Immunity from prosecution
does not give you absolution

Blood within my skin
liver pluck and lights
appendix to beating heart,
every part, wants you
needs you to know
I am ready for us to begin,
it is only my tongue
a restless useless thing
which cannot tell you so

Poems are not toothpaste,
you cannot squeeze another from the tube at will,
bend the ends of words for one last drop,
inspiration comes in waves
and when it wants to do so, it will stop,
you cannot pick a constant crop,
there are times when the field lies fallow
hiding seeds which may or may not grow
if and when they flower
that is not for us to know,
poets feed on what they find
the harvest of a fertile mind

If I could
Then I would kiss your green and living lips with words
take the notes of garden birds and wrap myself in song
bend the trees and bid them do my written will,
caress your honeyed stones to better hear thy whispered tune,
held within my grateful arms from thatch to cobbled floor
safe inside your ancient door and mullioned charms
I need no more

Unwritten lines upon a pristine page
waiting for a hand to bid them speak,
muted wings of tawny hunting owls
swift soft and to feed a midnight beak,
a peal of screaming bells
which have no tongues to sing
is this silence, waiting to be filled
or is a nothing held within these things

Mangy balding dog of a night
poor and patchy thing
of wretched countenance
scratching,
chasing dreams around the basket,
you made my head an insect
one of your hopping fleas,
a buzzing nameless fly
which skims the conscious pond
but fearful of the darkness never dives too deep,
a restless twitching larvae, counting pointless sheep

A house upon my shoulders
with a garden for the mind,
an address the earthly body
could never hope to find

There are tulips in the gutter
perfect blooms,
destined for dinner with a friend,
they were meant for the table
but alas she was unable to attend

What is left,
what remains
beyond pain at my leaving
as memories fade
at the end of your grieving
when the tide in which you wade
is not so cold and not so deep
what then my love
which memories will you keep,
the echo of my voice
wrapped in memory,
pressed in a book
will you take a look
but not too hard,
don’t stay too long,
remember me fondly
when I am gone
then take down my picture
and carry on

Roll up roll up
put down your pennies
see the man who thinks he is Napoleon,
watch the lunatic dance on the White House lawn
laugh at his crazy utterings,
sitting on his throne with a plunger for a mace
and a toilet paper crown
isn’t it time we took him down, and removed him from display
gave him his meds and tucked him away in some secure place,
a safe and comfy padded space
for the good of everyone get him off show
the King of Bedlam has to go

I want to unplug
sever all connection
I’m long overdue
for a period of reflection,
time to spring clean
dust my mental shelf,
remove all the cobwebs
and try to find myself

One life,
one light to shine in our allotted hour
a single strutting chance upon the stage
a single line writ large upon the page,
a chance to love, to live, to give
and what is more,
one entrance and one exit, no encore

A day escaped,
released from the sticky womb of night
held firm in the arms of midwife morning
listen to its infant cries,
the wails of a newborn child unfed
demanding of your bed and sleepy scant attention,
it matters not that you turn your back and try to block your ears
to tears of open-window traffic rage
and screaming gulls that dance on bins with shoes of lead
invade your head and work themselves within
to violate your peace with a surgeons skill,
phone alarm vibrating shrill and shaking
leaking decibels that penetrate each waking fibre of your skin
you know you must begin, attend that fractious babe
fill its hungry mouth to stop the bawling
lured as ever by the bathroom light
Thursday screams, and you her faithful moth come crawling

They applauded the president
those with no hands stamped their feet
those with no feet clapped their hands,
and the president smiled his crocodile smile
because he hadn't fought for his country
and he still had hands and feet
but he had no heart
not even a painted purple one!

