Dandelions have their way.
I'm writing blank verse
because I have no images to build.
It's like searching for a suite of cards,
and tomorrow will be replete.
Picture my pride,
poetry is like a starling.
The grass has gone to hay,
my hope like a ceaseless parade.

Ebbo says its time to die
she mix you a slow potion
relish the end game
prodding a reply
Where's your will ?
She  ride your pride
call you Mr Browne
tell everybody you smell
If you're lucky maybe
fillet fish at Skegness.
No one wants you anymore
handkerchief sniffle sniffle.

In the darkroom
I scramble for my header,
a kingdom for scissors.
Sprocket enmesh  header
and gyrate with deft turns
to  the end of the spiral
cutting with a final twirl.
Let the darkness be illuminated,
by passing it to the teacher's hand;
that lost coordinated sensation
now can't find my tank.

I am getting tired of your rumors
and I can't hold to my dreams
Once, a contender, I am tired of being asleep on the wheel
The Sunshine should make good hay
Yet our days have been useless
as a story told
You had black hair
now it has turned to grey

I've forgotten to cry
to hold the day in my palm
The Sun cannot provide a setting
cannot hold onto my dreams

I stood inside the ice palace
wary of the spiders from Mars
and all i heard on my ****** radio
was Space Odyessy
Then i stepped out in the sunshine
knowing all my dreams had gone
and the man who sold the world  was me

In the dawn of the cornflower
opaque morning
I hunger for peace
By the Marigolds
I held a requiem for the lost souls
Whilst the church bells rings
beneath its grille of tumbledown ivy

I am gallant in another world
the girl with rimmed glasses
and partisan polo top
in white slacks reading the guardian weekly.
I have no need for men
they are too needy
who trip over in the firmament
unlike my day dreams
of calico cats in the shade
and friend Jane

Monday opened like a Union Closed Shop
Tuesday left a sparrow in the hunt
Wednesday we openly cried, he didn't like my dress
Thursday was like a cut onion, how we  smarted
Friday was a protein-free jello day
Saturday we didn't stop arguing
Sunday was a non start a pyjamas day

Another midnight Dear john letter,
flatters in the morning
before the hand delivery.
She is satiated with this action.
Her intensity met,
another soul is down sized
because of their trusting humanity,
no winners or losers
just a time waster.

Death is a fornicator
A ransom note for the disposed  
whose banner is waylaid
along the dusty road.
The Valiant are shorn of hope
as an immortal fog chastises
their very existence
mishappen and duly noted
Hope can no longer bloom.

Death is a whisper.
An ungallant coat of one hue.
Black as a lagoon, washing
souls in turmoil.
Oh flock of night,
children pray to offer the
banishment of light.

Like a heavy trench coat
Death finds an ocassioned shoulder to rest on.
It's no use anticipating it.
That would gave it too much credit.

At Junkers  yard
Aurolia and Olivia
those fallen ladies smoke their  last ***
with dropping  mouths they've tasted yesterday today
before taking to bed and resting.
Elsewhere the enamoured  trod wistfully
already their  regrets  had hit rock bottom
their wives until then convenient gaps of  memory.
Decembers  winds  took records
the  local press were having a field day
recording the gaps in descent
of past union.

I'm cleaning the kettle
counting daybreaks
and igniting my heart

I throw a brittle stick
into the blackness of the garden
and let you into a secret of mine

I don't look like my Mother
I'm Cinderella instead
an outlier  sibling
a decorous counterpoint

The horse has bolted
Day is night
Memories flight to County Carlow
whilst he lives in London SE27
A hard rain is about to fall
when he calls me John
and forgets to feed his cats

she plays with your heart,
and on lonely days she murmurs
a lonely tune,
to wrong foot your dreams
on  drear morrows.

once more to the coast
to rekindle our relationship,
braving the dunes,
that so much reminds of our travails.

