The  living windowsill  heaves in shyness
dappled moon flowers readily indolent,
Saint Joan alone shone in salient hope.
Ambient light peculiarly treads on others' footsteps,
as reticent prays find tearfulness enough
to make the Angels  cry,
egress only,
until we've drunk our Peace.

The lotus fields charge
misbegotten fortune,
your whisper on this cold night
steers towards the dark pavilion
the one you left for, three years ago.
I could never hail your return
weeping alone would bestow order,
a  long stare circles myriads of thoughts.

I am pausing just for the now
the passing Moon scoops its urgency,
plaiting  silver shadows
through my blinds.
Closing my eyes
thoughts of her,
are like re-arranging furniture
as if someone was walking upstairs.
I know she would have accepted me
because I offer no excuses.

Push and Punt
I wander where you are heading,
punching above your weight?
Sometimes resolvent
with a leathered face
where's the forgiveness?
like a two way mirror
it stretches  both ways,
culpability I hear you opine,
when you kick the germane tin can,
if you had known the source
of your ails,
you'd have less of the turbulence

Snowflakes and  livid.

Pick me up in the passing Winter.
Snow threatened, train timetables
bidding for curtailment.
The past shone resolute
Health and Safety was a by-line
but today's invidious un-motivation
has its own Cellophane steering wheel
to pace  our growing passivity.

A winter simpleton
haunched wind free
brash the toiling pressures.

You never have to be a flower again
or play those kettle drums, Sheba
bygone from sleeves, dalliances worn.

You're naive
like a chiselled wood cut,
worse still you're all alone
the rage has worn through,
autumn shades flicker
eyesore,
you rub your occasional disbelief,
childlike glances dim further
the available light
retorting again.

The High Street at first was marked
with Charity Shops forever in lieu
came the Pound Shops.
Old Brands stayed with us
but in turn the internet compounded the decline
perhaps cyber shopping is akin to playing pong,
the familiars, like a fire-storm evaporated,
music, bookshops, photography
whose to know the next stage?
but I bet the inner city will be hamlets
of chiefdoms,
Gertrude the concrete cow
adorned with Golden paint
and urban Cowboys
duelling in Midnight Charades

1978 Liebfraumilch on the road to definition
with Joanna,
she danced in 1971, un shy with fringed  mini skirt
to yet  indeterminate  future carousels,
but the years have button holed her
executive responsibilities
glass ceiling you see,
but there's always the possibility
that without the drink she'll smile discretely
parfait

Thorny theories, swan songs
to ask but once
Anita Bryant , a  Southern librarian
swam Bathing suit
in the algae deemed
the origin of mankind,
betrothed or otherwise
whispered the newly keeper of the Fauna.

Barricades and Floundering
drift alongside the edge
and what is specifically excluded?
cantankerous vetch,
its bitter wiles.
Life rough-hewn
on a cusps of Moon,
whose dust return as
Libertines and Rakes
Born from the same lumière
with moral relativism to confound
and saddle such consequences.

"Footnotes" she publicly said the personality shorn,
both from my poem and the club,
the camaraderie I had expected as foregone, now unmerited
and the role trodden, had died.
C'est la guerre.

There is a brisk  discountenance
in an angry Mother's Moon
for their bespoke Sons onwards,
they snap their beaks,
pea size humanity,
resurface  buried adrenaline
from hockey days,
inwardly angry at their profligate fertility.
Its enough to de merit the spirit,
then store
a prosaic promise
that when older
their *** is marked for attention,
a discourteous tail chasing.
A mark of a indoctrinated Son.

A Galax of blossom
the woodland garden,
Solomons seal and Euphorbia too.
Cinderella
a melt down of lavender blue.
A walkway abode of enchantment.

A garden shade
Munstead White
a pocket full of delight
by means of useful musings

I became aware of my own solitude
a crestfallen fool,
there being no further care shown.
A pie dish that did not even rank a second thought,
cankerous I ought to think.
Maybe if I just snake around, then preen;
somebody get their just desserts.
Forget that, I was gooseberry to my best friend Marilyn
but alas the bloke was insincere,
it was a waste of her time.

Down Tempest Lane
I wish they could turn off the search lights.
Smoke and mirrors interloping
back at the Copters
through the blinds,
blades weeping in symphonic sympathy,
before the Pantyhose and Plunge bras peel off,
some of us can get it on for real.
Others' frigid halves
fake it, like blades of grass,
who is the real snake
the appointed shooter or liar ?

Give a little bit of my Shangri La
back to me.
Lets recall the 99p Scotch best at JD Weatherspoons,
revisiting  Bradford by National Express
because we saw  "Bob Sue and Rita too" on Channel 4
and on a whim had to have
B&B; down Manning Lane.
Let's see tea shops show civic pride
serving a strong Bergamont.
No queue jumping,
spitting or cussing in the streets.
Lets not be afraid to care,
and go back to the early 1990s
on the cusp of the Premiership
to see  Notts County verses Luton Town.
Their six pointer
with an overturned milk float to presage the desperation
and long before the aerobic  internet entertained us.
Funded Public libraries
venturing openings on Sunday's
and thank Steg from
Scorpion records at High Wycombe,
grateful for all those post restantes.

The best of dying is
nil by mouth
morphine the last delirium then
laid out to rest,
he ain't the big hitter  now.
Stella the shirtless got meaner
down by Cirrhosis avenue.
King's for the Christmas duration
profaning in Erse
we all thought he was an Englishman.
The leaking mercury fillings
or Toxoplasmosis Cat dishes
should have made him more paranoiac,
the statute of a Man
unprotected.