The world and all its many fingered thumbs
has me by the throat
tugging hard at the wire
gripping tight it cuts, sharp at the prospect of another hour
until I do not know if flesh is bone,
bone is flesh,
or some thing in-between,
all is pain, and pain is all
lightning in a head that is filled to the lips with rags and straw
raw alight and burning bright, although I wish it were not so
I want it dim to let me sleep,
let me hide in dull-thought darkness
calm beneath the leafy shedding midnight trees
with their echoed mindless hum
and owls, there are always owls
screeching brutes of talon tinted wings
that eat the other flying things that haunt my night
and I can only lay
and wait for morning light

Find your place,
a thinking space
you can call your own,
inside your mind
it’s important to find
a private zone,
where you can be you
and first in the queue,
for good mental health
take some time for yourself

**** you thieving gulls,
bold and noisy bandits of the air
you will not still my thoughts,
I need to sit on a shiny plastic chair
scrape the legs across a bumpy concrete floor,
drink a cup of steaming words,
lose then find myself within the oceans roar,
come foaming water take me
wash my head
fold me and remake me
send me tumbling to the beach
to roll and scrape along the sand
throw my worries out of reach
snack on them for just a little while
swallowed whole by heaving marram grass
trapped within your ever shifting smile

Robin, butterfly, chaffinch calls
wisteria climbs on ancient walls,
magnolia, daffodil, snowdrop scramble
carrion crows parade and amble,
in the garden near the maze
early spring brings warmer days

Poem potatoes,
I cannot dig them out
or present them at table
for the admiration of my greedy fellows,
the soil of me is raw just now
word tubers withered and sour
wrinkled old men faces survey me
with their squinted many sprouted eyes
and defy me to do better,
or produce a mealy crop of no particular flavour
a bitter harvest,
best to leave things fallow then
rest my growing ground
and see what fills the bucket next time round

Sea winds throw each care
take each heavy form and toss it in the air like it was light
give me brief respite from all that weighs me down,
send it soaring out of sight beyond my knowing
set my mental laundry blowing, and refresh my head,
far too much is laying in the middle of my bed
and piled upon the floor,
open all my windows, wedge the dusty door
and pin the shutters to the side
dear ocean fling them, sling them from me far and wide

Pallid sea all rolling smooth
milked of colour by a dying sun
brings hope before darkness
and peace before sleep,
wends its greasy way in silence
spreading slow it pools
sticky in its countenance
licks the beach with a tongue of glass
and ends a day that has come to pass

When you go
you take a piece of me,
and yet I am complete
more replete than I have ever been,
a fuller person than the one you would have known or seen,
I am myself, at last,
no longer victim to our complicated past,
and as we part of course there will be sorrow
for you it ends
for me I will step forward to tomorrow

Once in spring
on a day without words
when the sky was filled with singing birds
every moth every dragonfly, wasp and bee
roamed though a world that was wild and free,
amid queer plants and evolving flowers
they spent productive and happy hours
until the time when humanity came
we ******* it all up
and it’s such a ****** shame

Sixty suns have shone their light upon my freckled face
sixty years have bathed me with their time and infinite grace,
sixty falls and winters on a planet slowly turning
sixty springs and summers have forged me in the burning,
sixty poems times sixty more the authors of my learning

All power is fleeting, none of it will last
look at the dictators we have buried in the past,
those excutive orders will be shredded and torn
burning in a heap, upon the White House lawn,
America will rise, after you have gone
your name will be a curse, when its soul goes marching on,
images smashed, tinted rubble for foundation
trodden in the mud of a bruised but recovering nation

Windows out,
touched by time’s cruel mouth
nibbling smoke blackened corners,
wheezing gently
whittled roof long gone,
bound by tangled thread
drawn from the looms it held,
past is present, present is past
forever intertwined
memories lost, unheard stories
former glories
very rarely brought to mind

Rough wind on my lips
but no words will stay
I think my poem blew away

Scented change perfumes the breeze
nesting birds fill the trees,
warming earth turns the plough
winter makes his final bow
the pulse of spring is quickening now

The year has turned,
time to plough and plant and sow,
on what seemed dead and lifeless
just a week or two ago
all manner of things have begun to grow,
a spectacle, a carnival, a riotous sight
a free-fall jump to returning light,
the showiest of mummers,
a costumed cavalcade
flowering minstrels
a harlequinade,
life as we should live it,
a wild abandoned dance
nature will lead us if we give her half a chance

