still alien then?



Or do we lose our inner cosmos

And forget where we left the outer one too.

Midnight, pitch black and raining

He washes his car.



Swimming upstream against the impossible:

Tainted raindrops creating an unfinishable task

Blind to its full grasp on his life.



He loves that car. Busted old thing -

Barely road worthy

But he fights to keep it clean

Through darkness.



Midnight car washes have become more frequent.

Filling the void. Filing for divorce.

Tainted raindrops smear his life,

His wife publicly smeared in a community obsessive over the local news.



Local rumour flies.

That rusty old thing

Why is he out there cleaning again?

Cleaning in the dark -

How can he see the dirt?



Inside she looks on, looks on to the coward.

She can see the dirt

The former great, the former lover.

That ******* car.



The muted mesh of metal

That held her former lover

and his former lover.

Out there his avoidance is her disdain.



Midnight, pitch black and raining

He washes his car.

A strewn learner sticker

His ego was always too thick



Too thick for glass

A windscreen stood no chance



Now mourners melanchol

Of a young man taken



His mother saw the real him

She saw the fake



"A little angel" they say

Certainly the one he took away

Three pronged leaves stain the footpath.

Yesterday’s rain indents their tridents

Around Shoreditch. Swept away by council,

Amusingly, at the start of autumn.



In October, when morning’s golden sun

Lies shadows on each building you pass,

This building - a holy one - has front steps

That bed the bedless.



In October, the tattooed pavement

On Pittfield Street illuminates with lives

Past and present. Spring’s leaves have now fallen

And left these trident swords to battle winter.

Staring into a tinted sky.

Every second plane a force

Ever closer to the crowded beach.



Listening to the ins and outs

Of waves.

The ins and outs

Of drills.



Natural meeting the unnatural.



Man takes from this historic landscape.

Another high rise hotel block

Filled with him and her

Seeking to find their heritage;



Without looking inward

They look everywhere else

And come up empty.



Another brimming August beach.

Another sky rise 50 feet

From the quelling swells

That remember times before.

Like Brigadoon,

I'll return yearly.

To see old friends

that never grow but always age.

Time passing fades memory.



But when I turn off the M50

down the rat run

by the shops that we hid behind for a smoke,

nostalgia grips.

The Old Road - bested by a bypass

bringing Saturday shoppers to their Mecca -

lies as it always has:

small potholes and loosened chips.

Forgotten, but in a good way.



The pristine flowerbeds

void of rosebuds

but filled with cigarette butts

at this time of year.

Yet, still kept, looked after.



And a home

scented by hot-tottied cloves,

pined needles

seeking shelter

amongst the red and gold

and good reason to believe it’s here -

with candles adorning windows,

a sign of compassionate welcome.

At least at this one time every year.

Cherry blossom pinks encircle a park,
Cordoned off by stretched police ribbon
Surrounding its inner heart.
Inside lies a man. Cherry blossom pinks run from his body.

Springtime has brought record temperatures
And Londoners sit out, filling the beer garden
that overflows into the adjacent park.
The sun’s heat can be blinding.

Later they wrap the tape back up.
Another stabbing.
Open and shut.

The sun sets and the beer garden empties.
Tomorrow, the park will fill again.
The cherry blossom’s pink as temporary as our memories.

A night girl takes the blame

Plaster after plaster simply to pave

A way for a better life.

“Where is her shame?”



Asks the dolled up go-go wife

Leading her husband by his tie

Like a collar around his neck. Sick.

As she parades, reckless to strife.



And the mistress?

The same black tint that he kisses

at home, here pours and pours

On every visit.



A discarded mascara bottle,

discarded amore.

Doubled over Stella cans

crawling from last night's 10p home.

Late brunches for the new majority

waking within a block who's characters are now alone.



Previously untouched by the new,

the heavily worn and stained wooden

chair now longing for stories of the few.

The old exacerbated, they couldn't



see it coming. Their home.

Now a haven for the new.

A new Mecca for creativity with no retreat

For those left behind.



Doubled over Stella cans.

This used to be free the old fuss.

Now there's no home for them.

Their 10p shelters gone with a gust.

