Someone schemed a forgotten dream
Taking their chemise dress into the rain
Until the Sun blossomed again

In the morning,
when you awake
wiping the sleep from your eyes
What do you think I see ?
A Myriad of problems forecast,
casting the eye of wariness
Would you rather base
your life on someone's else success?

You're inseparable as a Cheshire cat
that's graced us with her company !
And it rains and pours,
you stay indoors,
as the ducks find solace
in their new pond.

Brandishing a wand of  memories,
whose images held magical meanings
where for the first time you yearned
for knowledge as special as your
day dreams
that you still recall  today.

A sackful of ash
and a burning question
I talked to the child within
Fecund blue lights aglow
answered me

I heard the regale in the grass
that danced in the wind
Hiding behind lies
I laughed at the child
feeling misled
I was a stranger in his eyes

You could afford a pink bathroom
But had a freyed t- shirt
You sapped bitter
And had manacial 1970s whiskers
But I'm interested in your mind
I am quite listenable
I want to taste your Thunderberg wine
And deserve to be sanquinely addressed by you.

Christmas  decorations in the dark,
same day motifs inspired by you,
hopes undeterred on fetching wind,
silver baubles bobbing on the bay.
Dormant dreams forlorn in Winterland,
yours is the world
begin with it.

On an endless journey
this Christmas eve train
sees loved ones texting,
amongst the rustle of newspapers
before the next days stay in.
All we need are snowflakes
like maidens tears
to lustre in the year.
Mister Robins cheerful
that he's remembered
more than those last moment e- cards

In the pitched tent
the red coated troupe
and yellow buttoned clowns
drown within the spectators  laughter
like cuckoos spit
lost in their swirl
I imagine morris dancers
perfunctory as whirling dervishes
far surpassing  the circus masters revel

Its the dawn of a long blade,
turning alongside the grass.
It was the hope of another day,
walking on bare feet,
like sandalwood.
climbing the waterfall.
Those memories turn like pages,
like the first gust of rain,
scented like leather
dusty and brown.

Sentimentality cries for the forsook
ardent feelings fail to match the  dawn
Haven't we all been burned
the splendour is dim,
eyes once willing
but the mists film over again
the corneas lustre clouded
as we the unsettled slip away
from others scrunity

I'm a clown
so listen to the people
from their garden shed
make  carnation tea
I make you laugh
at the sight of a busy street
with a line of giraffes parking on  
your Lego collection
Your porous  pond is a rivulet now

Suburbian morning
8.38 on the commuters dot
Here's your Tempus Fugit moment
Something is not right
not a cheery rose hip now
but at least you can diarise it

Engels extolled the height of manners
still I would've liked  him to trans Europe permanently
He was such a dampener scribbling
midnight fury
on the oxide of causation
still he starched his collar,
not realising he persists Karl
to upstage Darwin on Capitals demise

I ran into the business of collecting
My Desk loaded with vinyl
I enjoy the chase
the research
the lasering out of details
The procedures that can be imagined
The anticipation of delivery

Rebecca  likes to  tread in Hampstead Heath's duck pond.
She's got her white leather boots on.
Impervious  to the green scaly algae.
One of inherited wealths important players,
her lightning decesions have consequences.
Md's are expected to decide
if it was her breech birth
that led to her revolutionary esprit
Her moon cycles will miss someone,
equally as caring
but conditioned to good behaviour.
Is heaven toast in bed after a fight
whose to say who is right?
but finding your own class is neigh impossible these days

The yews fingers eludicate avec moi
This winter filled with love
Memories grew within me
Life has become irreplaceable

In a forest of cornflower
I idle by
my headaches incessant
Life is a contraband
I'm hardly in a fit state

Sometimes I feel like a dusty Chevy
Cotton murmuring days
got us in this mess
We had our sojourn
but these days are gone
The morning bruises normal service,
drains the magic
that should be splendid

In a country full of leaves,
adroit promises are made, and
willows shy.
Yet there is no one to walk with.
Like a sole flower  in the night
there's no one to talk with.
Remember who is your best friend now?
deciding it has its merits,
deeper than you planned.
The pale bush is deeper than you gleamed

You never told me you loved me
The only thing you'd ever wear
is the shinny  wedding ring
- without redress -

I'm left dangling in the rain
Tears are easily in reach
This Sterling Man
and the bitter pill you seemed to take
Love has a recall somewhere
but its not happening to me

Couple with time on their hands
A lot is happening
Fashionable ideals
smart television
very much interested in their timetable
That's their story
not their sorrow
or heavenbored

Time bedeviled
in the dawning of a new day
I identify fidgetiness as a primal enemy
I use eBay to buttress my feelings of emptiness
A newly acquired second-hand
Technics SL D303  to play Billy Lawrie
on 45rpms
I retrospect my bearings
gently facing the vistas
of lockdowns and quarantines
and friendliness

Impervious like an eagle.
it addles on its arrival
to the anti-vaxers,
waving their whirlwind of disbelief.
Through skin layers.
We have a real sense of being alive
just like reality.

