The man in the raincoat tuts and mutters
stares at he puddles that form in the street
that splash up upon his cold angry feet
from the gathering streams that flow in the gutters
Tomorrow s a time like far away
and memory a knife like ice
and hope a sun to sink again
when London winter clips the skin
He turns again the pavement then
spins up glaring like a grimace
and thinking of some fonder place
he ascends the creaking stairs to the kitchen
Water boiled for tea and heat
he hates the furniture and tends
to wait for some fair-weather friend
the window rataplans with wind and wet.
Murdering a cigarette
in the saucer filled with ends
They say that God is always good
so howcome it rain on weekends ?
Copyright London 1990
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
The Flying Fish.
by Mark Hurlin-Shelton
It was late in the night
and the ships crew snored
When a rather strange creature landed aboard
I thought it
the most extraordinary thing
For there lay before me
a fish with wings
Well here is a question
for wise men to solve
However did such
a strange creature evolve
A creature that isn't contented to be
Like all of the others
that swim in the sea
I wonder when was it
that the first fish tried
to grow little wings
and to swim in the sky
What do you think
don't you think it absurd?
A fish with a wish to be a bird.
Mark Hurlin Shelton
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:27 PM UTC
Lament
For all the brain i never use
the muscles that i seldom flex
bad habits that i need to lose
the fulfilment not quite found in ***
all the hurts , we should not keep score
a life, so much i had left for dead
the abandoned child in my shivering core
and all my sadness left unsaid
what asks the sorry soul but why
why me oh why this tiresome toil
to the horizon gaze and sigh
then plod ones way across the soil
for all the world that was not mine
for all the chances past me slipped
the place was right but not the time
many a miss between cup and lip
for all the doors i did not knock
the flowers only God will smell
the passing seconds on the clock
will never wait us after all
for lands my shoes may never walk
the blue expanse i cannot fly
an earthbound angel makes small talk
while he contemplates the sky
all the plans that went astray
the friends that flew and never waited
for every dream that could not stay
but left me feeling so frustrated.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:21 PM UTC
Once I went upon a time
On tender foot down a far fled lane
A tangled haunt of yesterdays astray
Long was my hunt for a fondness or
A certain door
A value or an anchor
For a ship to sail me to myself
To the awesome abyss of the self
I fell,my moods of poison pulled
I felt the falling stars they screamed
How then I howled in the nihilate night
Too sullied to soothe my lonesome ghost
My bitten bones for hollow time
My heart a black-hole house of cards
Slipped sigh of shames, a hungered Hades
A burnt out history bile and ***** had fumed
But I was too young to be that old
I must find my joy and hold it fond
to Hunt the rainbow -Honour life
but I had been blind to the haven of hearts
On the tongue-tips of touch my blessings stood
And much more than warm with will and giving
Stirred the memory of his music in me
Forgiveness !! - Cried his humble name
Peace trembled through me, stars sang life
His Love shone through the ice of my armour-shell
New birth for my blunt and brittle box
That breathed in a dreamless ditch of ‘ then’
And then that cherub child that longed
Loomed large so large in the life of me
Did make me doubt the shackle and the stab
Though thorny chain of void has led me here
A sprig of springtime mine
Has bathed my heart in his balmy sea
Through waves of golden nectar now
I hum with the hymns of his creativity
He sings oh poet be like a child
Be Meek and kind and come to me
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
Hammersmith on Thames at Low Tide
This sparkling beach of river silt, quiet and white
the barge boats languidly tilted to rest
a rustic wind that tastes of brine the gannets nag a rebellowing cry
these spoilt natured birds hungrily hover and comb the low tide Thames
Bleached jetsam, driftwood, cork, plastic detergent bottles
frayed rope, flotsam, rusted chain, emerald-green glass
broken smoothed with time treated, caked in silted London clay
chipped ceramic, porcelain, frayed nylon twine
and rusted green copper hinges here are ideas of Caesars coins
elusive treasures, lost goblets- teasing thoughts of Londinium...
Roman Gallipots and galleys sunk deep in layers asleep beneath the river bed
an old and rusted barge an exo-skeleton grown over with watery weeds
scattered with rags and oil cans discarded rusted tools damp straw and flies
The Great Thames, smelly mother
indifferent to Empires Great artery, mighty sewer
of the city washing away the cities sins
assuming with neglect and time our spoilt oily natures
in a rising of breath and a sighing of fall
singing the metres and moods of history.
