The clown stares at me
his war paint is as Thursday as Tuesday
His tired eyeballs orbits through my head
although he is more content to hide into his shadows
afraid of what I may know.
Do people like him.

Should I dance a promise,
half remembering ones left unsaid.
If for one night I had a banquet,
should I undo those last chances,
dancing on your grave
with slithers of that champagne glass..

Take my hand,
the cloaked supervisor's not very happy,
so let us boast
that if we bury his lanterns,
all signs  of yesterdays failure
will turn to dust
and seemingly recast
peace can break out
by drinking the mirth
the new  buds  can grow

We metaphor rivers
as the flow of life,
mindful of willows who
cast shadows on furlong banks.
Riverboats with tilting berths
temporarily knock stability.
But focus strengthens the steadfast.
Bulrushes hide the deeper pain
from our eyes
dark algae de-oygenates currents,
and as a metaphor again
I begin to feel
the up wind carrying
us to our rightful destiny

The Red fox
with cool devotion,
moves around in circles
it is brisk in its actions,
blackened grass permeates the ground
it scorches the Savannah
The sullen waters lap around,
tall lillies of sleep,
angling out of sight.
The fish glitters performing somersaults,
captive in the air.

A cold smile greets my face
as the blue boy searches my soul
with an electric comb.
Now I am crying
because I no longer exist
as I have to sleep with
no Knowledge.

The talk of staging funerals
lingers in the cafe,
lost dreams spoke of Terence Stamp
How they loved his singing voice
filed away in Cathy go home.

the black widow schemes
Her bony finger outlives
the crest fallen soldiers

Upon the West Lands.
Summer has long been spent.
The cold current of the ocean
brings the rain.
Piecing together the weather.
They have lost all hope
in better calms.

The haunting bones of the islands archipelago,
brings out the prospect of shipwrecks.
The still melancholy of moonlight caresses the fallows.
The plowed hinterlands echo beyond,
the boundaries of  saline drenched land defenses.
Celestrial sunlight is long gone,
as the gulls make their passage home.

The indigenous Alcantara explodes across
the garden floor, unwanted and unloved.
Rosehips are nipped
to give extra nourishment to the rose bush.
The blossoming pink Tree Mallows will last to January,
until then they are left alone.
Brambles are cut at their base
excising their climber roots,
nor forgetting the unheralded demoisturising Ivy.
My Cleparata Eremurus tubers
are gently put into the ground.

She wrote me a  letter
trying to explain.
Winter is coming.
All the greys are here to stay.
Like a honey mustard vinaigrette
it thickly rains here

The cranes fly by,
as the lichen of years
withstands the wind.
There is silence
between the dead leafs.
The gentle coming down.
I belong here.

The girl's  going  to  Michigan
staying with her family.
Please  no Hershey bars
we're quaintly  English,
an island race
of  fascinating climes,
so  no Atlantic  conversions
to the new axioms.,
Learn to  love tea again
persist with under statement
and  long live  queues

Gerry dances the lights till dawn
beneath Blackpool illuminati
He didn't feel this way before
until he had a proactive in good time

Aliens disguised as Englishmen
proclaiming their right to be roast beef
and a Boers inalienable right to shoot at him

There is a wind in hell's chance
buried in voices in your head
before the war
the living and dead
A promise blind
as gentle as a two penny.
Johnnies smile, sweet enough to
make the young brides blush,
leading them through the tarnished avenue
Preacher man gave that boy a name
The promise is blind
see shamed guitar men run away

THE WAYFARER FINDS
HIMSELF, IN DEEP WINTER SNOW.
THE BARRENNESS OF THE COUNTRYSIDE PROVIDES NO COVERING LIGHT.
SCATTERED HUTS ARE IMPOSSIBLY WINDOWLESS
LIKE SOUL'S PREVARIGATING WITHIN
GUARDED SILENCE
A death wish is anything but fun ~
Santa Claus

I want to be lazy
down  to my shoestraps,
see the jackdaw
scrounge my sweetpeas.
If you cast a spell in my direction
I'll be surprised.
Each night I dream the nectar of sleep
and by sunrise I'm trice arised

I spoke to the trees,
but the lectern  would not listen.
I got up in the dark
and the sky tussled with the weeds,
who wrote a poem for me
and with open arms
I applauded it.

