After the devastation came recuperation.
New shoots had sprung with alacrity
enough to establish a presence
in that walled garden,
contained to a strip
barely big enough for date and citrus
to thrive.

The neighbour waited twenty one seasons,
and with each season saw
young shoots
replacing the old.
Imaging a future
where grass might escape the confines
of concrete and sea

neighbour chose to start the mower,
move beyond boundaries,
and mow and mow and mow.
It's been twenty three days now
and still blades whirr
day and night
each hour inducing fresh rubble

to deter shoots, new seeds, hope.
The neighbour will retreat soon,
beyond the wall,
being temporarily satiated
with reek and wreckage,
knowing a day shall arise to return
for the fruits of the land.

Folded into this numb-husk of unknowing,
undeveloped eyes, wrapped by distressed skin,
continue to peer, unseeing, accustomed
as they now are, to a feed of distant

Telegenically Dead. These short lives have been
socially shared and mocked,
as morgues overflow to floor;
impromptu fans recirculating mournings hot air.

There is little chance for grief on Day 13;
rage has to be spent like a brass cartridge
or slung stone, or drowned in red pools
mixed with the water of collective driblets.

Meanwhile a politician says something else.

Sky hallucinates
a momentary purple;
silhouetting crowns
of the Sycamores hitherto
melded in tenebrous night.

Low-slung sun of October
caught and embraced those gathered,
on steps, hemmed by fountain,
and Victorian revived Roman.

There are statues amongst the passers-by,
rooted by makeshift placards
fashioned from discarded cardboard
with chalk marked ironies.

Tank girl, hair part shaven and
dyed flame red, is slender and strong
holds, 'This is a sign' on the reverse,
in bold print, it read FRAGILE.

Having skipped through fresh bloomings of
Lesser Celandine, feet numb to their shiny hearts;

one-foot-spanned the wild River Beal,
the other missed, trailed, became sodden.

Green eyes scanned, surveyed the horizon, with its path
to Gallows hill, so with one foot cold he ascended;

Tarmac pounded his heart, as words,
from god-knows-where, flushed synapses.

Perhaps it was the discord of former chains
ratting in the bleakness, crimes of dependencies

crying for release that swept his attention on the wind,
or a lapse into timeless genetics, coursing naturally.

He died up there, left a ghost on a former gibbet,
then descended to the Beal's banks of Yellow Flag Iris.

June 2014

Rake-thin Humble hoes subsistence soil
Planting green-topped onion bulbs,
Camino divides the field forcing Humble's Husband

To till distantly, he works slower, and is of bulbous girth,
A red Reebok shirt adorns his back whilst she
Wears the hand-me-downs her grandmother had worn.

Their house is built of stone like bone,
Ground-sewn and dug fresh centuries before,
No siestas punctuate their endeavors.

Passing pilgrims groan under weight of sack -
Whilst Humble counts the years before her bones
Are interned in preparation to shelter future generations.

Looking out of the window;
a ribbon of duck-egg-blue sky,
fringed by the sun's late light,
is sandwiched by grey cumulus.

It frames Sycamore tree tops,
red tiled pyramids with their expectant aerials
pointing West, littering clean lines.

It is a mute view;
serried bins wait for the mornings collection,
cars sit dumb, curbed,
their daily commute completed.

Two starlings flit, silent,
and in the far distance a high contrail is picked out
in gold as a thread in blue silk.

For five years this view remains changeably the same;
unspoilt by the entropy of new perspectives.
This is the summer of un-broadcast malcontents,
pacified in Brazilian spectacle. Days simmer here and there.

Soap operas filter through,
made to massage the message
of consume and discard, of holidays and pistons.

And in the mornings, that never come,
we abandon the cars that cannot diverge
from work-honed routes,
taking to the air from Sycamores as Starlings.

June 2014

In this hour of lead;
within walls that have
contained the seepage
of a families turbulence,
I swipe a light finger
over her former belongings,
leaving a trail in dust
to mark a temporary presence.

grey fleece matches skin;
reeks of stagnant tobacco,
ingested in fear

When you chose to un
pick the un you chose too to
ravel derstanding

What rotates the wheel?
Consider kinematics
And not kinetics
The axis is the still point
Rejoice in the revolving

the consequences
of opposing pressures have
inevitable
results; fire capped by ice
fallout, covers all in ash

(



  Blank Verse

    

    

)

Thought-fox slinks this night

nosing through the days *******

seeking substinance -

she spoke in a staccato

plenty of nouns and no paws.

That a difference exists is remarked upon,
voiced in the peripheral  stare
the quizzical arched brow
and so remains unremarkable itself
until  given the distinction of breath;
'Poetry is a bit heavy for the morning isn't it?'
The rhetoric is followed without pause by
lines from Spike that rhyme from tongue
as a ***** ballad might punctuate the air between
rounds of Stella. Whist I might despair
at constrained definitions there is a concurrency
of  acknowledgement with slight smile
at some appreciation of verse, a remark of difference.
I close a leaf and see the possibilities
of Sycamore and wordpecker.

