She says she's hungry again,
but her lap tray gives her away.
Innocent rations remain.
Ignored by the mind astray.

She asks for the time of day,
but the clock stares back dismayed,
for the day, the month and the time
bear the guilt for the aging crime.

The future's guilt may be greater,
the unspoken final negator.
Not heard, not seen, not feared,
not blamed, not cheered.

In the time of the moon watch, fear
of tomorrow. Horizons close
down. Thoughts and images expand.
What if, where, why, how overcome.

We need to be together, hold
back our worst dreams. Talk becomes
our first line of defence. Pretence?
Other's stories help turn away
our real unreal fears and hopes.

Behind my camera their world carries on.
I focus on the narrow scene in front,
a smiling group, their eyes focussed beyond
my shoulders. I try to frame it tight.
They won't keep still for long from engaging
in the rythms they see beyond.

A never to be repeated moment,
heavily borne responsibility, not just a snap,
a future chance to look beyond reality.

What are they thinking? Oh, do get on!
Or, What on Earth is she wearing?

A picture triggers memories,
some warm, some forgotten.
But who was that at the back?
His name escapes me - a reminder
that memories may be blind.

You made it to the Top of the Pops.
What was it like to be idolized
- do you still savour the fame
- does it remain or fade?

'I am left with what I am,
needing to recognized myself
for what I am and always was.'
- But is nothing left of stardom?

'A star! A shooting star more like
that quickly falls to Earth
dazzling itself, burning away
its substance in the flames.'

Like a maestro on her rostrum
she waves her arms, conducting
a symphony of clouds and sun,
synchronizing showers with sleet and snow.

Or a white witch casting her spells
on Lakeland fells and Pendle Hill,
from Morecambe Bay to Liverpool,
where slave ghosts haunt the cotton coast,
from Merseyside to Manchester,
then chants she changes over Cheshire.

She weaves her isotherms and bars
through the warp and weft of our map,
wreathing those Western Approaches,
where siren sea nymphs shimmer.

All day it rained,
watching through the window, pained.
Children restless, stuck inside.
Nothing doing in this tide.

To the shops, join the queue.
All the drivers in a stew.
Parking chaos, anger raised,
deftly weaving through the crazed.

Money flowing like the rain.
Credit cards delay the pain.
Mac sales up, swimsuits down,
hunting bargains like a clown.

How was I in my prime?
Was I sublime or merely sub?
Did I impress or distress?
In my mumbling fumbling way,
did I go the extra mile?
Tell me why do you smile.

I'm passed unnoticed
I am driftwood beached blanched
til my final tide.

Haiku 2
I am seventeen
imposed as a three line whip
imaged as haiku.

Haiku 3
Blackbird bristling bold
chirping like an angry wife
did he do her wrong.

Haiku 4

Magpies skymasters
flying menacing moguls
casting long shadows.

He had his vision
wouldn't listen
Mother sad
Father angry

He despised advice
discounted the price
Mother sad
Father angry

Shunned his closest friends
wouldn't make amends
Mother sad
Father angry

Finally he went
all arguments spent
Mother and Father despondent.

Salt waves breaking on the seashore.
Their sound waves shaking our eardrums,
as we sat listening to his tales.
Even wise Canute couldn't hold back
the surging tides of myth.

We were beachcombers, picking up
the flotsam and jetsam of stories,
not history, his stories,
tutorials in delights and dangers.

We've since learned
his stories are truths.
They are myths
that helped us muddle through.

His wife and he, they tried to see
what differences they defended,
where calmness was the casualty
and tranquillity upended.

They struck them down, each in its turn
to please the other's whim,
until no fault was there to find,
and boredom settled in.

Market car parks all but empty.
Wind blown bags and wrappers plenty.
Windows mirror deep depression.
Wily whizz-kids lack discretion.

Hoardings, dulling, staining, tearing.
People facing lack of caring.
People scraping, scrounging, screaming.
People coping, calming, hoping

I've come to see Saint Christopher,
a cult local celebrity -
commanding, remote, bearing
the burden of pious prayers,
a chip from Cheshire's sandstone lip -
to hitch a lift on his shoulders
into Norton priory's past.

