Men seek to test their metal,
heading for the sea, exploring
experience's distant depths,
plunder from the sea.

Different dangers from onshore.
Diffferent challenges. Naked
and adaptable, learning
ruthless lessons, chancing the main.

Someone must suffer to sate
strong will, greed and power lust.
Assuagement doesn't outlast
the pressure of furious rages.

We fear the hand of a ****** or
a Stalin, perhaps some passionate
servant of a cruel god. So we
fight to the death of the innocent.

They come in their hundreds of thousands,
floating magic carpets over our seas,
drowning, crawling up cruel sands,
bringing raw life, fuelling unease.

Salt for our wounds.
Tonic for our lethargies,
exorcizing the liturgy of myths.
Earth's orary grinds on.

They're making cuts
The office shuts
The workshop's still
There's time to ****.

What shall I do
With nothing due
I'll start again
But how and when.

Forget me not
You're all I've got
We'll see it through
If you'll be true.

Documentary on fast forward,
lacking commentary, towns flash by
Coronation Street domestic dramas,
ordered rank and file urban pedantries.

Perhaps like one of those old westerns,
where they wound the scenery past
a mock-up stagecoach interrior,
so that's where all the porters went.

Rolling landscapes, seascapes, mile on mile,
stiles and paths and telegraph poles,
rain fraying skies and foaming sea,
criss-cross links and creaking carriages.

Slowing down, a shuddering stop,
stiffened limbs begin to flop,
stiffened brains still travel dizzy,
busy station, platform tizzy.

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.

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.

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.

'You're frowning', she said.
'It can't be that bad.
I switch thoughts, creating
plausible lies, hiding
protecting regrets.

Things done, never undone,
left to sink in the silt
of the best forgotten,
growing  into islands of debt.

'You're frowning,' she said.
'It can't be that bad.'
He switched thoughts, creating
plausible lies, hiding,
protecting regrets.

Things done, never undone
left to sink in the silt
of the best forgotten
growing into islands of debt.

We're weary and wet,
trowelling through the muck,
looking for ancient bones,
cold as skeletons.

The earth gives up its ***** old men,
bequeathing their remains -
bog people, trog people,
pongy gaping gob people -
most likely Angles and Saxons.

At least they have their own ***** old women,
and don't try to rattle our women's bones.

Are those tiny strands really me?
They say each set is unique
but no one is anonymous
like an inherited trace book.

I carry my history with me.
No wonder I'm overweight
celt viking or anglo-saxon
or two out of three a cross breed.

I even passed this burden to my kids
left slivers all over the place
though I was always told to tidy up.

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.

A short eight line poem
promise of things unsaid
or complete in its simplicity
stretching my imagination.

Do I read between the lines
try to search the poet's thoughts?
I cannot help but sour my own
sown like weeds among his vines.

Column by column the legions' feet
march disciplined down Watling Street,
followed by rumbling carts and grumbling
stragglers leaving villas crumbling.

To Rome to save the imperial home,
making Britain an enterprise zone
for Saxons, Vikings, Celts and Angles,
savage battles and local wrangles.

Weeds weave tapestry around a tomb.
Dust encrusts a silent Roman room.
Mosaics stare at the rotted roof.
Painted plaster falls, jigsaw proof.

Perhaps when shopping centres fail,
and motor cars no more prevail,
when wattle homes are reinvented,
then thinking time will be augmented.

From glistening streamlet stones
the sparkling sun life river
ripples with ephemeral gems,
priceless, richer than diamonds.

Unavailable to the banker's vault.
Unmeasurable by the carat.
Free to anyone who cares to look.
Frames memories of lovers' smiles.

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?

I'm always losing things.
I specialize in keys,
but lost my leather gloves,
moaned, groaned, bought a new pair.
Wife says, she'll string them round my neck,
found the others below stairs.

Scarves and handkerchieves,
problematic, stocked up,
can't find them now.
She can't believe it.
Vexed, she says,
'You'll lose your marbles next'.

Like feeding birds alert for movement,
we watch the flickering images,
distracted by sounds, voices, music,
taking flight from raw deal reality.

It's the images that move our minds,
not the pain, despair, lack of care.
We crave the shock, the resus, shaking
the bordom from our souls. Life's victims
might exchange given the chance to compare.

