The ground bubbled  neath, February's  awakening
stoic crocuses stood water  deep,
so that capriciousness was revealed
The  fill *****  over flowed.
So  certain the path walked
she  wove aconites into  her  hair  
to unghost the prevailing snowdrops.
The  dogwood a resplendent beacon
vies to complete the cycle .

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

The  spotlight  is  on the  broken  coastline
porous - like  archers  spilling arrows
into  the vanquished hinterland.
In the ancient West  Mercia
wooden bridges collapse
uproar, as the King's regiments
long disbanded , ghosts
into fading memory.
Our  defenders, our  loyal subjects
enmeshed into the  wider  fear
our  citadels breached,
and where  is  the  valour
the self reliance of  our  septic isle?

Time for inroads
and watch me grow into a confession
to unhide.
There's room for you too,
grasping the infinity and movement
the gamble of the moon speaks,
luneria flowers to mark the winds cause
and learn words giving belief
wiser than us after all.

Who is amused?
there's primordial ivy clinging  on my brickwork
and an incident of blank verse at my poetry club,
possible unemployment rearing its head for moi.
Before my downsizing commences,
I've  been busy buying more CD's
but that's my contre jour
befittingly everybody else is into  iTunes,
I can only listen to myself,
even if music be the devils tune
I'll  soon be home for more,
burning fossil fuels willingly
of Mesohippus's and other three toes.

The thrush fly from up north
locomotives leave at 05.20 precisely,
they follow weeping  miners
with ballletic dreams
sipping  Burton ale.

You felt a Monster
when your Hamster Wolverine  died
Did that almost turn your head to Sylvia Plath
Yet you are decidedly amongst the living
and should never pilgrim with Mannequins
When Life's bedevilled by doubt
can your wise  friend find rhyme with you
perhaps to Scarborough and back again
on some weekend decider.

Coiled beneath a sleepers rafter,
atoning for the numbness
chosen, not felt.
I burn with a dark desire
to achieve an infinite satisfaction,
paraphrasing every minuscule sin
not fortified,
every schema variegated.

Versions of Faith in the City:
Food parcels Baptist Trinity Church
Post euphoric Olympics nation building
dashed by morally decrepit
Premiership  football  -
Obscenity chokes dumb defence.
A late Summer's surge,
harshly the un-starred
kick those generic dustbin lids
crumpled again.

Have you tasted jealously ?
its like a misshapen stomach
that swallowed jellied biros .
Are you lacking in choreography,
where your own walk
should be the more significant dance
rather than the musings of a foolscap fanatic.

I tried  to feed the  pigeons  with seed
at  the  end of  the  driveway,
not even a modicum was eat
unlike  my  friends  5  cultivated visitors.
Only  tonight  he is  watering his  Dahlias
and Sunflowers.
I casually forgot to  water my tub of  potatoes .
Energy and  priority
burns  with  this  capricious  summer.
and as  good as we think we are
its Brendan who
manages to surpass the conundrums
forever  your  plantsman and allotment stake- holder

across the canals we gallantly roamed
our engine horse drawn
the quilt of the bubolic defines us,
basking under hazy willow
the scattering of cowslip and orchids
purveyed through the bankside,
with the staggered moon
pacing our miidnight dreams
amongst croaking frogs
and the knowing water vole

You're a Street Map that has to be believed.
George Street 1975 then a jewel in everybody's  Crown, Mister K too.
Croydon had it all, the weekly Safeway shopping -
Grants , North End, Greyhound and L & H Cloake,
even a Manhattan skyline -
Shop girls  I was too young to know
a la W.H Smith's Whitgift Centre
with a surfeit of ready Queen  albums!
even the YMCA  
would have done Disco
B.T Express's "do it till your satisfied"
I believe,
and the always evergreen
Van Damme Bar.
The Tavern in the Town
fondly recalled.

the heirloom runcible spoon lies buried in  sand,
the tarzana kid has been accused of carelessness,
by such means
his holiday is horribly trampled,
this chided summer youth
now walks the plank,
its all pirates on the dorset coast.
Parents out of order
more bucaneer than relish
and Aunties only now kinder
by learned rote.