Gingerly touching sandstone walls,
connecting with their history,
rough grains adhere to my hand.
I somehow feel part of it now,
watching mediaeval hoodies
as they celebrate the spilling
of some ancient sacred blood.

Words that flame, words that shame.
Words! Words! Words!
Words we shouldn't use.
Words politicians choose.

Words that blame, always the same.
Belligerent words, ignorant words.
Words of beauty and of song.
Words the Saxons spoke,
or some Anglian bloke.
Welsh words, Celtic words.
Words from round the world.

Words recently known to few.
Words that Wordsworth knew.
All in Oxford's Dictionary,
even meanings lost in history.

He sang the people's songs
and faught the people's causes.
Others heard and blacked his name.
That was for him no badge of shame.

A five string banjo man,
folk singer, left winger,
he sang brave words in trying times,
striving to strengthen basic rights.

Pete Seeger died aged ninety-four
and left a heritage for man.
Asking us to Turn! Turn! Turn!
Urging us to overcome.

I think I'll populate this land
with menacing creatures,
others making mistakes,
vital dramas.
Perhaps there'll be a happy end.

At the end of a long walled garden,
where predators lie in wait,
there's a place for birds, a haven,
a table with food as bait.

Children frighten the birds away,
not meaning any harm,
but predators wait with charm as bait,
stalking children at play.

Unknown soldiers buried under headstones
- not known at this address.
Whetstones to sharpen our sympathies
for that brave, bare-***** generation.

Their photos fade at home. No resting
places document their faces.
Young innocents abroad in Fance
soon aged waiting for their deliverance.

He nodded to me when
I moved my silent lips.

Warmth in this cold dark garden of the dead.
Not our memorial but another's.

How many years ago?
No apology.
Now this tacit truce,
nearly as good as a pint,
when he nodded to me.

I'll just read the birthdays now.
Good gracious! Is he still alive?
It's getting late for fifty-eight.
I thought he'd taken his last bow.
How much more can he survive?

I see he's still on fifty-eight,
while she's now owning to forty-five.
What will tomorrow's lot contrive?

We're on the culture bus to Woburn.
Our teacher's got a sculpture crush.
He talks art to us and trusts we'll learn
to treasure beauty in artistic form.
We'll see the Three Graces, god like faces.
Fabulously fashioned in white marble.
We're not to focus on their private parts,
but concentrate on carefully crafted,
sensuous, sweeping, silky surfaces,
shaping youth beauty, mirth and elegance.

Smithy says you can safely stare.
Our girls giggle at our faces,
then blush when we compare.
Seems it's unfair. What's a boy to do?

Gone are the glory days of jam butties
when marmalade was shredded gold
and spam pretended to be ham
and plum jam tested for a cold.

The wireless was our window on the world.
The Weekly News and Guardian
gave local news, views and reviews.
Street chatter made stories that much fatter.

That world now reappears to me.
But in it I take no part.
No good, no bad, no clumsy me,
no touch, no sound, no sacred heart-to-heart.

His wife and he, they tried to see
what differences they defended.
Where calmness was the casualty
and tranquillity upended.

They struck them down, each in their turn
to please the other's whim,
until no fault was there to find,
and boredom settled in.

Be ready! I'm coming for you, he warned.
We shrank into the doorways,
watching, waiting for the clutch
of his dragon's claws, his rheumy eyes, eagle's beak.
It was just Old Joe, playing our game,
until they stopped him dead.

The number one of many mounds
in Suffolk's shrouded Sutton Hoo
is savage Raedwald's resting ground,
shipboard treasures the only crew.

His iron helmet and his sword,
his shield and spears and silver bowls,
rich remnants of his royal horde
declare dominion over souls.

Who would bury me with treasure?
No weapons, just my worldly goods,
my Sunday suit, not made to measure,
my poems, written just for pleasure.

Vast lists of names at cenotaphs
on crosses, in columns of newspapers,
inscribed by those who lived, for those
I never knew so can't remember.

Reduced to uniform remains,
some named 'Soldier of the Great War'.
A greatness in numbers lost,
lives wrecked - measures of excess.

November flags dip, bands march,
standing to mark with silence
violence done to those unknown to them.
Some lament more recent deaths.

