These days have ebbed
as Love's swell was checked:
the waters in some places
- all but dammed!

But now at last
I sense the rising tide
and thank Temese
for the current's turn;
now following that great writhing snake
to where its pulsing head will rake;
over the mucky soiled watery beds
of Woolwich
Greenwich
Limehouse
- and under -
Tower Bridge

     To that great gloating sight
                A crown of a billion lights
     Blazing day and night:
                And somewhere within
     In the slick oily warmth
                Our flood tides mesh,
     As over each other we wash.

Hard thrusts
wicked deep cuts
given and received
are recorded in that great mirror smoked!
where with a tug and a shove
on the banks
in the streets
through the loopy twists
everything prospers in the glow
as the decades decaying flow;
each ***** bud
red with new blood
one after t'other
flowers
before their purple petals scatter.

Let's on the luck o' the dice
(you 'n' me!)
ride out
on the flotsam and jetsom
that has carried us this far
and as pleases
merge.

You believe in control
Like you believe God
Put Man here to make things
Better.
And that's cute.

You are a limit left wanting
For letdown;
A bandaid in desperate hold-fast
To a punctured hull, with fever
Dreams of Flotsom and Jetsom.

At times, your flotsom and jetsom gets to me.
Mostly, I think you're beautiful.

At times, I look at you and want to ask,
"Why are you in a frantic, frothing frenzy?"

At times, I exclaim, "Really? Come on! I mean, come on! How bad is it, really?"...

At times, you storm away.

At times, I wonder if you are worth the aggrivation.

At times, I don't think I deserve you.

Drifting
on an ebb tide of confusion
which flings me up beach of myself
then rolls me down to the roaring ocean
before I have time to think that I may at last be saved
the dear dear grasp of reality
slippery through my tangled fingers
is lost to the maw of the waves
pitched and tossed in the blue
sky or surf
fish or floating plant
flotsam or jetsom
I do not know
It is a seaweed day

Boris likes to stroke his Mogg
Merkel loves a hot Macron
David Davis hates to Barnier
Keir Starmer gels with Garnier

May adores her slimy Gove
While Corbyn woos the Abbott
Liz Truss? Such angry sourpuss
Herself to champion loudly fuss

And Greening's not for leaning
Against the Brexit so opposed
Sajid wants a blimp of Trump
Which has given Donald the ****

Whilst in the gilt historic chair
We’ve a bent partisanal ******
Cash grabbing John the squeaker
Bercow! How in hell are you still Speaker?

Now when speaking of selfish greed
Travel. Duck houses. Second homes, and such
Let’s remember; as not to would be unfair
That glib arrogant war-monger; Blair

I’ve had enough of all of them
The Blunts. The Hunts. The useless…
Pieces of flotsam and jetsom
Don’t even start me on Leadsom!


©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)

inundated by rain, flotsam and jetsom floats down the street
the river has burst it's banks and now  muddy water flows
through her house, at least her new car is safe on higher ground

we perch above it
this deluge of brown water
cyclone debbie's tears

If you've lost someone,
Check out the Personals.
Keep your eyes to the ground;
Only tourists look around,
There we'll find the jetsom
Of someone's empty pocket.
A book of Vegas matches
With the middle ones missing;
Neither left or right-handed.
You'll not be found.
There are tissues,
Stained with mascara,
Lying
Beside beads from a broken necklace
That gilded your skin.
You'll not be found.
Blowing across the path
Are shreds of paper
From the note she wrote,
Swirling towards the river.
Chase them to the bank,
Watch them float
Towards the falls.
The meaning is smeared, blurred
Then lost.
This is what finds me out.

words sing a song
a sonnet in my brain
yet my pentameter
is not iambic
more of a wild refrain

as they tumble jumble
bump and grind
it is difficult to
give them their
proper place in line

they all knock and clamor
to be the first in line
ain't but  one of them
that wish to be left behind

so no precise flow, no couplets
not a lot rhyme....even less rhythm
in my writ.....this time

sometimes i can plant
my words in neat little rows
water and **** them til poetry grows
sometimes i put a big seed of thought
suspended over a water glass and
wait til it grows roots
in it's search for love
and meaning

sometimes i just scatter
thoughts to the wind
leave them lie where they fall
and go off and begin other tasks
forgetting  those seeds
til come one day, when
i take a wrong turn
and walk that way
to find a field of riotous colour,
flowers upon flowers
no need for the distinction
of pretty over ****

today i write a torrent a river
that floods with flotsom, jetsom
and other.....
and as these words rush
to the sea, they cry
glory allelui....
i am free....i am free

sometimes the singing of the wind lasts for days
whips up the sea spray across the roads
flings seaweed and shells from the shore
and the gulls ride the edges with death defying skill.
sometimes the sea is so swelled no ship can sail her
and all the birds are grounded.
we live here cheek by jowl with the sea,
and the sea comes in twice everyday
to leave her flotsam and jetsom high up the beaches
stuff from all around the globe, trash mainly
but sometimes as all know,
one mans trash can be another mans treasure.