As with the wind’s cold reminder,
as with the new leaf’s shock,
we remember when we are

This grey overcoat holds sway
but in its way, familiar
and fitting

The technicolour
glitz of balmy days
failed to keep us captive

Rattle on your prison bars today
and swing low
for unsure tomorrows

Let me sell you a fraction of truth
slanted to fit the froth-rage box
you live in

I’ll dress it in grave tones,
even implicate a scapegoat
so your priapic blast
has a focus

I’ll use fonts from Comic Sans
to Times New Roman
to ensure you bite the hook

When you look in our mirror
the hate will be palatable,
tasty,
wholesome

and as we gorge we’ll starve

The edges of summer’s
soak and throb routine
begin their curled leaf fraying
with the last fat spoons of clotted dreams
lashed haphazard

All those weights we foisted forward
to when wet autumn
would just **** us off anyway
rattle-threat at their fastenings
in the fractious post-tropical gales

Inertia makes it clear
why our transatlantic cousins call it fall,
but pre-echoes of crisp, clear frosts
do their best to placate anxieties
that appear to be calendared

Sing me a song of now
to hear what it sounds like

Broken rhythms and discords
or a bitter battled harmony?

I have my feet to stomp
and will whistle and holler free

To reach ears, hidden and open
all shaped the same

Ladies and gentlemen!
To you, this seems a simple set of stairs
mildly vertiginous perhaps,
but no real challenge
with careful steps
and grip upon the bannister
even granny still manages

But I, The Great Fearlesso,
for one day only will attempt the impossible:
down the stairs in a sleeping bag!

Yes, your frightened gasps are suitable
(at least I assume that’s what the sound was
as it was a bit like tutting)
but I will not be dissuaded

I ask my glamorous assistant/mum
to help me into the bag of doom
with as much grace as a baby elephant
on roller skates

And here upon this precipice I pause,
my life flashing before my eyes
Look! There’s last week!

I peek through my fingers at the drop
and though my bottle is challenged
I, glorious I, commit!

I go, and the bumbled blur
of carpeted steps is lost
in the howling hiss of synthetic materials
I am tumble dried to an almighty
thump...

And dazed, I rise
to the thunderous applause of the cat
I stand and take my bow

Then do it twenty more times

I got bitten by a spider,
but this is England.

A certain arachnid
politeness is expected,
holding back on venom,
for example,
or moving at a predictable, parochial pace
and arranging eyes, legs and hairs
to not offend.

Hanging out in bedside sleeves
so an early morning stumble
is accompanied by slow burning
pin ******
leaving mild swelling and discomfort
is just not cricket.

Don’t get me started on
those chirruping buffoons.

The kingfisher lazily perched today
as a sorry river sloped below
fish so visible that fishing
felt like cheating

But, y’know, gift horses and such,
and a full mouth for the nest
is best for everyone
I guess

though glimmer and flash
are rarely seen without challenge
we all need a dose of easy pickings
to even the game

A hand cast the jigsaw pieces
of my redemption wide
and I walk to find them

Gapped puzzle patches showing
a veneer beneath, of reasonable quality,
are nonetheless an irritant

The late game phase
I assumed would be easier
has not especially yielded fruit

Still reliant on chanced epiphanies
this approach lacks the efficiency
my bald head and white whiskers
belie

Three AM awake, aching with lateness
wrestling alone
even if a significant other is next to you
or little breaths flutter in next rooms

Shadow boxing ridiculous odds
in a world and heart full
of treacle thick worries
weighting your punches ineffectual
just like in the fear-fever dreams
that woke you

You skirt the maw below
resting place of your almighty failures
as the sick orange glow
breaches curtains and makes
familiar shapes judgmental
tut tut tutting at your uselessness

Here, you are defenceless

Here, the black thoughts insinuate,
find cracks to prise and plant suggestions
of a better world without you in it:
the limit of you

Dig deep, my human kin
quietly get up,
make a cup of tea,
write a message or two
to yourself, or for others later

Bide and wait
for the mute loved heaviness of sleep to return
or the welcome thinness of morning light
to wash the darkness back

In the new day, reach out,
with steady voice or bubble-snot,
be heard and seen
by friends or strangers
and try to heal again

Helmed by pilots
who maybe read the manual,
definitely loved the way
the hat looked in the mirror

nearer and nearer the nuclear button we inch
cheeks pinched in at random stupidity
with no desire to suspend our own flesh
over that particular fire

Is this sick feeling jealousy?

Watching those who clearly know no better
pretend otherwise and still succeed?
When they channel the brass
of someone smarter,
harder, sharper, more charming?

What do we do
with alarms that keep ringing these days,
but hit snooze?