Headland and Flounders
drift alongside the edge
and what is excluded
bitter vetch, its famine vouch.
Life was then hewed
on a cusps of Moon,
their points return as
Libertines and Rakes.
Born from the same ideal
with choice to inform
and saddle the consequences.

I used to count the Acers
honed red striped wood,
offering hope in depths of February,
aeons of breakfast wishes
played changes that cannot be backed down
any more than my russet creations,
I long for companionship
as earthy as bottled Bordeaux ,
only if my crocus mia pathway
enfuses with the sound
of the incurious  contendedly arriving

When we had left the Seamans mission
lugging our suitcases,
Beeston seemed the best place to go
4.6 A.B.V  felt like pushing the boat,
but the fillies were feisty enough
to flog off our descendants
into the zeitgeist.

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.

She dreamed of the Mountains
beyond the historic oceanic driveway,
between the scorching morning sun and back again,
her illusions were rash and reckless in themselves.
Long Beach from the sea
suspected strangers
as tortured scions,
they will un-bridle your Yin-Yang
your mind is all that is left intact,
hands prosaic with lanolin washing
ablute  your American dreams

Waschrell with due care
only picked sweet Cicely,
he stood and stooped
with vintage candle luminance
matching each windowsill anew,
she could never flutter brazen like
the Painted Ladies,
a botany student
should have known better.

secrets about  secrets
imagine walking stark
unaware of streams
almost factual

There will always  be an Autumn spat
where the cat foils the dormouse
and the Annual taster chocolate box
arrives as nonchalant
as the  mysterious sender.
Sometimes I wish we were  boxing hares
to really celebrate an outlet for renewed anger.
Munching on my bagels, i feel a pang of Hypocrisy.
I run fickle,  planning out the chequered
season.

The  rivulet carries your dreams
as will the  cherry  blossom,
an eddy of  hope will  serenade
before a certain loss shorns your patience,
of  a  love lost
and to  realise  its only  channel is  a seashell
the  sound  before  the  rivulet
where  once  you  were the  liege
but  the  coarse fisherman's daughter
left with the  whittle of a voyage
can only  laugh at  the  serenity of  your  suggestion
the assumption behind  your  dream

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.

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.

The rain always comes from Wales
and the river tern flows fast,
we're told 1066 started it all
the Castle and promulgated plantation design
the rise and  fall
time and time again.

Augur well, on a left ward spirral.
I never meant to ignore
the residential Wren or lazy Cat,
who always knew better
than my list of dreams.
In the alleyway with dahlias,
I wanted to think as my own,
a perchance a symbol!
now there's sacks of pebble stone and sand,
no rub of green
builders mucking in for someone's joy to settle,
side gate entrance
into a little abode no longer possibly mine.

Joyous in her mind
a pinnacle of  cherishment
meadow seeds in sweet  abandon
laced with uncensored willingness
gives life her mound to build upon.

The dust plate plays havoc
its enough to unsound the light,
around the mountain top again.
Journeying south to balm the disappointment,
asked why and further marching down
the parade sees no end,
just a murmur.
A sigh left unsaid,
again stated it sounds different
as we echo to the Northern valleys,
where icicles lampoon our
uncovered heads.

Crème brulee, a careless mind,
singeing, burning albeit caramelized
like a politician never normalized,
crawfish should never be apologetic
there's an avaricious  food chain
in there somewhere,
gun shot without hardly knowing
right from wrong
conceal that  powder trail
dig down to Bayou.

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.

That watershed moment
when the eye goggles comes off,
is akin to winning the Burleigh Horse Trials
with the much coveted Trophy.
Meeting a Rambler as an equal
on an arduous fog clouded valley
along the Devil's Punchbowl,
or a French Phrase Book
that's almost perusal by nature,
under the Arc de Triomphe
How I long to be accomplished
as one of the few, rather than a
casual follower of Velleity .

My calico looks like the Lion of Judah
preamble her deftness with cooked chicken
and a sprinkling of lactose
Poor dear , perfect though she is
we all have our travails.
I am finding it hard to believe
age does not make her wary
in fact shes grows deeper into her role
A totem and a sustainer curled up in the one.

