the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.

sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.

it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.

and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****.
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.

that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.

i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.



.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.

black mussels de-bearded, shine
water, yeast-beer, hops
combine enticingly with
ginger, chilli, lime
and much garlic.
simmer, then....
gorge!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

zeitgeist
yuppiedoms

xanthic
whatsits

vibrate
unabashedly

toot­hsome
salutations

requiring
qualifications

pernickety
officiald­om

nagging
malestroms

leaving
kindness

jaundiced
imoliated

**­rrendous
gargoyles

feign
empathy

disastrous
calamity

boodles
a­tonement

imagine if you will
a piece of handmade paper
heavy but fine grained

and upon the piece
of ivory coloured paper
delicate hues of green,
and blue,
placed in an abstract way
using water colour paints

the paper having been wet
no longer lays flat on the table
but undulates, with small hills
and valleys

and upon that piece of paper
artfully decorated
imagine some words, written
in a round and beautiful cursive
formed by an old fountain pen
the ink used, a deep purple
that has been softened by years
the words, are those of young love,

yet to be tested by time
yet to be tested by seperation
yet to be tested by loss


the paper is old now, set with
four creases from where it had
been folded and left within a book
of wordsworth...


on the front fold, the following
To Mary with much love Jack. 1915

and upon that piece of paper
handmade, delicately decorated
inscribed with love and hope,
the beginnings of a family rested.

if poetry were more like money
would it be greater
if there was no desperation
to experience or see
would poetry not be
just like blancmange or porridge
sustaining but oh so bland
if there where no joy
no love, anger, jealousy
bland, bland, bland.
poetry is a currency
or the open heart and mind
so lets us spend, and write
the spice of life....

cold air sifts through
the window, to climb
my unprotected spine

last night's storm
still drips erractically
from gutters and leaves

I turn to you seeking
warmth and passion
only to find empty sheets
and a lingering scent
of sandalwood.

rising to dance
on a cold wooden floor
I seek you out...

finding you, pyjamified
in the garden, checking
your babies.....
for storm damage.

I put the kettle on
and await your report...

Autumn has arrived.

words fall
like hapless fledglings
tossed from a cliff edged nest

with much screeching, squawking,
countless feathers lost

and then an awful thump
or hopeful, glorious flight

first love is tachycardiac love
all adrenaline, sweating palms
and stutter-stumbling sqeakings,
ungainly gropings,
when not with you, mopings
unrealistic hopings
for happy ever after endings,
breakings, bendings,
awkward mendings,
repeated leavings,
repented lovings.
heartfelt givings,
of broken hearted rendings.
lendings,
of time stolen from life
tearing, teasing,
tantalising teamings
crying, begging,
pleading strife
and then,
the metaphorical knife
cutting, slashing,
wordblow bashing,
screaming, reaming,
end to loves life.

til eventually, words fall,
like old birds leavings
to settle, unremarked upon
at the base of the tree of life.

first love's loss, is slow dying.
arrhythmia to flatline
in a multitude of laboured breaths
and long lingering sighs.
a loss of warmth,
from breast and thighs
and water copious,
falling from red rimed eyes.
sobbing, murmuring,
don't know whys?
from lips turned
toward,
bleakset skies.
as one settles firmly,
into black dog muck
no longer able to give a f▼ck.
tucked in tight to sadness,
lost all sight of former gladness,
caught up and shackled tight,
to the badness
around and around,
the carousel goes.

then,
at last,
the blessed silence,
as you die
one of many of....
                    life's little deaths

Easter Saturday morn, turned out to be wet and forlorn
no matter the weather we're  cosy n' warm, together
Two sleeping felines intertwined twitching
                                                       ­                tails n' noses
One Nan, with knee rug, knitting bag full
                                                                ­        of wool n'lollies

One Mama baking up treats, whilst,
                                                            sing­ing bad operettas.

Then there's me and my Da,
                                                  creating a blanket castle
A mighty fort of fabric n' cushions, chairs n' tables

No other place I'd rather be this soggy, rainy day.
I am a forteener.... and a forteener I will stay.

when the world was flat
and we were few,
we looked at stars
and made them gods

to help explain the difficult truths,
to give us some measure of understanding to those concepts
to large to be held within our hands.
to find beauty in desperate times
to watch over us...

now the world is round
and we are many
most can no longer see the stars
we look to the internet to explain truth
and concepts seem to be shrinking,
to the size of a tablet screen.
times are becoming more desperate
and we watch each other...

yet the stars are there still.
behind the smog,
beyond the city lights
they hold their sentinels gaze
their beauty is undiminished.

they,for the most part are
still enigmatic, a mystery,
to be unfolded.
and we,
for all our advancement
and trappings
are still looking up....
seeking but not truly finding.