I don't need  a  double bed
or a patch of garden
I want to posses my own soul
and play vinyl records
in my bungalow"s lounge

It's the same monstrosity
Like briar wood on display
Mother Anne disciplines her kids
It's always like the first day of her personal crusade
Like being drawn under the ocean floor
Escapades are the order of the day
But it's the present that is the crow

Teremerdity drawing Razorblades
The arch angels have turned asunder
Realisation is incomparable
In velvet diaries wantonly kept
Unkempt Man faces his disclaimer

we are all dolphins at heart
in the present flow,
life passes us by
and the twilight hours comes quickly

The Wisteria is gently trellised up my aging Robina tree
the roots were smitten by Brenda, the previous owner
but at least some shoots survive.
Sir Wrigley has donated me
an orange Lilly although,
he likes to be known as James


A creature has unearthed my succulent cactus
I blame a Badger,
cannot afford to lessen my admiration for urban foxes.
The Lucifer Crocosmia will look abundant in Summer

Glos cheese is so mild and true
like fall at 16 centigrade
It's mellow like a church calling
reliable as the day is long.
It comes yodling down the hay wain
It's slightly nutty in a good way.
It lays prostrate on an orbital path
and welcomes strangers.

It seizes the day
and comes office suited
like a coach and her price pupil
Nutrolling you along a righteous path
Brandishing away nettles and brambles
to lay a common purpose
like a prayer book

i am gallant in another world
the girl with rimmed glasses
and a Parisan top
in white slacks reading the guardian weekly.
I have no need for men
they are too needy
who trip over in the firmament
unlike my further dreams
of calico cats in the shade
and my friend Jane

Dragonfly days
are wishful bucolic  times.
There are blue clouds
to match their wingspan
and cider with Ruby
on merry go rounds,
promises of love
and heirlooms set  aside

Cameron is apologetic
having packed his bags,
he has opened a new museum
dedicated to Macmillians government.
Bring back national economic planning.
Every region is uniquely fired.
Hull again  a major fishing port
our Royal Navy guatds our fish stocks,
King Coal to fuel our power stations
Visas to come to the UK
it's a priviledge not free movenent.
Draw bridge's up
we remain an island
rather than an  economic zone

Now and then I think of Jenny
her long legs with bronze tan
and her ruffled blonde hair
in the after thought
of my long stare.

Come hither
Autumn folly
Lost foible sensations
Return my fate
as I once knew.
I can get no rest
Bring my life back to me!
cause I need a friend.

"Oh no its not you again",
the spider combing through my hair,
acting like you couldn't care
turning my blonde hair
into  strands of straw,
so you could see me
cry and crumble


Only this morning when I had
my hot compress over my eyes.
I imagined a half formed image
of a Roman's eye socket.
I was frightened and could only
think that 1961 Photography annual
was to blame.
Catacombs of Rome
turned through and through,
oh black and white images
can be so visceral

Rapidly I opened my eyes
trying to regain some semblance

Sleep is like sludge
once you get stuck
it draws you in.

Dreamweavers are dusky,
storm voyeurs.
You never can get enough,
once it takes you over.

She came from the rising  star Jupiter
She lay in fields of marigolds
Seeing the future bright
a rapture of the heart
Her dream was bestrode manifest.
A case of a swan in the sunny climes

Searching for  the woodman
to espier an union
and produce a moon clad offering
to cherish as the dawns break
Jupiter rising

Has it rained in your  heart
and have you buried all of those
drowned kissing frogs?
The saturated coastal trail leds
you  further away.
Yet I recall the days
your postcards were postmarked
Polegate with the best of Sunshine intentions

We could have met in Croydon
for a coffee,
The 468 bus from Ruskin Park
is still journey apparent
I thought we could have shared our past
Dyslexia 
but like silken ash you proverbially
waved me Adieu
although I tried to explain
Dungeness and its shingles

It almost like you wanted to preserve
confidentiality, despite partially opening-up
about needing teachers' notes.
Nonchalant does not suit you
the past is not a closed shop
its a bridge yet
for peer acceptance

Its almost December
and we're old friends
I should see more of you.
You've still to play your favorite song
These problems are not insurmountable

They've closed the down the town
Rows of shops shuttered
It feels like a war zone

If it never rains it pours
The Market isn't the same
and the footfall isn't immense

But if it snows
I meet you on a snow-covered street
and you'd wave a smile
in your Chinese hat and gloves
you got from Primark

its the civil service as we know it
counting blocks of years
for a gold plated pension methinks
and watch before your eyes
the transgression of the soul
taking orders on rank Mondays
and progressively suffocate till Friday
week and year once over again.