I went off together,
through the trees
gained in insight,
and invited them to hear,
to the serenade,
yet being alone,
from dream to dream

Begging eyes
asking for loose change
you are faminised

You can't  fish in the sky blues
youve misspent your life in detention
so get used to the jamboree

Magus Alexander  McNair
Son of Autumn  
play your lute
summon the seasonal offering,
my shephered.

Love is like a mechanized lullaybe
like a chain smoker
open to the cut flowers

With her brown boot on the carriage seat,
filing her nails
she was the detriment
of feminity.
The self was her only care,
mid thirties nurtured
the south east London way.
A night out planned at New Cross
she held no fear
educationally detached
raw emotions like nicotine cravings

The skyline disappears once again
as blackness returns the night.
The outsiders bath in the squalid  moonlight,
abluting their good intentions.
The metamorphosis is complete.
Darkness will reign supreme.
They gather by the smithy
opining with a wild lament .

I cut her pages out once,
naked with her ambition,
now dashing her analogous dreams

The spotlights smeared
her with guilt.

She is talking about her banal dreams
with the art of withholding

She will be needlessly pleading,
a labyrinth; gnawing; insisting,
hold your penitence
the need will follow her

The original photograph
Daguerre type
ebbing away as though in water,
memories filed like potassium deposits
duotoned  as droplets of likeness
a prophecy of developments awaits

This could be going to a poetry night,
run by the Chelsea fringe;
listening to a night of poetry
on gardening.
I hear of Oxeye daisies languishing on prosaic lawns
or Dogwood as beacons in the winter light.
Of course we have a ****** baked pizza
and some angel making apricots and custard for her favourite charity,
ensuring the rescue of recluse poets
along the cobbled way.

Playing daisy chains with another's mind
No quarter given
They find their own solace
and refute to look over the sun
finding weird  patterns
to ply with in the dogeared winter farrow

The poet needs a muse,
it can be a well lit woman
or if failing that a cat.

If we blank out today
and picture post 1974
we walk with a careless air
just wondering about
the new neighbours
We mix tape the second rate
Rock bands
whilst still knowing David Essex was an adonis
and contemplate  learning French
long before hearing french kissing in the USA

Records stand stiff with attention
some I wish to play,
if they ever get the attention of my stylus.
My friend many moons ago  made me mix tapes.
I called them treasure boxes although I was implying they wouldn't be listened to too much.
There is the truth we receive things but never warrant them enough attention.
Our minds are full of dust
unheeded cobwebs.

She runs to keep healthy
dressed in black
culpable, catching the sunlight
Her beads of inspiration
clings to her  underarms
She is at peace with herself
Her red jacket drapes her hips
She is sure of her run,
speedy as she goes
deftly middle-aged

Maybe another story  can furnish the mood
let fate wave a sensation
the passage between you and I,
its tantamount  to a  binding ;
fortuitously a  lit spark
will shorn your  withholding  the truth,
a silent  yearning reached,
long set as a promise.

There's little hope read in my Thesaurus
for that perfect word
perchance a summation,
some see this as a plea of sympathy
yet usher an insincere pray.
Some will scribe Snow into the pretext
telling the  reader with similes
this is not be a test,
there's no rusty pen
furtively this  is  accepted  as their non de plume.
Stained  hands, with scissors
Self  healing  with  hordes of papier-mâché

the deep ocean
matches your eyes.
I cannot quite fathom their depth,
many soul plundered sailors,
have met their steely death
by the wayside of your smile.

