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Chris Slade Apr 18
Ted Slade • (my cousin)
Withernsea, Holderness, East Yorkshire

Last night the sea ripped the beach from its bed.
We heard the screams
but know too well not to interfere
in these family disputes.
In the morning we gathered to look,
ghouls at a death,
the sea at our feet, calm,
sated, gulls riding at anchor on it shoulders.

The meadow’s gone the same way,
yard by yard, year by year.
Now the house sways on the brink.
When he saw his rose bushes
scattered down the cliff, Jack cried.
Finally we moved out when
the garden shed was launched
one winter’s night.
Very Important Persons
brought their sympathies,
and went away nodding.
Perhaps we’ll become little islanders.
Though surely not.
... New Atlanteans at least.

Ted Slade • 1939-2004
From Ted's book 'The Last Arm Pointing'.
Lilyth Jan 1
So many asked me
how I coped over the years
some say it as a joke ‘how do you cope?’
a rhetorical question ‘I don’t know how you cope?’
some ask it as if they’ve know me for ages ‘how are you coping?’
some say it as if it was them going through it ‘I wouldn’t cope if I was you!’
some act as if they’ve been through it ‘I wouldn’t put up with it’
others don’t bother to ask
and then the rest when you try to tell them they don’t care
I haven’t ever got on with the word cope
and if it was a person I would meet it in a taxi pick it up go to a pub get it drunk and try my best to ‘accidentally leave it behind’  in a crowd of dancing virgins in a nightclub I’ve never been in before.
more often than not, a knightly surge
     combs a pawn me,
     especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,

     where bats in the belfry
     flap their wings at the speed
     of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house

     (which doubles asthma
     Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
     to economize on space,
     especially during tax time

     (as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
     me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
     idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom

     Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
     particularly speaking
     on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,

     particularly War between the States,
     where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben

a fit to this American
     Civil War Yankee incarnate,    
whose doodling word
     ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
Night Flyer Jun 2014
Rivers flow down towards the bay
And with them, lifetimes swept away
Of cobble stones and windswept sand
And legends of our native land
I walk alone down avenues
Of shifting sands and ocean hues
And faces from another time
From road to sandy bluffs, I climb
Down by the sea, the windy shore
Whispers their names, who are no more
Pale ghosts who wander by the sea
Up from the waves, they call to me
Of whalers, who for glory, yearned
And sailing ships that ne'er returned
Of sailors brave and lovely maids
To them, the ocean serenades
I sip my beer and hear a gull
Lost on these timeless streets of Hull.
Was looking through one of my notebooks and saw a poem that I had started last year after visiting Nantasket Beach in Hull, MA. After reading what I had, I thought it would be more effective as a rhymed poem. This is the result...

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