Mark Hurlin Shelton
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:18 PM UTC
Composed on a walk between Hampstead Highgate (not too far from John Keat's house) late 1980's
It has been a day for wandering
beneath this sky of early spring
among these trees to freely breathe in an Eden Green
i can scarce believe the beauty of this scene
-the sunlight shines in through the trees
like bright gold blazing from my dreams
and sparkles just so that it seems
the sunbeams tiptoe on the breeze
In this my magic afternoon
of rambles over sleepy heath
I am bathed In cool tranquility
for here the world breathes out a breath
that stirs the child that weeps in me
and calls him to be free
Somehow it as occurred to me
that I will never quite completely be
at peace in the world of peoples schemes
but there is something in this scene
-that is in the soul and stuff of me
and this is the spring of my poetry
so cut me open when I die
inside me you will find the sky
and in my heart the mellow sun
and behind my eyes - the makers mystery.
Mark Hurlin Shelton
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:16 PM UTC
The bus driver is only doing his job-
he says i am out of my zone
come on mate- take a look at the rain-
i just want to get home
never mind- its not too far to walk
as this sudden shower comes steaming down
London Bus lookin' all shiny red n' new in the rain.
so i take cover and hudde on the pavement
and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt
, washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter-
search and return gushing to the Thames
in drab doorway i see pregnant mother
with dripped make-up and cigarette-
a bloke runs past into the Tote-
theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol
The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop-
pumpin out da reggae sound all round
an chillin' der inside an'snug
an outside da rain drippin down.
headless wooden mannequins in windows
indifferent and dead to the scene
model outdated displays
of yesteryears east end Fashion
The screech -grind -halt-
of braking trucks and cars
taxis and buses
and halt heave hum, go off and on
phrases like jazz
emitted from the traffic hissing
on the wet steam road
passing the plain low gates
and walls of modest east-end brick
Little pockets of Istanbul
vending exotic skewered tastes
empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-
sickly sweet old vegetable odours
curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes
- halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit,
karla, kassava and Jamaican mangoes
Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple Taters
an mumble she grumble onward, homeward
past the Asian butcher selling cows' feet
fifty nine pence for two
sad looking cadavers of chickens
comically -hung by their feet
boney, alien headless n sad
and blood spurted and smeared
and dried on broken ****** cardboard box-
so rich an odour of spice and death-
what words to use?
yams and hams and potted jams
shelves stacked with imported cans
grinding horror of the butchers blade
splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box
brown black plantain bananas-
fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-
kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-
Illegible torn bills and posters on posts
walls and naked wooden doors
of cracked paint peeling in the rain
Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins
scattered uprooted far-travelled communities
stirred in the stew of this eclectic London Crucible
shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-
an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing
twins in double pram and wishing-
she had married a bloke with money
Africans in bright kaftans
Saunter surreally in the cool, attitude of summer
somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters
seem more misplaced in this scene-
people with gaunt girocheque expressions
huddled in Pub over pints
awaiting the Worlds End
To my left number plates while you wait
keys cut school of motoring, special rates
then a right into Finsbury station out of the rain
and the scene fades.
Mark Hurlin Shelton London 1987.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
Run Rhino Run
Let your thundering stomp
reverberate among the mountains
Echoing your heartbeat
like an angry African drum
Run, run far from the plunder
Or perish and be torn asunder
Run-run,
far from the stone hearted men with their rifles and guns.
Run. Run, runaway, run-away far,
Across the Savannah,
beyond the furthest peaks and crags
Beyond the far-flung
valleys and the hills
Far from the stench of money
Away from human sins and ills
They daily come to plague you,
ache you, hunt you, haunt you,
taunt you, daunt you,
Run Run away, surely you want to
Far far, run from those whose deeply frozen hearts
Measure your value only in your body parts,
And in their gain
subsisting in your pain,
They know not that they
sell themselves,
their souls are sold,
Only For your horn. more prized than gold.
Run, Rhino Run! !
Flee far away,
Run far beyond the furthest hills.
There are greener fields in which to play,
Run to where no human greed, can ever leave you so
to die alone
And slowly bleed,
Run to where your calf can roam,
Far from any human home
Run to where humanUNkind
Is the furthest from your mind.
