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.

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.

I watch her and know my friend's Cat has a soul
why greet me and chase away the strays ?
Go figure out the unity, it last
and you will realise
there's instinctual maturity,
the pride of her groom
the health regime of cat grass
prawns auto reckoning !
the decision that Rock N Roll
is a tacky tail, is gracious,
her class suitably ignores
associated man made discordance

Now on this wintry July,
Azoth doffed his Mercury rimmed hat,
despite copious icicles and barnacles abound
he sought those down and outs
read various sizes of shell embossed Bibles,
and realised they were partaking their past sins,
the World a navigable circumference
much ado like a carousel.

The thickets of time
come rain or shine,
scratch the best of years,
old man looking on
do you still count the cricket scores
in your sleep ?
with jumpers  for wickets,
and  blackberries  down country lanes.
Navel looking down
the vastness of your now waist line,
a mark of  your captaincy
receipts of your labour
dangling like a butchers overall.
In your limelight  your broadened smile
releases a relinquished accent
that you could never quite forgive.


.

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

Ad nauseum, a kick to the head.

twined like bristle on ordinance days
but not quite as mystical.
Where are we going
and what have we cast,
responsibilty  came yodelling
by torrents
and plainly unsettled withdtew
to her plot.

Theres a victim acting
only in her curves has she sufficed.
The wrong man with fists
his avowed promise
you couldn't live without him,
despite being the third  party
th­e other woman you remain -
so across the Atlantic
barricading your dreams
acting for the first time with perfection
but the baggage  returns
the beaten path,
your  bed of self  destruction.

It's late in the day
standing by, Awareness drifts by
like stones carried in shoes.
Comments too few, to carry conviction
walks in sand  like a neon thought,
relics of crystallised leaves parade
an eerie silence that dealt time.
Only fortuitous believers became others
that sleep ordinary in this path.

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.

Lavina beckons but can never go out to play
on void days her Mother escorts her,
red ribbons in her hair
and lace to impart her complicit purity
oh Mother what  have we jointly planned?

She unaware, acceded to the invitation
his deeds would haunt her,
a restaurant and laughter
an  after kiss followed by her gnawing  expectation.
internalised, fear of commitment.
She in turn absolved  lingering impressions,
where bare stone walls only cherish
the wherewithal to survive future loneliness undetected.

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.

The wind chilled the dead pigeons
the chimney had long been dormant,
if they had lain elsewhere
their beaks would carried the seeds of change,
yet the graded storeys were never condemned
as long as the Portland stone cladding
was not too evasive,
growls from under the porridge table 
by the occasioned Ginger
spared these absurd notions

Huevos Cabreaos
followed by an Americano,
taking respite from those morning Lowry figurines with their bon bon shopping priorities.
A Puerto Rican girl has just passed the La Tasca informal interview
and is immediately hugged by her awaiting friends,
life is so fast and we all think like wikipaedia, fragments of momentary knowledge ,
even the menu here has a photographic memory lock,
outside a Big Issue seller makes his first sale
the broadest Lancashire accent,
can soothe somebody's day,
here is the reality of listening too.

The copious shambles of rocks
waylaid the roadside,
by the time we saw the  Beaufort castle walls
it was easy to see it as a mirror
of its surroundings,
a cannonade of angry words
miscued with shots of Peace.
This belated excursion
was like an erstwhile  trumpet
for phosphorus clouds
and driven rain shrapnel
had attempted to ebonize the landscape,
our luggage with best intent was smoking
by the derelict Vichy bolt hole.

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

Do they value  quietude
as we do?
passing through their cul de sac
with the same red blood causing through
our veins ?
The cold stone buildings are arcane
clematis seemingly  choking.them.
A wider sentence permeates.
The nightingale squabbles with the swallow
and all is not as same it seems.
How peace was wished for
but the inhabitants  are loathed  to admit
an underlining struggle re emerges.

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.

Alchemy beckons
I once saw him scribing pollen on bat's wings.
having long strolled the  flattened earth
to capture mischiefs wonder,
wading through patented spell books
he obsessed on Death Cap Mushrooms as a panacea.
Once he levitated a Friesian
for no greater nocturnal purpose
than to mock the knowing Moon.
I had long sensed it was in his power to grief
stranger's dreams
but his ensconce was that of an Artist
rather than the Master of  Misrule.

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.