The sound of busy wings in flight
sweet song in mellow April light
carried on an early breeze
which shakes the limbs of new leaved trees,
pleasure after winter’s sting
a simple yet essential thing
we could not start the season
without the birds in spring

We have this need to know
what makes a river run
or whips the wind to blow,
what lies beyond the stars
and makes the flowers grow,
we investigate our world
from the sky
to the seas below,
mankind in all its ferocity
has an insatiable curiosity,
we are bright and questioning creatures
one of few redeeming features

We will not walk again
eat or drink or laugh,
love or **** or sleep or cry
it is the end
when we say goodbye,
all that we were
or could have been is gone
only memory carries on

Ploughed fields
stark after rain
standing proud, brown and plain,
this year's crop will be planted soon
on corrugated paper
in the steamy water vapour
of a spring afternoon

So dies the day
In chilly silence with a promise broken
falling night, drinks the light
and pulls the curtains on our words unspoken

Secrets never aired,
have painfully awoken,
although we dance on questions
hitherto unspoken,
the trust that once we shared,
is vandalised and broken,

Spring tide
deep and wide
sweeping clean
the beach where winter once was seen

Spring it’s great to see you
so glad you came my dear
it hardly seems a moment
since you were here last year,
we’ve had enough of grey skies
slush and wind and snow
if winter keeps you talking
say you have to go

Bellbird,
purple cloaked
soaked, in sweetly echoed tones,
these days you are rarely heard
above the din of mobile phones

Torpid sea, of stone cold blue
and grizzled leather gray,
It looks like you can’t be bothered
to rise from where you lay,
if you won’t make an effort
I’m not prepared to stay,
now get out of bed stop moping
and send some waves my way,

Harsh is the morning,
its promise still unspoken
a sea of toothpaste white
scrubs a beach not fully woken

I cannot drink you,
or eat until I reach my fill,
I cannot savour every rise and hill,
consume each circling bird that drifts in flight
or charge my glass with graceful morning light,
I can only hold you,
fold you as a memory to keep and put away,
and promise that with luck I may return one day

Milford Sound,
how can I hope to chain you
contain you with a word,
captured like a beetle on a card
for other souls to marvel and to see,
that’s patently absurd
how could pen or brush or eye
portray the loveliness of thee

Where on earth did you come from
what on earth have you seen
so many things have happened
since you were young and green
flowing seas have washed you
smooth on a foreign shore
what places did you visit
when will you see some more

I cannot paint a sky of blue or verdant leaves of green,
the shapes of plants and flowered heads
are pleasures left unseen,
I cannot draw or sketch in place
a glorious mountain scene,
this path is closed
but I have words
to show where I have been

Waving sails in red and white
catch the breeze and early light,
shiny rich men's toys of the ocean
dance in lazy undular motion

Spoilt and pampered season
indulged and petulant spring,
please don't pout and drag your heels
we need the light you bring,
the birds and bees are waiting
so could you make a start
be a dear, stop sulking
it's time you played your part

If I were to end it,
pull the cord and douse the cabin lights for good,
it would be here at the high bluff
salt tang in my hair blowing free to the lighthouse
the blue blue gem of the sea below
this is what I want, if I should ever choose to go
It does not mean I will
just that I might like it to be so

*Such a Beautiful Place

After the rain
during the silence that follows
in that cool calm moment
when sodden the earth retreats
and all is still around your feet
where there is no time,
just space
a thinking place to listen
the cicadas of memory start to sing

I shall not come this way again,
I cannot hope to travel on the time I borrow
so I shall seize the chances given me today
and cast away the worries of tomorrow

Leaden angry sky, why wear a sombre suit
dyed lantern grey to match the ocean’s roar
a shredded howling wind completes the set
it stings and sings a siren song outside my door,
be off, be off with you I say
go find a better attitude and temper
I do not like the mood you bring today