You germinate and ruminate your new victims
Worse than a common cold
but nothing like the Spanish flu
but you're a mutant strain nonetheless

Masses of people in lockdowns and vaccinations
having to self entertain
as never before
an advocate for self-preservation

China display exhibition in library,
colonial plunder out lasts pace.
English man people
the circuitry in critical repentance
makes refunds essential
in this day and age.
Elgin marbles - hush whisper,
the glued upper lip is a snippet
of subdued anger,
but return is beyond serious
is it  the Capital"s right to usher in spoilt spoils

on a crest of a wave
she rides on halycon days

Miss Daffodil
cries all alone
the quest of youth gone
robbing me of what was mine
Forcing a smile
never a good word
makes life comfortable

So take your blinkered passion
with blushed eyes
and see your battered words
breezing in your light

Without Cadence and cascades rhythm
Criticizers without a clue
comment on the poet
instead of the poem
But the poet didn't say Pass On

Quagmires where criticizers reside
commenting on the roots
instead of the branch
The White Witch  mischievous by degree
says criticize the poem, not the poet
but by imagery, language and
figuration
arent they the same

They don't have donkeys at  South Bermondsey or market stalls.
The pigeons find it easy to loiter
the thoroughfare now
fish and chip wrappings are considered passe.
I wonder if the girls should dress  in black
as a counter statement
against the new builds above Tesco.
A sort of mourning for these  changes.
What's left of community?
last shot down by mothers helpers.
Town planners,  gosh
nail and  execution executive

In my garden the crouch grass
celebrate their resilience,
and the trellised Wisteria
never fulfilled their frame.
The planted dahlias
can wait another year or two
and the promised acer never was that variety,
undone by my gardener
whose solitary iris is an
forlong dream.

Cynical Town,
knocking houses down
to be made in flats,
except when there's a colony
of crested newts.

A thwarted town regeneration,
tombstones of empty shops.
Voting on the 5th May
for a consensual mayor
Goodbye Labour,
you have unnerved Croydon.

We used to have buttermilk
and Austrian white wine
from Safeways
and used to buy 2nd hand Prog records from Beanos
or see Budgie at the greyhound
The years have sped by
and I'm not recalling any standout shop now
Unless you include the durable Buddist shop
next to the once Hockneys
Toothless gaps in the town square appear
The Whitgift Centre is half empty
Samsung Mobile shop is closed
The years have not been very Kind
The sound of laughter is removed

Croydon you're a ghost ship
boarding on the isle of ridiculousness
Erecting flats for millionaires
social housing a swept away issue.
Alas there's your North South devide
Can the Town planners rectify  the polarisation,
that's sees only Tory and Labour
with no third party mooring the agenda.

save our cities
widen footfalls,
build flats for ownership.
vote Labour to protect our libraries,
make Croydon travel zone four,
and try for Americanos for less than 2 pounds.

Try to spit and polish those
old braces, despite prestigious inconsistencies.
New builds for either part shares
or your out landlishly riche are
befuddled social engineering.
What ever happened to the old way
education bringing up the
working classes.
instead of parachuting people in.
Money talks instantly;
no value seen in nurturing development
just sales and free wifi connections
cargo cults to upset Croydon

Croydon, Greater London
is the place to live.
Labour other than the South.
Its got 2 poetry groups for your perusal,
and a World cup Box park for your delight.
plus 12 libraries.

Innocent green Country bus
to Warlingham
some say its a nicer place.
But we've got an Elizabethian Almshouse
and the Whitgift Centre is sterling.
The Sun has every reason to smile
we've got Lloyds park overlooking
a Manhattan style skyline,
but have we ignored the uncosmic
North of the Borough,
even West Croydon is a jaggered corner,
making unequal development a mea culpa for the future

Croydons just a new build away
if it wasn't for the once East European office blocks fad
its now inviting human capital
to dwell in jolly new builds
and with the new Westfield proposed
most indigenous inhabitants will sell up.
They knocked down the Warehouse Theatre
to prove barbarians rule.
The Central library feels lobotomised
is it part privatised ?
Nothing lasts or stands for real
in Croydon
its a place with an itch
whatever dog it represents
is your guess.

