Quick, come to my corner,
I’ll hold you there till the morning sighs it’s un-beguiling chime.
My old mans a dustpan, deadpan, delivered in your sweet shell as an abstract lullaby,
Then we will sleep, tucked to each other like a light and it’s shadow.
In my corner there’s this strange girl, with hair tangled over my shoulder,
Counting sheep, as she and I slide into night.
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 8:19 PM UTC
He eschewed the Spotlight until he was 83,
Then, like a craven child, he leaps,
He totters into a cold cathode pool and is centre stage.
The fledgling son of and upended bride;
Stage fright perhaps,
Trapped in a freeze frame of fear,
Till now at 83,
Clear just to be.
Centre stage his rage is vaulted across an empty house,
The words of a tired and tested former son of a bishops daughter,
The lines of his life relished in anger and vile plots now twisted to ply his crowd with tales of blame.
Yet, he who was Puck is now a king. Weak no more, vaulting from some horse, lancing the beast that has held him down,
Standing for something more than his shabby past.
He was 83, when with glee, he became his own life paradoy,
The fool becomes a king.
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 3:32 PM UTC
A girls arm slides across my back and for a moment, I’m spinning like a kid, sherbet crazed.
All I had done was listened,
Drink did the rest I guess,
Listened to her Thatcher charged rant,
Somehow, innocent, spewed though lipstick rouged cleft lip!
She a plunging sparrow,
Befuddled on tequila,
Diving at a mouse marked with Brut.
I’m hers,
A hooded, unloved, forlorn, lonely mouse.
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 4:32 PM UTC
Folklore
Word
Of
Mouth,
For impressionable sons and daughters of time,
Children,
Tied like flies to spider web strings and mothers impossible dreams,
Wide eyed,
Lied to,
By ignorant ministers and cider soaked child choked brides.
Word
Of
God,
For Children
Forever dulled and cowed by the good book,
Heavy on this earth like rocks in sand and impervious to reality,
Wide eyed
Lied to,
By gullible Fathers and wine wrecked god bothered priests.
Hand
Me
Down,
Mothers,
Fathers,
Priests and teachers,
Words that weigh me down to the past and to fear,
Words that chain me to home.
Hand
Me
Down,
Bilge.
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:16 AM UTC
A chilled tired man,
Cheated of warmth,
Hungering comfort.
Darker and heavier skies bleed the city of light,
The first specks of rain hit the tired, sun fried, foot worn pavements
And I feel summer sink into my socked ankles.
Archibald Brown, man around town, locks up his sunshade,
The wind lifts rotting fence panels like discarded betting slips
And I smell winter rising in my rattling chest.
Rain on the window, like Mercury drops on a mirror,
Through clouded milk bottle glasses I peer at grey sky and flat green trees,
And I sense Summers end.
Crying now,
Longing for Spring.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
Hildegard,
High priestess of poetry,
Ordains her missives as though they were lambs.
Words her flock,
Poetry her salvation.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
What am I if not a man with a heart that is weighed down with the absence of you?
I know nothing else.
What am but the man who was too tall to walk down the aisle with you?
If only I were someone else.
Your sweetest smell,
Your lingering light on hair that you stroked and caressed with henna,
Now,
You are a stranger,
Gone.
What am I but the man that won’t let go of long lost you?
I am no one else.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 7:01 PM UTC
Word
Of
Mouth,
For impressionable sons and daughters of time,
Children,
Tied like flies to spider web strings and mothers impossible dreams,
Wide eyed,
Lied to,
By ignorant ministers and cider soaked child choked brides.
Word
Of
God,
For Children
Forever dulled and cowed by the good book,
Heavy on this earth like rocks in sand and impervious to reality,
Wide eyed
Lied to,
By gullible Fathers and wine wrecked god bothered priests.
Hand
Me
Down,
Mothers,
Fathers,
Priests and teachers,
Words that weigh me down to the past and to fear,
Words that chain me to home.
Hand
Me
Down,
Bilge.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 6:59 PM UTC
Heaven was 1977.
See how the Vauxhall Viva rusts aside shooting rhubarb,
How the shed tumbles in golden creosote,
A gate latches with a clunk and there I stand on pebbledash shed tile,
Pushing red Raleigh Grifter to shed with the family rides.
A cat slinks towards a Whiskas tin a rattling under winding can opener and I am back in 1977.
Heaven was 1977.
Vicky Kingsford was by my side.
Sun played on my home and I was in heaven.
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 7:08 AM UTC
I am man with a loud mouth,
Some would like to shut it tight with lips stitched like a zipped bag,
But I am a man with a free loud voice I choose to let loose on this world.
Deafness would be a gift,
Not to hear my utter bile would be like butter and honey on bread,
But I’m a man who will be in your face no matter how closed your ears are.
The world is full of ill I shout,
Politicians run like tossed free green ball bearings on blue ice,
But I am a man who will not be cast aside and on their heels I’ll be till their ears are nailed to the floor.
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC