Do you like
my new shoes?
Helen says
Dad got them

for me
I look
at the new shoes
brown like new

polished conkers
yes they look good
Mum says I can
wear them to church

today and I've put on
my Sunday dress
as it is Sunday
and what do you think

of the white socks
and the little pink
ribbons at the top?
and you'll never guess  

I've got new handkerchiefs
and I've got one
with me now
and she gets it out

of her dress pocket
and shows me
and I gaze at it
waiting to get

a word in edgeways
but she says
and after that
Saturday morning

matinee yesterday
and that boy
attacking you
with that knife

Mum says she's
not sure I should go
any more
you know what

Mum's like
but maybe you
could talk her around
because I like

being there
with you
and o by the way
my doll Battered

Betty's other eye
is stuck now
and she can only
see through half

an open eye
it's my little
brother's fault
he banged her

with his toy hammer
o poor Betty
and to think
she could see

out of both eyes
when Mum bought
her for me
from that jumble sale

a few years ago
I nod having given up
trying to get  
a word in

and see how neat
her hair is plaited
into two neat plaits
with pink ribbons

and her think lens glasses
clean so that I can
see her eyes
large as oysters

and guess what?
she says
I have two
shiny pennies

for the collection
at church
Dad gave them to me
and said new pennies

for new prayers
have you got
pennies too?
yes I've got 3d

my Mum gave me
I say feeling it good
to get my words
out there on the stage

of the day
and she smiles
and that smile
blows me

a seven
year old kid
in my best suit
far away.

He swam
in the sea
of her moistness-
warm waves,

tide on tide,
her fingers,
shark like,
set about

his flesh as
of fish; -
who else
could swim

as such?
he recalled
the *******
hot finger tips

of her love,
the way
they dived
into waves

of oncoming
passions;
you-
you,

my young love,
he said,
I the youth,
diving, deep,

breath held,
eyes closed.
Where are you now,
my long ago love?

He asked,
in what waters
do you now dive?  
Or are you

in Davy Jones' Locker?
Or are you still alive?

Your worth
not in flowers

or tombstone's depth
or height,

but in the heaviness
of the heart,

the haunting look
from old photos.

I dreamed of you,
not as last,

but younger,
child-like,

wanting to caress.
I search for you

among the tall grass
and bright flowers.

I recall
your last words,

final hours.

Lydia
unwraps her
Kit Kat bar
and breaks off
a finger
and eats it

I watch her
like some pup
hoping she
will break off
a finger‭
for Benny

it's morning
the sun bright
coming through
the narrow gap
between flats

she bites off
more finger
her small teeth
less white now

want a bit‭?
she asks me
offering
half finger

that'd be nice
I reply

I take it
and mouth it
and eat it
explosion
of biscuit
chocolate
and sweetness

she eats more
as we walk
through the Square

my sister's
Lydia
informs me

you stole it‭?

borrowed it
I’ll buy one
just for her
when I can

does she know‭?
I ask her

not just yet
but I will
I promise

she gives me
a finger
of chocolate
I’m paid off

now she eats
the last piece
******* up
the paper
she puts it
in the small
dress pocket

it's all gone
we the two
partakers
of the crime
lick our lips
and walk on

it was nice
the feeling
the warm taste
chocolate
crisp biscuit

won't she know‭?
I ask her

not just yet
too busy
in our bed
she tells me
with the Spiv
smart boyfriend

we walk down
the wide *****
from the Square
gazing up
Meadow Row
where the Sun
smiles at us

As we grow older
. . .We discover that the meaning of life is
to give meaning to our lives and that pain
is inevitable but suffering is optional and
that we should save the best part of ourselves
for the person who deserves us.

As we grow older
. . . We discover that the best thing about the future
is that it comes just one day at a time and it is
far better to be alone than to be in bad company and
we have to cry sometimes not because we are weak
but because we have been strong for so long.

As we grow older
. . . We discover that telling the truth and making
someone cry is better than telling a lie and making
someone smile and mistakes are part of the dues
one pays for a full life.

As we grow older
. . .We discover that the strongest people are
the ones who love beyond all faults, cry
behind closed doors and fight battles that
nobody knows about.

As we grow older
. . .We discover that if we miss somebody
we call and if we want to meet somebody
we invite and if we want to be understood
we explain and if we have questions
we ask and if we don't like something
we say it and if we like something
we state it and if we want something
we ask for it and if we love someone
we tell them.

As we grow older
. . .We discover that if we are depressed
we are living in the past and if we are anxious
we are living in the future and if we are at peace
we are living in the present and what we see
depends mainly on what we look for and anywhere
is paradise and that is up to us and we know that
if we if never try, we will never know.
                                                           ­                     Jon York         2014

It's so simple really,
'Let the pen write,
tell my tale,
explain how I feel!'