The piety of war.

Guided by the stars,
a better life,
a safer life.
Their new world worth
the journey and its dangers
for their progeny.

We try to keep things as they are,
ruled by fallacies, and fears
of their strange languages,
faiths, mythologies.

Harsh voices shout with menaces,
'Send them home from whence they came
to their hollow caustic lands.
We should keep our own traditions,
Angles, Saxons, Celts and Jews.'

I always found you attractive,
since I first saw you in the schoolroom.
Cheerful friend, shining, finely moulded.
Later you climbed above my class.
I was shy, lacking nous.

Then we moved up - single-*** schools,
repressed when our feelings flexed.
Vexed with books, exams, homework,
competing for our chosen paths.

We work in neighbouring labs.
Please answer my lovelorn phone calls.
You're still my magnet,
and I'm your iron filings.

He said, 'Give me an hour or two.
There's a cafe round the corner.'

Friendly faces.
Instant coffee - black, no sugar.
Just sit and wait.
Or can I write.

Pen and paper cheap enough.
They don't sell inspiration.

Traffic rattling past.
Radio no help.

Thinking.
Time lost.
Time spent.
Time up at last.

He's gone - dead,
memory redefined.
What feelings will survive?
Who will remember?

Formal, frozen inexpressive
faces - relatives and friends,
people I've not seen for years.
Shuffling funeral shoes,
nervous, rehearsing things to say.

Others never seen before,
his networks seem intact,
mine now declined. Perhaps
I don't know he who goes there.
Pass friend.

They're telling us of dreadful acts
of ****** **** and pillage
countless callous brutal facts
defenceless desperate rage.

And so our allies intervene
to tear away the tyrants
and leave a gap for votes to fill
from those who live and have the will.

But many die from friendly fire
lit by furious righteous rage
while canny men conspire to score
see headlines on the city page.

I'm buying some new old CDs
to remind me of my old young days.
The time of the trad jazz revival
and the stranger shores of Joan Baez.

Tom Lehrer made chemical magic
and poisoned pigeons in the park.
He promised to go with us when we go,
when we half expected nuclear snow.

Those were the days my friend
that came to an end, but like our parents,
we still feel warmth in summer suns
tht glow in memory's furlough.

He had his vision,
wouldn't listen.
Mother sad,
father angry.

He despised advice.
Discounted the price.
Mother sad,
father angry.

Shunned his closest friends.
Wouldn't make amends.
Mother sad,
father angry.

Finally he went,
all arguments spent.
Mother and father despondent.

A shadow on next door's shed.
A life class in nature's art.
A starling's perfect form, no
human hand could imitate.

One quick dart and she has gone,
leaving my life as others have,
and I must contemplate my losses,
like stars crossing a silent gravestone.

An unwelcome shock to see them again,
their faces no longer a part of the place.
His memory oiled by how things were
back then, in nineteen hundred and when?

Existence now seems full of persistent
memories, though there are false ones too.
Does he rely to much on them for what to do?
When people tell him words that chime,
should he so readily comply?

Should he trust himself to think things true?
Use his knowledge or review his ideas?
Retry those memories beyond a reasonable doubt,
seek out the false ones, chuck them out?

Her good winter coat covers all.
Her thin frame fleshed in old fashion,
wearily wearing threads too small.
a sweet, silent, sombre passion.

Wheezing, short-stepping, unsteady,
a shadowy, sundry, proud soul.
No eyes meet hers. No neighbours nod.
Each vacant gaze defies delays.

She sallies forth but comes in last,
politely suppressing her past.
But she's been there, got the T-shirt.
It's in the wardrobe gathering dust.

Painfully perched on life's bare branch,
praying not to break the bough,
she's as snsible as they expect.
More sensitiive than they allow.

They're bright pink, so not bought for me.
Smooth surfaced petals curling back
like luxury tactile textiles.
Their shape defining shadows
paint a surface symmetry.
Trusting eager stems stretch upwards
but the ceiling sheds no sunlight.
It's March and these are summer roses.
Short stay visas, not cottage flowers.