Finance holds the town back
They've closed down the Milan Bar
and Currys moved out
Sing to the skeleton of a town center
carrying the deluged plough unto my ears
the promises of the councilors, prowl
towards helplessness

In the supernatural sphere,
down London Road
cheek by jowl,
the angel of death pontificates.

Beyond its parlor,
the old subterfuge of death,
languishes in this netherworld.

Untouched by conscience.
Our apparition stands by the silver moon,
self-crowned and wearing the also run
upending the praying soul.

The past doctrines of survival,
half barrelled,
speaks its own enormity.

They killed off Croydon
when we eventually lost Safeways;
no butter milk or Blue Nun
no intelligent 70s decor
or ghosts of people with a touch of sense
walking the aisles contemplating
Kate Bush verses the Motors
for their wine bar aperitif;
or acknowleding  Croydons appearance taking a hit
with the Park Hill estate.
That hasty built ****** record store
nudging your independents.
Times are a changing
not yet year zero
yesteryear still good

They've wrecked the  illusion
that's towns are bastillions
made to last
instead they are monopoly money spinners
where building booms become bust
and rents dry up

They've wrangled the economy
now they go for the soul
Queens'  gardens future  design is allusive
as the scarlet pimpernel

I remember bee hives  next to the tax office
now its a busy builders yard
so  with investment goes ecological *******


The omens are ominous maybe the Tories can do better

Croydon
You ask me
how I should feel there are 14 vacant
closed shops in Croydon?.

A town that presides
over its last boom and bust
isn't worthy.
Still  The Councils "Brick by Brick"
the culprit
lays bankrupt
No management buyout yet!
as the rest of central Croydon
mushrooms not in office blocks,
but living quarters,
for the overpriced town center,
the middle class
who won't help footfall,
as they still buy online,
further depressing the same again
And the town is a big gush
with the wind and dust battering it.

We eat our chopped  aubergine
and dinned on Safeway white wine
Croydon was like a civic jewel in the crown
We were the Manhattan of the South

We had our record shops Beanos and Cloakes
music was our soul
We had the renowned Fairfield Halls
saw Camel play there
and we drank with mirth
from the abundance of pubs

i exist i cry
always walking on egg shells.
i deserve so much more!
perhaps in another lifetime,
i did wrong.
but why this endless procession?
moody lacklustre skies at night
are yet to answer my prays.
why this sacrilege?

The Tories  have devalued civility
Even the Met Police cannot escape this calamity
Admonishing channel refugees,
as if they were part of this disorder,
to be rudely awakened on an outbound trip to Rwanda
The aftermouth of Brexit seems to be a byword for a lack of humanity.

Rampant gangs in London.
****** mile in Croydon.
Social Service cuts are unwarranted.
The voluntary sector is the only thing plausible,
to pick up the pieces
when the social fabric
is so wantonly tight

Cynical platitudes.
Burying your head in the sand.
As an empty space.
You have to understand
be like  the Phoenix.
Ready to rise,
into my new space.

Self satisfaction as garish as a stalk.
Now I'm carrying the truth,
why waste yourself on vanity,
be sincerely  glad
into something better.

She stole daffodils
from park benches
and cemeteries
She told herself she was no
Monster
but a light-fingered missus,
just after a glimpse of the next world.
Besides turning to serenity
she lied to herself
cherishing her conscientiousness

Struggling daffodils that cannot vouch
weighed down by the rain
As summer falls back, slips
The birds sing their sullen songs
from the tree shades
and yonder there is a scant sun
the foliage faded into brown

For therapy i call the fire brigade to
to inform them Westminster bridge
here i come
and daydream of pushing  nannies
and their charges towards  tumbling waterfalls
and with my friend Judy
we watch tall men jump over ditches of dahlias
in the foggy dew
for no other reason than
we want to be amused.

As gentle as a fawn,
when she dances in his dancehall,
remembering Vietnam.
those bedeviled eastern nights,
when she bequeaths her needs
the vices of loss are a contagion,
in contemplating oblivion,
when there's hire in his heart.

Sometimes I think of you since we meet.
I've tried so hard to stop the light,
But wishing I were someone else,
cant free the feeling.
Somehow it's not just right
I took the sweet  from you
you were the only one,
love has gone away,
I was never one for singing,
dandelions have had their day.