Bathed in fields of  hummingbirds
an elderdown of  spring  purveys
weaves nexus  to ancient stone walls
where tomorrow's wood elves
dressed in firestorm blue
wait
bequeathing  a  symphony  of  resistivity
a causeway plied with dreams to harvest,
wills the east winds high.

Memories of my  beautiful Summer
walks down Blendennis lane with
my Mother Brug, Aunts  Kate and Maggie
and my beloved  sheepdog  Shep.
The smell of the new mown hay
cornfields reaching maturity,
the whiff of wildflowers and heather everywhere,
breathtaking on a late summers evening.

Never to be experienced, anywhere in the World
Those were the bygone days, past the bog of bulrushes,
the cattle chewing their cuds in the fields beyond.
I wish my Shep could race and meet me  now
like he did on my  way home  from school
when I appeared at the white  spot in the  Lane.

False pride  tracks you like a  hologram
across  smudges  of  imperfection
you have  neither  friend  or  foe,
loneliness turns  your timetable.
Deadlier if  you  found another
with your  semblance,
negative  contact charged
will outlast the eons
further still.

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.

The gaze feels suited under reflection,
catfish know better
than the bullfrogs haranguing it alone -
Midnight's rupture
the star Edith blazed her Gospel voice
across the Phoenix Star,
those podagra Svengalis mill
perpetually serenading this their dollar sign,
due graciousness lasts as long as the
peyote nostrums
parfum de la maison

An auto dreamer indifferently  tastes the essence of green
quietly silent screens will then self seed
and the rains court memory,
are we all co-owners, longing
the freely given lichen.

The d'oeuvres are no longer being served,
and the spaghetti' with clam sauce
not so fetching,
over my white tuxedo.
The service is  inexplicably hurrying  
at the Cafe Rouge;
this gushing turnaround,
but with a  Gewurztraminer in the waiting,
has somehow has moved  me,
more than the curt  waitress Jeanne,
thankfully her imaginary grudges receding.

Muster and Roll
Imagine time and the continental plates merging
Trust in no one, Enkai or  Snake oil medicine shows.
Gumbo stew trumps the Serengeti ?
Wildebeest hording into the new territory
Manifest destinies assured.

The Orb is relying on remnant technology
they effortlessly jettison LCD's
to breach the black hole,
humankoids re-activate their birth circuitry
programmed to emote on Ringoo, Jhon,
yet they have dissipated the rest.
In a parallel universe optic nerves
will ruse carbon copies of George and Paul
and everybody will laugh nervously
at two systems so disproportionate
re-uniting the infinite.

He died with his boots on
but he was no hero of mine
he was the famous grouse
and hen pecked husband
of a cuckolded wife.
having made the stickleback and
jaundiced  Moon resolute .

Peter windowsill had a one track mind,
crystalline thoughts vexed him
a  suede  fringed woman had him smarting, but he's not the worrying kind.
Oh to be a Postman the best things come as future vermilion diaries
but birth mother's never recall their clams,
she's as attentive as a Cuckoo
sounding her new hatchling.
Peter window shop resounding
a chip off the old block

Withelds  and thiefdoms
link towards sequestration
unedifying the same way,
but  I hoist my  pride
carrying  the lessons from this  travail  
from someone else's  making.
I  relish  planning  some  deceit
by means  of
never  hurting a  fly.

the rugged light stumbles like a foal
the juxtaposition of choice plays
between right and wrong
I recall the cup of forthrightness
infringed inherently
with the sad lady,
for what was said
was not even fair yesterday.
Watch my shoreline sand prints ebb
and decide on forgiveness if you wish.

No more long stares
spent phenol syringes fresh on the streets,
barbiturated ruffians riddled,
denizens lost into this killing machine,
over dosed on Laudanum yesterday's ***** with temerity to spare,
turns tricks down
tomorrow someone laugh and high kick her,
those new Barista Gangsters , their marketing strategy
stretches the mind,
enough to **** a healthy Ox.
Lean close and hear
this requisitioned block is a pleasure dome
suitable for gilded beautification.