I breathed deep
as my fingers curled on the wheel
and gripped leather,

my memory clutched at vinyl

the engine was running,
number plates grinning yellow
as the utter ******* torrent of thoughts
ignored the exhaust

the exhausting

I could drive out forward or reverse
well rehearsed either way

these wheels just don’t know

With overflowing hearts
a man and a woman
younger than I am now
watch their kids’ fascination grow
opening a paper square to show a busy sleigh.
For now, they can avoid the fact
that the thing that keeps
the young girl’s hands warm in the picture
is called a ****.

I had a ghost, too polite to scare,
haunting took the form of kind notes,
a fridge periodically restocked,
socks paired and put in drawers

Eschewing rattled chains and wails
it chose to put the radio on,
only ever easy listening,
Sunday mourning

No ectoplasm,
no unexplained temperature drops
no arcanely spelled clues
to the tragedy of a restless soul

In time, it exorcised itself
and my communion was lost,
with a tidied kitchen,
all brass fittings shone

And I was left with everyday fear

As teachers,
(and I know some are back already, sorry)
we are doing the equivalent
of sportsfolk psyching up

Our judo coach is shaking and slapping
while we, in denial, are still mowing lawns
and planning actual meals from recipes

In our dreams, the Bueller…?
Bueller…? Bueller…?
reels are already playing
with our classes disobeying to our faces

So for everyone’s sake
ease us in please
keep us keen and we’ll deal with your progeny
‘til Halloween

Remember a time you weren’t here
and your day rolled free

honey warm joy
holding your soul
in a cwtch

catching their eyes
and shine of smiles,
lining your insides
for days and times like these

we build these pots
and stocks to tide us by
with the benefit
of no selfish deficit

allow yourself a sip
to reminisce
and ease the days
until we can replenish
togetherness

The rain had stayed in the grass,
and as I walked my shoes got sodden

Then, I didn’t feel the chill weight
as each wet step took me towards you,
the cold, dead-leaf breeze
still thrilling

A coal glow of anticipation,
the drug-draw of your jumpered arms,
endless cups of tea in the earlying dark
watching the frost’s slow creep

The bitterness of five
square spaced letters
gladiatorial, etymological,
born of thought,
a daily word hurdle
just to **** with friends

Sometimes
Sundays suit fewer words
so thoughts can bed in

Even more so
with a gin and tonic
and a film
that plucks at memories

I lay and looked up today
and on the cerulean blue
a letter was written in different hands

Starlings told of the everyday
shuttling from A to B til teatime
while flits of blue *** and dunnock
hinted at local worry
maybe at the lackadaisical cat
whose frou-frou collar
ruins the hunt

In fancy script the swifts
wrote high and mighty
chasing the imperceptible,
so not so distant really

The paragraph break of the red kite
weighed in
and wings and fingers stopped
to marvel
at near perfect epistolary

A little splinter today
a tiny shiv
to ***** at our resolve
to flatten the curve

buckle in and fatten up
in your locality
so beautiful days
can be unlocked again

It costs to live
we know this
but the currency is ours to spend

We should be livid at those
who pretend to care
espouse our best interests
but then push us
to be batteries for a
busted machine

Remember their fat faces
when we’re clear
their arch indifference
and disdain, for once,
for our fear

When they return again
to using our dreads
against us

remember

I heard that Dr Johnny Bananas
signed off on a letter on herd immunity
and *******, I’m in

Last seen fleeing a beat up
Chunking Mansion room
after a deal for python skins
(needed for his surefast oil) went bad,
his mad streak nearly had him

This was after that narrow squeak in Singapore, when peddling stay hard pills to rotten expats got dicey, as they realised his concoction
was more talc than tungsten
and some Salakau took a machete interest

So the enigmatic Dr B has resurfaced
in Great Barrington, Mass.
to add his voice to the Ivy League Profs, homeopaths and khoomii singers’
hard nosed exhortations
to stop worrying and love the fever,
persistent cough,
anosmia

If life has taught us anything
it’s that when Dr Johnny B spins
fresh from Whitehall or White House
with advice for living well,
you can take that to the offshore bank.
I’m sold

Man,
a glut of time
a surfeit, abundance,
embarrassment

for some,
the shackle breaking freedom
gives a new vigour
that’ll be forgotten
when the treadmill restarts

for others,
it’s the edifice,
the granite cliff to scale
to reach
the same old stuff
as always

Edged laughter of teachers,
bone-tired from the joy-slog weeks passed,
speaks of an adult relief,
R and R for bruised hearts and knocked heads

Coming off the front line,
hard fought thought-inches precariously gained,
we sit in living room street cafes,
flowing vin du table,
inhaling rest like Gauloise

The distant classroom thud and rumble never fully fades,
echoed in sandbags of intelligence to be pored over
deciphered, summarised in triplicate,
for later summits

But it will wait

For now, we’ll catch a show, an eye,
maybe even a lie of peace,
for one duvet-warm morning

Soon, we’ll be back to inspecting boots,
buttons, buckles, sharpened pens ready,
waiting for the whistle

This is for us
who work with those
we love or tolerate
(hate seems a bit strong
for them we’re forced among,
it’s not like we’re a picnic either...)