It is in this space
Where thoughts can dance unconstrained
Of the concessions
To jealousy and stricture
Where tangos are passionate

So instinctively
A working class classicist
That his shopping lists,
Though composed as ottava
Rima's, always contained slang

Echoes, not retorts;
sound reverberates from walls
that constrain the singular,
curtailing the enthusiasms
gained from conversation;
increasingly concerns
remain unrequited
yet laughter repeats
reflecting mocking repetitions

It will be by TXT
That you will impart your worst,
At a safe distance,
Not from fear of violence -
Guilt is lighter without eyes

Compressed into this
Tiny space are the future
Boughs, leaves and flowers,
Random determinism,
Forrests from a single seed

Blink and you miss it
Time is a somnambulist,
Travelling without
Realisation of the
Destination or purpose

To-day we have dividing of parts. Yesterday,
We had arguing. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after separating. But to-day,
To-day we have dividing of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
     And to-day we have dividing of parts.

This is the book I was given. And this
Is a present from Aunty, whose use you will see,
When you have departed. To be shared with a new partner
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
     Which in your case you have not got.

This is the video, which is way outdated
But will play memories. You can do it quite easy
If you only read the manual. You can watch
Our daughter on the beach with the waves. The pages
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
     Any sentimental reminiscence.

And this you can see is the album. The purpose of which
Was to record our joys, as you see. The pages
Have not been filled since the advent of digital: you call this
Shameful neglect. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
     They call this shameful neglect.

They call this shameful neglect: it is perfectly easy
If you only read the manual: like the albums
And the tapes, and the pictures, and the shame
Which in your case you have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
     For to-day we have dividing of parts.

Tender Juliet;
To breathe such vows as lovers
use to swear, to meet
her new be-loved anywhere -
never tempering extremes

I still hear that voice
Telling anicdotes of zoo's
Of the pacing cat
Prior to reading Jaguar
Vowels as gruff as grit stone

Now the days dark ends
begin to stretch out giving
greenery room to
expand expending too the
suspension of flowers

Violent delights

Have violent ends so as

They kiss they consume

The sweetest loathsome honey

Confounding the appetite.

When civil blood makes

Civil hands unclean even

The affections of

Lovers makes for piteous

Continuance of blood rage

I breach the oak doors
Odiferous damp confronts
Mixes with incense
Serried box pews patiently
Wait for sermon or Larkin

This is a good time
To secrete bad news when the
Gaze of reporters
Is diverted; politics
Induces self interest.

there are no haunted places;
just people that are haunted
by their past and presences,
by their longing to hold
memories and perceptions
of those loved and dead,
hanging on to the comfort
to the pathos amidst the chaos
of grief and mourning,
as if retaining the empty hurt
will assist in refraining from
the departure of treasured  
thoughts, which is all that
remains, Pacman like
following, ready to pounce

a short sample of Vivaldi is looped
and played down the phone
whilst on hold for a crisis loan;
this quandary is not calmed
by strings and eventual voice
proffers no reassurance
that I will emerge from this Spring

I’m walking up hilltop, two men pass, one says,
'**** the French, they never have the bottle for a fight’.

To have got here they passed the old Cathedral.
Did they glimpse it as a relic - exploded by incendiary,
ostracised in dubiety, seen fit to feature
only in the focus and snap of foreign tourists?

It is two days before Ramadan. Tonight Tornados
will tear between the Euphrates and Tigris
to illuminate Babylon... live on CNN.

At the top of the hill I pause,
staring at stained glass fragments
still suspended in the apex of frames
and view snacking office workers,
seated upon the benches that have replaced the pews.

Light cracks open the comfort of somnolence,
Eyes are prised apart with Thought For The Day
As distributed by Pure DAB, words, in part,
Punctuate consciousness; something about foregiveness,
Some parable or other from some comfortable priest
Trying to be comforting to those
That will be work bound in short order,
That will be departing with a packed kiss
With their lunch. I throw off the double duvet
And try to distract thoughts from single-mindedly
Reiterating her recent cruelties, or from pondering
Upon my secluded anger which breaks my peace,
Hunger will dissipate this tendency as I crave to break my fast,
Consider the longs days stretch without hint of incentive.

the languid liquidity of linseed-eased pigment
as the bow of brush stroke sweeps a new hue
over the layer of vermilion,
this feel of silken resistance,
this quality of vividity,
this aroma that countless painters encounter
whilst abstracting sunflower or sunset
is what gives pleasure to my paint.

It was considered expedient
To change the unit of measure
To change scale,
To make redundant all
That could be wasted,
Naturally.

Internal communications
Will contrive suitable verbs
To conceal the brutality of profit
To provide surety as required
To the senior management team
As for the rest:

To those whose insecurities
Are relied upon, whose
Middles have expanded, aged
Receded, human resources
Will issue notice of packages
And opportunities of relocation.

The restructure will require
The recruitment of some
Of the hungry young;
Fresh graduates on the newly
Introduced basic scales.
What of your work you enquire?

Those value added strategies
Of differentiation
Of corporate responsibilities,
Family friendly policies?
In this age of austerity
Such approaches, old man,

Are as relevant as a hard drive,
Or hard copy, this is a cloud
Sourced post-crunch
Twitterverse we inhabit,
This is a time for new prospects
This is cloud cuckoo land.