She's down and all on board are lost
in a country full of hate.
Unnamed bodies lie and rot,
victims of collateral shame.

Like blackbirds pulling worms from lawns,
they pick possessions over,
voiding evidence, spoiling, looting,
while dead voices scream dishonour.

The freedom to fight for your side
or just to fight another tribe.
Fingers pointing, picking fault,
while expert pickers are deterred.
Newsmen gather every word.

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 rhythms 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 of 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.

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.

My wife wears the sandals.
I never could. Must wear socks.
She says, No socks with sandals.
It's just not done! Sorry, don't
see myself with scented candles,
wispy beard smoking ***.
No disregards, it's just not my lot.

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.

Incomer and native,
crowned princes of Orkney arts,
the two communed together
with wind, wave and wilderness.

Their works kindled many hearts
conjured festivals of Island
arts, tragic St. Magnus Opera,
Fairwell to Stromness, poetry,
newsprint and novels.

George Mackay Brown's words,
Peter Maxwell Davies' music,
they left us their works,
left wind, wave and wilderness.

He found it difficult to sustain
correct connected feelings. Not that
he didn't sympathize or feel sad,
remember better days, blame impatience.

Still he knew he had to behave well,
do the right things, say the right things.
A little quiet gentle humour
might break the tension, but the ones
left behind, those who were close
had to be spared. The dead never cared.

Would he have felt like them? Perhaps.
Normal life becomes unreal, closed
down empty, far from the glittering eye,
smothered, for some never to be recovered.
He was a stranger at the funeral feast.

There it stands modelling a fine coat of dust
covering the rim chips that cheapen it.
This vase stood for more than I can understand.
In earthenware fashioned from English clay
by English hands, but unfashionable now
a small squat *** of Dalton blue and brown.
Two necklaces of tiny beads clasp its neck
like corsets holding open its cornet mouth.
But we no longer hear its tunes or read its runes.

When I hold it in my hands I see Great Grandma's room
with highland cattle in a Scottish mountain scene.
The long-case clock of fear and fascination
where mother was threatened with incarceration
but never ******. Its rustic case reached down
to Earth's grim brimstone and fiery domains.
'There,' Mother said, 'lie Grandma's tortured remains.'

A small speck in a spectacular church.
I seek some smaller, simpler works.
A green man worms through wooden leaves,
struggling for freedom from nature.

Blank eyes return my straining stare.
Sharp sculptings scratch my cautious touch.
Brooding, symbolic soul,
nightmare archetype,
stalker of the psyche.

Nature greedily grips the green man,
growing through gaping eyes and nose,
reaching for modern eco-man,
who disputes to his final throes.

Some sit turning handles,
minds lit by candles.
But do their arc lamps flash
when freed from making cash.

While some are wriggling, book worming,
their minds inflamed, brightly burning.
The difference, some time to think,
nature's race or nurture's link.

Alone on this dark wet flagstone
hiding not hibernating place
no hedge to hug no worms to dig
stunned torchlit searchlight target
awaiting attack from hostiles
spine chilling prying naturephiles.

It glows warm on her breast, polished
symbol of her life attachments,
subtly marking loving passion,
needing no flashing sparkling zest.

Once the scent of ancient pine,
gooey, enticing insect trap,
transluscent shroud for their remains,
since washed ashore between those
sheer, crumbling, shortbread cliffs.

They swarm around their polyglot guide
trying to catch her savoured words
to match her stories with their myths
and the histories of Old England.

Here painted living statues pose
frozen til some money's paid
like mercenary seaside slot machines.

No place for the camera shy
no space for passers-by
no peace for older eyes
who seek their place in winter's light.

Competing for chores, staying indoors,
rationing fresh air, the lonely despair,
managing the food stocks, watching the clocks,
we're in it together, inhumane tether.

News depressiing, rigid rules,
people are dying, NHS trying,
carting them off, telltale dry cough,
too many dangerous, dissenting fools.

We only met upon the page,
different experiences, different lives,
fleeting sightings of him on the screen,
saddened when he finally died.

His 'squat pen' still digs into my mind,
mining for a common ore,
sharing feelings raw and ripe
of kindness, cruelty, death and life.