You are mainly wonderful,
sometimes misguided,
but we’ll hide grumps
in flippant huffs
because we know the pull
is mostly in the same direction

But know we miss the scrum,
the ****** staff room air,
hurried tea and coffee
and meaningful cake

Daily, we take time to thank you
as we grapple this stupidity
that dwarfs all sense

The dinner table desk
is a lonely place

To heat or to eat
that will be the question
whether to shiver with a gut full
of cold, cheap beans
or to yank the belt tight against the pangs
but at least feel your fingertips,
some will die, many not sleep
apart from those happy,
******* few

Having faith in the change
the wind might bring
is a thing
y’know?
a challenge
testing bitter thoughts
and locked up hearts
too long apart

But it will blow
y’know?
this wind we wait for
bringing other thoughts
to sit inside
and while away togetherness

I watch the forecasts
come and go
y’know?
and pretend that there’s a pattern

This mapped isle
has never been one
for clement weather
but I’ll pretend to know

A bold and fattened fecundity
speaking truths to the dwindling light,
securing a covenant, a pledge,
as the molasses dark flows inevitable

The cold weaves it thick
so limbs and thoughts are held
and insidious suggestions have free reign

The hedgerows offer so that spring remembers:
after marshalling reserves, it must return

Us as cracked pots,
with a possibility to be fixed
as fine and flawed

The geology of our clay:
dirt will behave as dirt,
rare earth as rare earth

With time it transmutes
to something new,
shot with old veins when fired

The new *** fragile,
prone to drops and knocks,
desperate to hold known water

Sometimes there’s peace
in this restriction,
you get gifted a lucid
memory trail that you can wander
with a heart that sings back
to the echoes within

At other times it’s fibreglass
or vitriol under the skin,
prickle-burning every thought,
flaring angered embers
that refuse to chill

It’s a sickness
that infects our wishes
and snuffs the daily ebb and flow
of our earned minutes
as we yearn for the next high point
where we can
just
let
go

No escaping
this fickle, clumsy spectre,
just a recognition
that its patience wears as thin as ours
and it will pass

They can sadly twist naturally
even though trellis and secateurs
should train properly
a root bitterness can still linger

Most of the time a healthy growth,
both verdant and upward holds
but on dark days
or at dusk, the shoots can bolt

More so if left dense in clusters
so a monoculture prevails
when no amount of cutting back
will yield fruit

Plants get stunted, malformed
and left unchecked will stifle others.
So give time to your horticulture
for all our sakes

Twang of iron behind teeth
picking yourself up again, again
from a self-penned melodrama
(one with a snot-sobbing end)

Clouds part, lending a single beam
striking your heart, and you know

Dragging the back of your hand
across fat lips that creep up
for the first time since constant bowls of cereal
and giggling, cartoon mornings

Collecting everything that’s yours
in one hand, a little blood
the doorway shines and you’re gone

We fight a hard wired self-hate
perpetuated three generations deep
a shut-factory broken-toothed anger
that finds no solace in shop work or service

they had more, once

so kids get to swallow it too
drink it deep and let its grim bloat leach
into blood and skin and hair

we fight hard as hell
with teeth and tongues of tolerance
and claws to catch and hold
to pause, not patronise
to see that inertia is owned

Sometimes hearts
break in specific ways,
we will apply bandages
but the scars will form vivid,
worn by us all as memory
that the best burn bright
but brief

I have a small patch of land
with some grass, a little pond,
flower beds full of plants
the world chose
in the key of chaos

I can sit in it
while madness swirls
and clamps down
and can find
a jot of peace

But I know others can’t,
so I will hold my knee from jerking
while we all figure out
a better way to be

I guess this is the trip
of today’s triptych,
still surrounded by
hours of life reinvented

My feet are the same
though achey from lack of use
and my tongue is still in my head,
though less flapped

Our lingua franca
is now a babble of
isolation song

It’s not often
we sing together
so let’s be loud
and love proper hard

I spent fifteen minutes of the lesson
chasing a roll of Polo mints and a pound coin
out of a small hole in the working class lining of his pointless blazer, to stop him taking scissors to it,
even though mum said it was OK

At the same time, my child bosses
decided to cut my subject
from the formerly rich platter available
to our blasted, gorgeous youth
because, reasons
which I suppose are financial and deeply,
numerically,
justifiable