White foam
temperamental tommorows
One more jour
Seagulls cross paths
The warp of sometimes
and the broken rhythm of shingles
till the dusk answers itself

Your single shingle waysides:
is a  desert's outreach,
tiled orange tin shack,
your spiked garden, prevaricates.

Commercial photos are verboten,
only payment to the estate ensures.
Messrs and co got caught that way

Dusky city lights
The homeless ply their cardboard
All is not firmament in this town
The shells of half erected buildings
Barricaded shop fronts
pending yesterday’s dreams
Take me from wild places
There is no hero to gaze at
The Magpies screech at the Robins eggs
and the town is Menacing again
lamenting the countenance

Ketchup those delirious feelings
play to the soul's groove
Nothing is baffling yonder that hill
it plainly exists for those new feelings.
Criticism is unfounded, no parley
Why because we persist beyond
yesterdays hesitancy
Our minds seeded on mighty euphorias
dynamos of times fast forwarded

I'm as picqued as winter
and so let down,
you shouldn't leave me on my own.
Dyslexic's back story unreviewed,
a lack of recognition of your fellow beings feelings.
You didn't understand the part seconds
of the shutter speeds.
You were confused
and criticized your last teacher
although having no knowledge of the professed present.

Once when you were young
you never had the chance
to be like normal  children
they scuffed your knees
turned martyrdom into a sport
as you were a diagnosed dyslexic:
very much cocooned
often aristocratic in pedigree.
TV became a refuge
a mechanical nanny !
Away from the special school down Brent.

The family car drove to North Wales
You said there was better scenery to be had on TV.
This moulded and shaped  you.
Saturday afternoon matinee on BBC 2
an added bonus
sometimes glee,  others slapstick humour.
One should curtsy to your droll  disposition
hold in high esteem.

Of the schema and polite conversation
where we learn the gentle art of fluttery
or how to complain in the surest dismissive line.
The uplighters are headache inducing
unless we've picked up a restless  cold,
downstairs cafe a shocker
thick coffee reminiscent of Starbucks.
Early retirement a pipe dream
we surely drop down before time  
not having navigated work life balance
because of  the distances travelled
and rest spent weekends.

like a novice June appears
with powder blue skies
and the longest day of the year
retains its light,
coupled with those balmy  early evenings.
Delphininuims and oriental poppies
sway jewel like in their dense hues,
while Lupins make their best display.
All at once this early summer gap
gives spring its last abundance.

Gazing into melancholy melon skies
that I weaved,
Blindly searching for the shadow of wisdom
Blue is the color of cornfields
its truth so probable
Please don't turn on your back on me
and parry me away
shine on your earnestness
Thinking back to yesterday
may help us find the now

my wife tells me Lady Bird Johnson
was a woman of reknown
until she career blighted Catwoman meow!
She had a problem recognizing people had a difference of opinion into Nam
Eartha orders her own taxi
water under the bridge for Lady Bird

Daisy chains and sheltered coves
Gaze into the turquoise landscape
Coldstreams on the island
Where have you been?
Let us talk of the past
Reinvoke the present
And remember that's how strong my love is
Filed under found

Children I have some news for you
"The Jews and Arabs are at war this Saturday"
Passing words for youngsters,
who were such small cogs in the wheel
not quite comprending the enormity.
Our world was too precise
we were being processed into an unflinching class regime
At thirteen it was a new school for the boarders,
and if you hadn't made Prefect then
the rub of  decesion had passed you by.

we need a broom
to sweep away Sundays clowns
if failing that a noose
to make headway
Mondays so inclined in devilment
her cold chill has enthralled  me

On an Archipelago
I place broaches and pins
in a wooden box
And lay a translucent lichen box for you
Somehow the fledging seagulls
Will seek your precious door