You don't look a day older than bad manners
Remember to let people off the Train first.
Old fashion common sense has gone,
we are generating our everyday Cleopatra
where the private  is as imperative  as the  public persona ,
unbeknown nail polish is on a reconnaissance mission
for  blase solvent effects,
and as for Gentleman  I cannot think of a
suitable Mass observation survey yet,
but if i did,
there wouldn't be enough Stradivarius volins to avail.
Note too how bus drivers aren't generally slow
and bicyclists are veering militant
driving instructors take chances through the red  lights,
city life is
not necessarily construed as a public safety issue,
but everything  is considered less relevant
in the pursuit of balanced manners.

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.

Unfathomable as ever
dark ships lampoon
the sin that boughed

The false Autumn when the leafs shed
like your sleeveless bridal gown,
in a cooler than expected September
that gave you goose bumps
and I imagined like a rumour
you had a tattoo of some past love.
For when I said I do
the past should be a spent,
bereft of decayed leafs and longings.
We have our own pinnacle to the stars,
an unspoken trust
and no false reasons
to be other than who we are.

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

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.

A tarnished trumpeter never redeems
future joy's subtllety
the limelight challenge casts yesterdays myrth,
as an an old man cries
for the lost passages of his never written diary,
as the ceiling of his dreams unrepaired
quivers by  dusks lament

She cared enough to buy him
apples in the rain.
Mena his jasmine,
the love of yesterday
repaid by images of simple snow

In New Brighton,
in the Wirral they gently laugh at
anyone who thinks the Beatles
could be bettered
Still to this day I think
The Big Three's " Some other Guy"
was the better version.
In Stoke, dear Staffordshire
they apportion YMCA mentors
to the homeless teenage kids
who haven't yet navigated
the logistical hub of the new Potteries,
yet can only dream of open spaces
where weeds will flourish
Trentham Gardens being  one.
Each of us would agree
there's a nuance in self preservation,
only recently carried to extremes by the vitriolic
of the late Summer Riots
whose fiefdom cry
"preponderant re-distribution"
turned England over.

He garbled encouragement
just to hide his depression
second eye, he seemed to understand
the absence of genuine care

at the artists room gazing
she imagines she is a model.
I feel for her insecurity
with mousy curls
and mascara inexpertly applied
Her green scarf at times almost
tugs at her throat
as if it had a will of its own
almost pressing what's your problem,
but exactly what is this notional problem?
torn between a wish to blend in
and cover oneself in the shade
envisaging prying eyes and bruising hands
the intended model drew a blank
she could be her own steeley person

Announce your atlier  
and water colour for me there ,
rest alongside clear streams,
and liffting off  those willows
from azure skies,
also blot those prying cormorants,
shade translusence with your deft touch
tantalizingly visualizing
if its autumn or winter
you wish to attest
your art to.

Usually acerbic Moyra's banner
read "Stop the Rain".
The cultured Men blushed
at this Brunettes moment, 
a clear case of mis-direction
" Speakers's Corner" to blame,
too many seasonal Svengalis !

The Coalition floated to the top
surely they are not as talented.
Political stealth shuns the warmth
but even with a slice of toast
its our Winter indoor's
I can hardly believe the cheapest energy tariff
won't congeal us soiled people
promises made by this peculiar hue.

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 shafts of phosphorus hit the jagged barricades  
no sense was made from the order
seven by seven deep
flanks of men
was not a tidy sum
their exhaustion was pliable
the order cut like a  knife
by the mornings crescendo
the stark landscape exhibited
the remnants of the infantryman
was plan to observe
they had hardly set foot from base

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

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

My Sister Annabel
wore a button hole Anemone,
reflecting a broken heart
Sometimes trellises harness
country abounds
where the Land owner promises
wealth and company
and instead finds himself a scullery maid
where the Mastiffs in another life
may have been the commonable.

She came unburdened
with gentle meadowsweet
drifting amongst the arbour
the paeans noted.

The moonlight  fills  its scope,
grounded as we are,
we could  never  intentionally die
although  hives abide by us
their sting is not inevitable,
Are they the ghosts of honeycombe?
only having been
offered a brief nectar sauce
These fears are all inflammable,
yet speak of  the wisdom untouched
by  jealousy.

Better duck the Stuka dive bombers
if you want to still paint like Rothko.
I can no more steal your last breath
than exhibit prostrate in your sky,
we all have our crosses to bear
but I am confidently on a fool's errant
searching another thoroughbred obligation
with my paraplastic factory vision,
currently stranded in Haifa
night goggles on!

boundless neverhood pockets
the lost crumbs
of comfort too often,
servitudes discordant words
quivers by termitys  foil.

Letters rustled through rustic byways
Time began to  find refuge
Snagged dislocation then broke at the seams
Houses toppled ,
Easily operated
Super deep blue highways
punctuated the purification.

Tip toe in a mordant night
having slipped on an Amaryllis's mantle piece
There's a compliment
buried in there somewhere !