Meanwhile, the next kid in junior school
silently loses the opportunity
to be anything other
than a state certified failure

So, cheers

The single figure get ups
still felt an age away from the main event
mocked by a shooting star
behind today’s door
when even school still had writing and sums
without a hint of the glitter to come

I hold your eyes through glass,
conversation stripped
of sibilants and plosives
reduced to a vowel roll
like Charlie Brown’s ma’am

I wrestle with the thought
that this might be our last contact
without contact
although as adults we were hardly
what you’d call tactile
I’d take the chance to hug
and see your smile up close
right now

Settle we must for charades
and snatches of life
as I leave you
in the care of
wonderful strangers

Listless
but not lacking lists
we drift from start of task to task
half a heart engaged
half a mind to dash
make a break for clean air
and there’s the rub

our chimp brains love
and chimp arms seek hugs
but they must stay empty
at least
until the dust settles

On the whole kindness equals weakness thing,
I question any ****-nettle licking bulldog
who with merry abandon will slobber, chase and
bark bark bark at tired rabbits
to hide the bare patch where real ***** should be

Glorious, true strength comes from settling into
another’s shoes and sadness
and making both a little lighter
while still achieving arbitrary, stunted targets
set by dim witted stumps getting paid way too much

Little fingers picked
at cheap cardboard corners
and although the stories
never quite hit home,
there was wonder
in the tiny watercolour shepherds

Rest as a remedy,
forced to stay put,
instead of filling my head and feet with
a million next steps
and very necessary jobs and concerns,
I have to sit

the normal distractions
I covet in the pell-mell of things,
box sets, deep cuts, long reads, levelling up,
lose lustre fast
I glaze-stare at the fictional tree line
ticks trickling to tocks

From deep below I hear the slow plod
thudded footfalls of ‘those’ thoughts,
sensing a weakness in the barricades,
heaving down the drawbridge
usually bound firm by chains of daily grind,
LED light show and the world’s digital caterwaul

My busted foot has robbed my nimbleness,
unable to glance, sidestep or dance aside,
our eyes catch and fix,
like the titans of the twilight
their inexorable, gargantuan tread reaches me

I put up a pathetic wrestle
before I am pinned by the weight
long past the three count
frantically tapping on the mat
my morse SOS growing weak

Please Doc,
just give me a dose of elixir so they’ll retreat
and my broken *** will ride
a frivolous winged horse
back to safe and anxious ground

The loud yawn of time
when you are held tight
is petrifying

An indifference to your captivity
as nature sees to normalcy
reveals our fleshy entropy
as nothing more than energy
to wax and wane

Beached pebbles
on an infinite shore
to pretend more is orange ignorance

There is solace, I guess
in acceptance,
but our primal, primate arrogance
prevents much

The picture for ten mirrors my debut role:
Innkeeper.
Granted, a step up from shepherd
or heaven forbid, a cloud,
but in hindsight, lustily singing
about being an opportunistic
slum landlord
seems an artistic risk

Justified and ancient thoughts,
deeper than the current media,
as daft and important as thumbing a nose
at those who claim to know better

Much can be drawn in asking
“What time is love?”
or even doctoring the TARDIS.

Makes as much sense
as licking the wind in a pandemic,
I guess

This light,
amber edge of autumn,
kisses souls to forget
the once welcomed lethargic sweats of summer
and gently chides us to remember

woollen pullovers and happiness
in sharp cold breaths intaken,
exhaled as a fake sophisticate
puffing on a glamorous cigarette

As the year begins its sleep
our senses wake
to ask questions in the dark

Mary Beard’s on TV
discussing which art
could be suppressed,
never seen and placed
in secretum

The brash *******,
raw ****** ******,
Roman Charity
and priapic rampancy
does, I suppose, provoke thought.

My submission:
anything etched
by class 9Y,  Period 5 on a Friday

Take to the streets
and beat them with kindness,
club them with your decency,
ram home an ideology
to show that looking after our weakest
saves us all

hobble them with thumps
that scream
a little love goes a long way

that those that aren’t the same as you
in hue or shape or song,
if hearts are good,
belong in your world

cut them to the quick
with cameraderie
support and tolerance
destroy their unjust fears
and crush their tribalism

In cracking hard heads
the only death we’ll see
is a diseased past
which, unlike other countries
races or creeds,
needs to be lost and forgotten

Holding on to painful glories
costs more than the oxidised bronze
of an old man’s statue

The kite arrives and the others scatter:
a chatter of malignant magpies,
muscle bound gulls,
fat, idiot pigeons
and scheming, knifing jackdaws

Even together, they can’t thwart
the obsidian eye,
the span and solid beat of russet wings,
the kingpin

That tattered *******
they all fight over
is his

#redkite #forthebirds #life #living #humanity