I cannot!
The pen is eager,
in hand.
My mind,  however,
is stubborn
and secretive

I don't want to write
although I feel the urge.
My thoughts,
are not clear enough.
I 'suspect',
yet I cannot express.

Some nights, my son,
I stare into the dark,
replaying those last scenes
by your hospital bed,
over and over,
inside my head,
like a gum shoe detective
searching through the debris
of memories for clues
to a hideous crime.

Some nights though,
I sleep right through,
looking in my dreams
for images of you.
What else
can a father do?

Some nights are sleepless
to a great degree,
twisting and turning
like a boat at sea,
rising up and sitting
in another place,
putting together,
like a jigsaw,
piece by piece
your smiling face.

Some nights
I want to drift away
and be where you are,
to hold and talk again,
whether near or far,
or just to sit and stare
and just be pleased
to see you and be there.

Some nights, my son,
I lay awake
waiting for the new dawn
and light to break,
recalling to mind
your young days,
the mischievous boy,
the teasing little brother,
the young Sky-walker,
the adventure lover.

Some times on the odd night,
I just get up
and sit and write,
tap in the words,
trying to pin it all down,
trying to get through
the dark waters
and not slip off
into the dark depths
and drown.

Sonya was reading
some Kierkegaard book

I was reading Dostoevsky
both laying on the bed
in a cheap hotel in Paris

the window was open
street sounds outside
traffic
people
snatches of conversations

want to go out
for a coffee?
I asked

if you're paying
she said

I paid last time

she turned a page
you're the male
you're supposed to pay
she said

I put down the book
and looked up
at the ceiling
I thought this was equal time
for women
woman's rights and all that?

what's that got to do with it?

equal paying of bills
I said

she sighed
and put down her book
you always
have to make arguments
always have to see things
so **** black and white
she said

do you want coffee or not?
I said

she turned over
and away from me
her backside
just about cover
by her tight skirt

why do women
have to sulk
when things
don't go their way?

who said
they're not going my way?

your **** says so

what's the matter
with my ****?

it isn't so pretty
as your face

she turned back to me
and gazed at me
it's always either or
with you isn't it?
she said

you've been reading
too much Kierkegaard
I said

you want *** again?

I looked at her lips
her *******
her eyes blue
as washed out blue can be
sure if it's on offer

well it won't be
if you keep on
with this equal thing
she said

you like ***?

she frowned
yes of course

well I do too
so that's equal
so what's the problem?

she lay back down
on the bed
I’ll have black coffee
and I’ll pay
she said
but you get the food

I smiled
OK if that's
what you want

can we go see
some art afterwards?

sure
I said

she kissed me
and I kissed her
and coffee was forgotten
as we decided
to rock
the cheap old bed.

It's like the world stopped,
like someone
turned off the lights,

like some kid
in a dark room
full of frights.

Where, my son,
do I go from here?

The horizon is dull
and unclear.

I played
the Led Zeppelin album
you bought me last.

Seem to see your ghost,
can't catch it,
can't move so fast.

It's like the seasons
have all gone wrong,
like emptiness
has become the norm,

and can't recall
the lyrics
of my favourite song.

Like a child left
in a storm,
full of lights
and sounds,

and ancient woes,
trying to see
where the dead ones go.

My old man
was always
neat and tidy.  

Brylcreemed hair
(what was left),
smart suit,
shiny shoes,
brown brogues,
well trimmed moustache,
staring eyes.

Get your best shirt
and trousers on,
we're going to see
this new Jeff Chandler film,
Western, and put on
that bow-tie I bought you
and make sure
your shoes are shiny,
he said.

I went and got changed
and put on the bow-tie
he bought(how I hated
that thing) and shoes
buffed to a shine of sorts,
short trousers,
the next to best,
and I was ready,
kissing mother
on the way out.

We went in the cinema
a 1/3 of the way through
the first feature,
sat in the seats,
his eyes fixed
on the screen,
I looking around
to see who was in
and who was who.  

I looked at him
beside me;
the neat moustache,
well trimmed,
the eyes watching
the screen,
a cigarette between lips,
smoke rising.

I recalled the time
at another cinema,
another film,
another Western,
and we were ¾
the way through,
when he ups
and leaves
in a sudden rush.

I watched the screen
and chewed the popcorn,
thinking the old man
had gone to the bog,
an adult thing
or so I thought.

Then 5 minutes after
a young usherette
came and found me
and said:
your father's with the medics
in the foyer,
he had a choking fit.

Poor guy,
I thought,
him sat there
blue and white,
not having had a ****.