A week later and there's wilting.
Petals like used tissues wrinkle,
silk dresses rustling to the floor.
Dark green leaves crumble to the touch.
Stilled life leaves fragrant memories.

At least five a day! Stop smoking!
Enough messages to fatten a
health  freak, sprinkling my consciousness
like drizzle pimpling a window pane.

On Dali time - I wander
a nightmare hall of mirrors.
My watch slow, slow - marching
past the appointment hour.

Incubating my ***** sample,
I watch a young man bending forward
like a scribe studying his text.
Someone silently mouthing
her missal or her shopping list.

Ping! Will William Shaw
please go to room five.
Back to the slow march.
Please let me be next.

Who may not talk must fight,
engage the diplomacy of guns,
though having supped the devils' ***,
we look on our works and despair.

Ideas have become principles
and our givens must be taken.
Vile words replace understanding
or mitigate our unfound trust.

Perhaps one should contemplate
or denounce our loss of grace
displacing belicose thoughts.

He nodded to me when
I moved my silent lips.

Not our memorial but another's.
Warmth in this cold dark garden of the dead.

How many years ago?
But no apology.
Now this tacit truce.
Nearly as good as a scotch,
when he nodded to me.

I saw him white haired, small bent.
There were pictures, Cheshire men,
comrades, serious, smiling, unsure.
His later trenches were for spuds.

On postcard he's crouched by a road,
grinning, rifle aimed at camera,
a shot of friendly fire from France bound home.

He didn't talk about the War,
except to say the food was good.
The youth grew into the uniform.
Gran said he came home mid blown.

Constables hay wain crossed
the Stour, wooden wheels creaking,
countryside colours clouded,
trees shrouded Flatford Mill.

Lowry's people were going to work,
guarded by furious chimneys,
darkness conductors, limbs aching.
Beneath the plumes short lives streamed,
inhabiting a rent collector's dreams.

Thin models for humanity
suffered Salford's acid rain
from satanic wage slave mills.

What should I write about this life?
Should I think in terms of strife?
When I write should I add gloss?
What should I leave as dross?

It can't have been a life of gloom.
He must have had a time of bloom.
Where others jibe, should I proclaim,
or blind myself to shame?

It's a kind of blindness,
never been there,
never seen there.
Not through my own eyes,
just in films and stills.

Even here I bring the blinds down
on native town and countryside.
Don't see what changes and what doesn't,
trying too much to cope with the present,
future and imagined virtual fights.

So what do others see? I can't use their eyes.
Can they be my spies? Can they infiltrate?
Can they secure my interests? Or are they
double agents for some other clandestine cause?

If we trust our peace to a peace maker
to whom or what do we trust our time?
Maybe it's a watch alarm or beeper
in work or play until our final chime.

Time may be measured even treasured
though never really saved or enslaved.
Now long now short now spent now pressured
sometimes borrowed bided always craved.

It has no substance but is the essence
whose tincture tipples us into truculence
perhaps some paranoid pretence
amidst much of irrelevance.

All people that on Earth do dwell
playing nukie, bound for hell.
Oh, what transports of delight
when the husbands start to fight

All people that on Earth do well
playing nukie bound for hell
oh what transports of delight
when the husbands start to fight.

We wait, not showing nerves for face,
betrayed by unnatural ways.
Quick glances, nods, prayers to gods,
a restless quiet descends on us.

Thoughts dominated, in distress,
no relief in brightly coloured walls,
A nervous joke, tense smiles pretend.
A name is called, one chosen, others stalled.

Trying thinking more hopefully,
but I'm sinking into reverie -
the doorway's open - no escape.

The interrior was dark and dusty,
a second-hand treasury for searchers.
Deeply breathing the particulate air,
I squeezed through to my secret back room.

Care of J.M. Dent and Everyman,
there for sixpence, at pocket money price,
an unexplored world could be had.
Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson.

They say we're in a money mess
their figures certainly impress
but who will pay their monstrous bill
now the bankers have had their fill.

It's not my battle but I must pay
I'm volunteered to save the day
they're cutting back on those we care for
the weak the sick - not those who have more.

There's nothing left for those in need
while fat cats scrounge with consummate greed
it's survival for the elitists
supported by the market's fleetest fleece-ests.