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.

Newton, Shakespeare and Lady Day
on the shoulders of giants I totter
science technology and poetry
politics media and philosophy
layer on layer of ideology
collide like matter and antimatter.
Rules from school and infancy
loyalty influence and love.
You ask me what makes me tick.
The clock ticks. My watch ticks.
I quietly wonder - tick, tick, tick.

'Coming, ready or not.' Now I'm prepared,
watching, waiting, hyperventilating,
hiding by the back yard gate.
Should I peep or close my eyes,
pretend a ghostly disguise.

Cold rough brick won't build my life.
Pete formed attachments, made them pay
and called the tune until the day
when bricks collapsed, crushing his disguise.

Here they come to seek a symbol
of seaside sun - a cruise ship
castaway, beached,rain stained,
landlubbers hamock and griddle.

But first they collapse me and curse me.
Doing it properly should be
part of their curriculum vitae,
a test of nationality.

Then I'm candy flossed, ice creamed, Blackpool
rocked, salted and crisped, generally stuffed,
while they lie back, roast and relax.
Good job it's not a nudist beach.

A light tea before her reading
so I can focus on her words
seek out their meaning
refrain her rhythms
define her rhymes
listen for her killer lines.
A music too rich to revise.

'I'll see that plate clean,' she said,
'Or I'll send you straight to bed.'
Liver and onions lie in wait,
two choices up for debate.

'I won't hear a word till you've finished.'
It lay there still undiminished.
It's cold, unfit to eat, congealed,
and nowhere can it be concealed.

'You should have thought of that before.'
When I grow up I'll eat no more
of that cabbage, liver - lousy crud.
Give me sweets and crisps, perhaps rice pud'.

She should have thrown it in the bin.
Now I'm stuck, a locust for my sin.
I must eat all, my waists expanding.
Though Mother's gone, her ghost's demanding.

The arts and the sciences
the sciences and the arts
the arts of the sciences
and the sciences of the arts
competing in their parts
yet cohabiting in our hearts

This is my own Ming vase.
I love it, treasure it.
I really don't know why.

It's odd and old, never to be sold,
cold to my touch, and stands aloof,
my only precious piece.

I'll never see another,
and dare not even try
for fear that I'll lose my loving eye.

We say it's work, but hardly
in progress. Nothing changes
except ourselves, filing regrets
that we must watch wait and record.

We write as best we can,
not knowing why our words
come out portraying
misery, mystery and hope.

It is said that poets are born,
not made, but we are made
when someone reads our work.

Waves of flames playing the end of pier,
defying choking smoke. Starring in
a dramatic end of show, the ghosts
of bright theatre lights and magic nights.

Last chance performance before the
blackened bones of my childhood stand
empty as salty seaside shells.

Some tell me Blackpool's cool,
so I sit in the cool,
watching a darkening sky,
wrapped against the onshore breeze,
stifling a day's end sigh.

Starlings do maths in the sky,
imaginary numbers,
imaginative paths,
sweeping, forming swarming,
hereditary helix,
genetic genuflection.

1
I'll try something new
can't even say number ten
Ugh never again

#2
Spahetti easy
don't understand the others
Oh dear down my shirt

#3
Mainly cold dishes
How about soup of the day
lovely gazpacho

#4
Iced tapwater, please
taking care of the pennies
after lunch Rennies.

A small nest in a large sea,
the beat of the blades keeps
time for those still alive,
whose desperate waves
defy tide timetables.

The camera zooms in on
anguished faces and still ones.
We lean forward screened from pain,
listening to the death count,
time and time and time again.

I keep hearing the voices
the magical mystery voices
singing for joy and for sadness
of Dai Bread's three in a bed
of Rosie Probert , Duck Lane - dead
of Miss Myfanwys washing line
of those alive and those dead
who visit privately instead.

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.

She's missing, they're sure of it now.
They thought it strange no one called,
not a word, not a sight, not a sound.
We fear for her, missing overnight.

They're searching, asking questions now.
Locals helping, no one sleeping.
No word yet, family weeping.
Headline news, tension rising.

It seems like a week has passed by.
Police announce an arrest,
unspoken ******* fears.
Volunteers asked to stand down.
Missing, she'll always be missing.