Run run far, fly, flee, far
From this world,
Run, far away, far from these greedy men,
Fly to the stars, to the immortal realm from whence
Your timeless spirit came,
And never-ever look back again
Mark Hurlin Shelton Lake Malawi 2013.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:12 PM UTC
Again i hear the word in my heart
falling like generous drops of peace
flowing through my grateful core
like honey glow of melted butter-mellow rays
dancing on warm yellow flowers
bursting through your benelovent visage
meandering, easing me comforting and wrapping me
in the eternal smile
of your springtime
and singing through the twinkling firmament
endless songs of praise.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:08 PM UTC
A lyrical poem about King Midas,how everything he touched turned to gold,and how he learned not to be greedy.
This is the tale of an ancient king
Who loved all thing that pleasure brings
Who as a babe asleep in bed
A trail of ants marched to his lips and fed
The young prince as he lay asleep
With the choicest grains of wheat
Midas grew and gathered wealth
With which he might enjoy himself
But aside from wealth, his fingers were green
To he loved to prune and **** and clean -his garden,
every sort of rose
He planted there and he watched them grow.
One day the old satyr- Silenus
The teacher and friend of young Dionysus
Had straggled, drunken, from the crowd
And staggering lost and singing aloud
he slept off the wine in Midas’ Garden
And better pray that Midas gives him Pardon
Silenus woke and by guard was brought Before Midas in the palace court
"What brings you here?" asked the King,
I would like to know
‘Did you harm any of my roses.?’
You didn’t !? Then Silenus. Take your pleasure
And dine and drink to double measure !
So Silenus,the lucky, old fun loving Satyr
Grew steadily more drunk and fatter
All merrily the old soul chaffed
King Midas who with him laughed
And when both had ate and drank their sate
Silenus did this tale relate:
And he told a story to the king
Of lands where he said he'd been travelling
perhaps yarns spun from his dreams ?!
of lands beyond the oceans stream
-peopled by folk of long life and health
with very vast amounts of wealth !! :)
Now Midas listened good and well
To all Silenus had to tell
And when the story
Came to end
He said: " please do point the way, my friend "
For though Midas had more wealth than he would ever need
He was overcome by greed
So he sent ships and many men
To sail the hyperborean
With eager, brave intent to find
A land that perhaps existed only in Silenus’ mind
And since no such place was found by Midas’ men
They turned his ships
And sailed home again
Silenus loved to loaf around
All day about the palace grounds
He grew indolent he was so lazy
He ate and drank all he could see
He thought” This is the life, great stuff !
But by now the king had had enough !!
By this time the lord Dionysus
Was much concerned for his lost friend Silenus
Though not far need he search or roam
For King Midas sent the old man home
And most pleased was the young god-boy
For Silenus was his favourite friend and joy
So Dionysus conveyed his gratitude to the king
Does Lord Midas require anything ?
For the Lord Dionysus will grant
Anything the king may want
And so the messenger was told
May all that Midas touch be turned to gold
And all that Midas touched upon
Turned to gold and brightly shone
Midas’ table and his throne
And all the contents of his home
And soon he had turned everyone
To gold
Even his wife and sons
All this wealth it brought no good
For Midas could not drink nor eat his food
Not a morsel could be ate
But all turned to gold upon his plate
Golden fruits and golden meat
Golden wine and golden wheat
And so the days they did pass by
And a very hungered king did cry
That he did not want
No he could not stand
His golden stores of treasure grand
for he was hungry,thirsty, weak and dry
And not a morsel could that treasure buy
The poor king Midas he did sigh
If he did not eat he soon would die
Alone he blubbered in despair
He cursed himself and tore his hair
He could not stand it any more
So he crawled half dead to Dionysus's door
So thirsty, famished, very thin
Midas begged Dionysus to release him
From the blessing that had become his curse
For what fate could be any worse
Midas begged, he cried implored
That life be restored
As it were before
The god he drank
Deeply carousing
He found the matter quire amusing
But although he laughed at Midas suffering
He had some compassion for the king
He said “ I hope you have learned your lesson well
The king listened to what he had to tell
At the source of the river Pactolus
Near the mount of Tmolus
There you may drink and wash yourself
And be restored to natural health
And all your golden treasures stored
Shall all become as they were before
So Midas journeyed west to seek
The water spring near the mountains peak
His thirst was as a burning flame
But travelling onward soon he came
Upon the mountain
When he saw it’s water
He broke down and cried with tears and laughter
They say that Midas was so relieved
That never again did he ever greed
He learned that his greatest treasure was his life
His good health, his sons and wife
The sands of the river Pactolus some say - Are golden to this very day
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:06 PM UTC