He cries.

His chilld’s hungry,

Chicken gnawed to the bone.

Chose to keep his head down

But it hasn’t paid.

So, he hits the street.



The world at his feet.

Or, at least, this trade.

His chance to take the crown

Now, he hears sirens drone.

Regretfully,

He cries.

As Friday’s sun descends

A manic grip takes hold of the city.



Shoreditch on Shabbat like

A holy land for revellers.



Here the city ignites, the senses

Are at once dulled and overworked



Suits pull suitcases. Weekend trips

Coincide with business meets



Filling hotel lobby bars

The Ace, card dealt on payments.



Shaven bleached heads

Sidestep less fortunates



Begging for more, more, more

As night turns to morning



And mourning the nighttime

Bodies dance through



As sun ascends - bleaching the eye

but beholden because it let’s us go.

"Fate may not hold that life in as high a regard, and may dispose of it at will."
- Selected Civil War Letters of Edwine Willow



Gathering in a blessed hall

Segmented by gender.

Lines of ancestors, resting

alongside a new neighbour.



Yesterday, rain poured

As if to mourn

What the evening sky would bring

As it opened up and wept.



Today’s sun won’t relent.

A still March day.



China teacups and saucers -

65 years old - a wedding present

Turned prop for visiting mourners.

Comforting a widow.

Long Life



Tuna bridge rolls

salmon bagels

whiskey bottles.



The evening’s sky

Awash with stars

As bright as we had seen them

London’s pollution falling silent too

In respect.

I



A plane touches down

And safely carries you to a land

less crowded than London’s bustling streets.

Foreign, warmer climates

That sufficiently cater for wine and feasts.

Land that carries blood through its Black River,

Excuses to not swim in Summer’s heat.

A southern tip that travellers will visit and disparage

A separation of two cultures

As if history teaches nothing

And geography misplaces some from another





II



A plane touches down

And safely carries me to a land

I call home. Where surroundings are

less crowded than London’s bustling streets.

Where old friends gather

To celebrate all those returning home.

The pubs more filled than churches.

Worshippers huddle under a heater,

Hands clasping a pint of black.

A separation of two cultures

once again this year’s Christmas dinner discussion.

As if history teaches nothing

And geography misplaces some from another.

But today, we count ourselves lucky

To sit here as one family.

Pristine granite stone

lines Prague’s streets.



Fragments of stone sectioned

out to carry a communist



leader on visit.

Amongst the stone are martyrs,



bakers, women, children.

Fragmented stone, chipped



and repurposed pieces of grave.

Granite graves no longer visited.



Individual identity lost to many regimes.

A turbulent history



I intend to join.

“You look quite level”

Her dyed red hair was slicked back

And black eyeliner hid the feeling in her eyes



The man's white beard covered his mouth

Kept his words under a white blanket

Like snow covering over a crevice

Ready to fall through



She repeats most sentences

But adds the word "totally"

Adding dramatic effect by providing a level

Of fullness - totality.



Her laugh fills the room - totally.

But in no way with warmth

It’s sharpness is rude to me.



Those around ignore its shrillness

As if scared to admit their own

Inclination for negativity - to scorn a laugh.

Just one big issue left to sell

And draped in his red uniform

He timidly walks into this East London restaurant

Eastern promises of western life

Have brought him here.

Promises not for him, but for the son of his wife.


Head bowed and hand to heart

He tells of his experience:

Two years selling big issue

Two years in London

No passport but a laminated card showing his identity.

No kitchen experience but a very good dish washer at home.


I hear the front of house staff discuss him with the head chef

Sun or snow, they say, he’s out there selling.

He assures the chef he never misses a day, always hard working.


11am tomorrow. Don’t be late.


As he packs up his red uniform and puts his last big issue under his arm,

He leaves with a beaming smile.

This eastern man has found his right step

and turns left, west on exmouth market.

The capital’s streets weave around me

So tight that it almost looks like I’ve forgotten

but you can’t see what’s underneath

the ember of an emerald

Of vast green fields stretching as far as I can see

Of the white beads dripping down a 99

From the orange September sun



The capital’s buildings tower above me

So high no sun comes through

We seek it out

Like we’ve left it behind here or there

behind this building or that.



The capital’s people stare blankly

Not knowing their howiya from their how are you?

But we won’t hold it against them.

Their blue suits

White shirts

And red socks.



I’ll keep my colour scheme, thank you.

My fields

My ice cream

And my sun.



All that remind me of home.

As the last of the living die

Important now, than ever, to remember their story

To head their warning.

When tomorrow veers its head



And we mistake a put down

To a popularised form of politic

Let’s not forget their warning.

Let’s not forget mankind’s ability

To watch idly by - even contribute -

To what the victors later call atrocities

Only when they see victory



So let’s not let victory be the hand

That shows today’s atrocities.

Don’t be idle.

See, speak, hear - let evil wash over you

So that you see it for what it’s worth.



Head the warnings of the last of the living

Before they die.

The milkmen are all gone.

Dispersed like the crows

that ravaged the tops of bottles.



A new generation sees the alternative

to ravaged and wrinkled flat peak caps -

tumbled from their heights. Yesterday's plate

no longer throttled



so that a better life can prevail,

with total control of their self - a being.

A generation no longer hostile;



no longer blind;

no longer ignorant.

Instead blissful. Modern role models.

I



I count the stories,

craning my neck

from a first floor vantage point

through glass walls



Blue hats match their buckets,

belts holding cloths and squeegees

and them.

A harness that protects their lives.



At least 30 stories, I think.

300 feet of glass

with a view of grey

tower blocks, a cityscape.



At the ground floor they land with a thud

Harness unlatched

A gentle nod to each other.

Ropes fall freely from high



II



In Lahinch I stand at the summit

of a 30 foot cliff face.

One hand holding my belt

The other my rope.



My harness is attached to another

who explains my next steps

But here I’m alone,

unlatched.


Legs quiver under no real weight.

A western breeze crosses my face,

beside me a plant grows through the rock,

the sound of a stream nearby that I’ll cross.



But for now I stand atop this cliff face

seeking my life experience.

Face pointed upward, I let myself down.

Ropes fall freely below.

The world is too much with us; the gloom

Reported on bbc of record showers,

Earthquakes following hurricanes; Our

Society points to running taps, loom

Through darkness under light of moon:

How Proteus would correct these efforts,

But he eludes and so their

Animals are caught, boon

For a Big Mac, a chicken curry

Or rack of ribs torn

Flesh from a bone that, saved, would breathe

Life back into a still born

World; reports continue and impending fear

Has not aroused the old man or even Triton’s wreathèd horn.

How torturous
to love in the midst of war.
Each passing plane
an antagonist.

Lovers’
grips tighten,
Breathing in and not out
should an exhale give reason to fire.

But love has a way
to grow deeper with
Every passing day
Every passing plane

How fortunate we are
To be left alone
to stir when we want;
love when we want.

Because in order to see in the dark

You must first totally accept it

The more you accept it and let it be

The clearer you can see again



In order to fully hear amongst a great din

You must first allow the din to wash over you

You must first totally accept it

And not be caught up in its small complexities or details

Sitting in the best seat in Dublin
Gives a chance to watch the city
In its rawest way.

The outlet store that has the opposing view
And been gated for years
Is still closed. Its roof a bus shelter.

A woman walks by
Eating ice cream.
It’s Christmas in Dublin

And I imagine Roddy Doyle seeing the funny side.
The Chinese are eating a Cornetto
While we’re hiding from the rain - he might say.

Here, I know, is a piece of home
Always patiently waiting.

We run

Through where we know.



A plate smashes and a voice booms

Drowning out the television



That tells of mass execution,

Mass flooding,

mass horror.



But, we run

Through where we know.



Where booming voices and plates smashing

Are just the custom,

The soundtrack of these walls.



So, we run

Through where we know.



Warming by the winter fire

That burns all the way through

And encapsulates the intense heat.



As we sweat.



Still, we run

Through where we know.



Because running is what we know -

Not arriving

In some removed world

That maybe brings peace

but maybe holds the TV’s reality.



No, we’ll run

Through where we know