Have you seen us for what we are -
dusty emblems of something greater,
just remember a water diviner chased a ghost river
seeing  hope for some lost vista.
Ashen pale we have since become
who've only known forgotten whispers,
rued through thickets conjured
from our minds eye, 
falling amongst the sirens, bells and whistles.
The actual dissolvent  is shying,
recalling that rod that beat the back of yonder,
to the merest glimpse  where it had gone wrong

Hello this is my poem
the one I sneaked on my mobile
whilst inspired by a journey to work
There was this impressive man
who exceeded the apex of my dreams
but I could never slay the sartorial dragon for him
my poetical vocabulary was too low brow
These arent my bouts of normal surrender
Yet there's never enough understanding
shown by my fairweather peers

Gumbo the sprat reminds  you he has
no place to go,
away from the night shoals
swimming mid stream,
he dithers if the pier should burn down,
could he bear if the anglers drowned?
yet he's not too axiomatic
knowing right from wrong.
but again theres no pretense
only a presence
swallowing this illusion of depth.

The soft months of Summer
turn to Autumn
as a nip and tuck
gives us the last  flush
of the flowers

And truth meekly comes
like a welcome half friend
as life so far has been good for you

With a blazing coat of a  sun
wrapping the dew round your bodice
that makes for the gleam of Rudbeckia
an unasked for gift

Soaked with lies
the arcaduim sighs,
listen to the falling leaves.
Ghosts will chase you,
winged creatures will crawl
(moving mountains with toil),
and you will find no relief.

Down Edgbaston I forgot how to feel.
Perhaps the cumulus clouds
could downsize my anger;
envy would  pulsate into ebony,
under my rubicund smile
inherited from yesterday

When you look out the window
sparrows fly to the ground
I'm walking the thread from past centuries

I want to haunt Sir Walter Raleigh
make him plough potato fields
and partake in the tobacco

I want to confiscate all the assaigis from the Zulus
turn their weapons into plough shears
and grow them maize in jubilant fields
and partake in Valhalla on weekends

The flakes rain from the ceiling
Chinese lanterns burn,
its like thrusting  your arm
into the eye of storm.
The rub of not  knowing,
bad choices were  made last night,
try not to swelter
tired eyes take a bitter  blow;
those proverbial laughing stocks
discoloured discourtesy wiles

With myrtle and whispers
I undertook the words of the sages

Promises relapse in an unseemly  fashion
Man the forever disobedient

The plump moon
compromises loftily

The Dryad's harsh splendor
boasts their specious context

No morning blackbird
my words unsaid
remember there's a fall

Cruel to be kind
is like cutting butter with a knife.
but is a white lie any better?

The ducks are skimming in the water
as if to acknowledge the photographers,
they singularly preen their wings
doing what is natural,
not for show or curtsy.
The photographer looks awry
disappointed
no big game or gain
just an under estimate of life as pedantic

The girl you left behind
Her demour devours from the green vetch

The boy is softening
To her door, he came
This is how it was imagined

Little by little the days grow shorter
You shouldn’t sleep with a wild one
Let the north star be your guide.

You are the silted canal,
whose willows have wilted in the quench.
I am the gregarious go getter.
You are the conservative burdened
by change.
I am the railway speculator
you are the bankrupt canal owner .

The wind follows  its own course
brazen it  blows
much as our fraught relationship
that simply meandered away
like Cypress's on desert plains,
ill suited for the habitat
what germination there was,
was for the wrong climes

Spring paints it's golden daffodils,
swathes of lavender from the cottage window awaken Lover's.
The morning blossoms.
The world pledges it's amen.

I wish I had a vista of the past
and could still hear the squawking hens
in their Kibbutz hatches
under some 1982 azure sky

I wish I were a hippie
and could permanently hear acetate music from 1967
dressed in kaftan
smoking Moroccan ***
forever  young

If I were to be a poet
id  gap in the missing years
and candy floss the  past
between youngster hood and my  near 60 years