Peas in a pod muster.
Incubators already have inchoated
second best is not an option
From their little Red Houses
carrying the hopes of the World
albeit 95% Pass failure.
They always knew
45 KG's was never enough,
they have a capacity to even out thought thought,
professed middle class values,
iconoclastic Red double-deckers and love of the Bard,
there are no standard institutions
because like the last batch
spatial awareness
assumes their worth as peerless.

You're peering out for Sunshine
a cascade like yellow Dust falls.
The cavities will fill in time, enough for a Stadium.
The Pro-biotic yoghurt in your Duffel bag
is no longer ship shape,
a green mould from somewhere else is seeping.
I swear something has to give.
Your only defence a Swiss Army knife,
somehow  speckless from your childhood draw.
Later the Night sky begins to crackle
like you knew before.
Your only thought Mary
the local dental hygienist you fell in love for.

They are cutting staff at the Lido too.
A job seemingly important
and only now in hindsight  not quite good enough.
Beaten by a 4-4-2 team -
by formation swimmers I suppose.

The burden in my Heart
is also for our good Name.
I always knew they would close down the shop.
The City Guilds sweeping shadows.
A man in a Trilby hat dot's what's left of our pride,
he plays fickle to our once Emporbium,
sanguine like dishes of indisposition
should bicker with the hand sewn purple curtains,
like a sacrament permitted just that once
at the time the betrayal turned cold.

No sound, no affirmation
we are treading splinters
thumbing a pile of yellowing books.
Ash shaken
so we emerge
resolution at the knell.
Moorhens then flew from the eaves
a blessing in disguise.

A knock back, a kick back
it all sounds the same
somewhere the tiredness settled in
like creaking wood,
there was no firm floor
just a ledge, peering,
no Sister in arms
to show her Mother's strength,
just a rudimentary Boy
drifting into survival mode,
a Mudlark dredging in the Thames
with no brass jug
just a porous defense

I wonder if she can chalk her hollow face
Sometimes her plumage wrangles in indisposition
Like Cormorants lacking buoyancy with  a sea breeze

Late Saturday night's forever epigrammatic.
I am always cleaning up.
I am tired of wasting my life with you.
I want real love,
not to treated like a fool
or being kicked around
like a lamb's wool cushion.

What has happened to our Croydon?
Where is Allders and the Warehouse Theatre?
even our Market is disappearing!
do you think you can tell,
when you stopped being our town?
Don't  put us in line
with Norbury.

Tate and Lyle, Mrs Beeton
and now attitude.

Ad nauseum, a kick to the head.

Flat roofs and ivied.

Fine legged Samantha held my hand
emerging from her shell,
buttermilk from Safeway's
matching her milk skin,
then a stroll to buy a camera.
Being that intentional,
she only wanted a semi automatic,
a shutter priority to capture my widening smiles.
I was  fully into manual
to capture both
her occasional wiles
and throw of tousled hair.
With slide film
we walked to Lloyds Park
Camelot of the possible,
as though Manhattan peered
from the east.
Clearly the days before
the Summer drought,
our slides captured well preserved images
lasting into time.

Wood Pigeons make perfect sense,
when they scatter through my hair,
sometimes the image is wavered,
but there's a certain glow of pride
that enfolds within this short life.
For my best laid plans
I'll re-thatch my roof,
to shelter my bantams
lulled into the truism
of the gilded cage.

Just enough thread to hang yourself
an itch that lasted the mischief,
the justice of a blank stare
gives through.

2010 you say laughed at you
mini calendars still hanker
and sometimes come back stronger
no matter how wrong at the time

I wonder how far his shadow crosses
the stop line?
to rev it up a beat
in high Parenthesis,
further than the dirt tracks
towards the flinted road,
indeed to be freer than that.

all she gives is second place,
but does hungrier make you better?
her cheek bones porcelain,
like contemplation,
without frontiers.
oh to be a truculent fork.

Theo pushed further
than the usual merry go round,
hungering for lucre
a pound sign today and clarity afterwards,
breathalyized for sanity
supporters parched by their
concession,
his club outbids on wanted;
a journeyman for a quarter
of the repress.

I have harnessed a gold star, quite by chance
but its paltry in its achievement,
mea culpa and the expected rest,
please no aspersions
upgrading is now unsourced.

More solemn than Winter
is your August
sometimes the seashells
spoke of kinder climes
but August is a wicked month,
you have matched your red hair season,
like hued revelry
they await to be tasted your vibrant lips.

You tasted marzipan on her lips
but you wanted the steadfast of  Marchepan,
a fuller denser taste
already the deceit ran through your veins.
The Night keepers have  moments
with their concubines,
and there lay the rub.
Your betrothed only smiled
in half uncertainty.

The Grapes you feasted on
swelled your eyes,
receding hopes
chasten powers,
having played with grief
to shore some unrequited resentment
you withdrew.
The beast of envy has scorned sanity
to  improve his venture.

Mix and match,
northern soul playing.
Paul OG's dansette selection seamlessly threads
the vinyl,
Yvonne Baker - You Didn't Say a Word,
the distant sound of a
visper
frays reality.

There's a ghost in your cabin.
Messrs Johstone and Blanch
were hang in the snow lands,
but i am not bound
older than birch
heavens no longer favoured,
familiar yet strange
a certain askance necessitates in advance,
for any half truth confessed
beyond words.