To be a poet
is to recognise words
as knotted strings
they come twisted
coiled into bundles
which must be undone
with questing fingers
so that naked language sticks
waiting fresh and in the raw
to be joyously unraveled
that's what poetry is for

Just for today
I have cast off the cares of Winter
and tied them in a cloth of April green
I hid them on my hope shelf
where they cannot be seen

A soft warm wall

Keeps reality at bay

When cold winds blow

Wrap yourself away

Stop the breeze on your thoughts

Bringing new ideas

To much comfort contorts

We all need a little pain

A shower of rain

It makes  us reflective

Sweeps out dead leaves

And gives true perspective

Sparse
bronze brown heather
wet and tangled from the rain
beaten smooth
as is the rough ill tempered land
no gentle hand has brushed these clouds
of wind-whipped winter sky
reflected fish skin waves skim white
shallows in blue,
mourning deep among the painted grey
a solemn yet a not unpeaceful day
of drinking moorland streams
which river run
to feed the misty sheep strewn hills
all dappled winter appled green
and on and down through ancient peat
so black and rich and free
to the breeze bent grass at waters edge
which sings of you Lough Fee

The world is all connected

And now we are infected

Years ago it started small

With a phone in the hall

And it grew-who knew?

Through telegraph, telex, fax

They sharpened the axe, and fed the fire

The flames of our destruction

Grew ever higher

And of course we made the plane

Do I need to explain

How miles of copper wire

Has caused us to expire!

What do you do when you get to the top?

Do you take a breath and stop and frown

Pause and look at the long way down

Do you wonder how long

You can keep your crown

Before someone else

With their eye on the prize

Starts their climb

And begins to rise

It’s tough at the top

So enjoy the view

Before someone else

Gets up there too

Staking their claim

And removing you!

Good brown earth
cracks and folds and tips and tumbles
rolls and flips and slides and crumbles
moved in space by a tractors churning,
bitter specks of last year’s burning
buried deep in a seasons turning
where once the plough horse trod with grace
heavy feet at a slower pace
there lives a fertile planting space
of furrowed ridges, rips and rows
and the hop and hollow of taunting crows

Love me by candlelight
hide my inhibitions inside your expectations
cover us with a blanket of shadows
when the flame burns low let me go
we need not seek a truth that light may bring
let this be a transitory thing

You can try to capture the wind
trap the airy whistle of trees
or the fluting song of reeds on the river
yes you can try to tame the restless spirit of the breeze
but it will sulk
and sit silent in the jar
until you let it out again

The night sky was pierced
We watched leaking rain and stars
Wearing a tree hat

Beleaguered by an Autumn breeze
which shakes the tall September trees
to help them shed their coloured clothes
more naked every time it blows
twiggy fingers raised in the air
they dance around like they just don't care

The wind outside my window
is a lonely wayward soul
forever seeking company
searching around corners
whipping sand up into drifts
but the beach won’t play today
nor will the dark and boiling sea
or the marram grass, bent down and flat among the dunes
only the gulls with their wheeling cries
will try to hug the wind

Turnstone
Tumbled by the tide, over and over
Washed by rolling waves
Polished by the shifting sand
Dried out by the winter sun
That shiny pebble in your hand

I was a cutting
the empty shell
of what was always meant to flower
my somewhat withered roots
those tangled thorny barbs
were beaten,
crushed to powder
by the grinding heels
which pound life's highway
yet come the spring of middle age
I claimed the time anew,
and flourished strong
no longer swamped by rain
which fell upon my dusty head
it washed me from the drain
where life had placed my weary self
I found rebirth in lost but still familiar tracks
and a writer grew between the pavement cracks

Cool in the shadows
Tired day rests beneath the trees
Larks give way to owls

Faded sunset clouds
Waiting moon and infant stars
A subtle blending

Count up raindrops or snowflakes or tiny grains of sand,
way too many to hold in your hand
each one unique and perfect in its ubiquity

Unborn plans to which we aspire
broken daydreams piled ever higher
one day when we finally expire
they end up on our funeral pyre
a few lost hopes to fuel the fire!

Stand you on the cliff of uncertainty
all that is behind is done, what is there to come but air
let courage give you wings, to lift you up from dark despair
for nought is worse than standing still
and wondering on that bare accursed hill

A parcel from my Uncle Jim
could be short or tall or fat or thin
you never knew what lay within.

This one was large the paper thick
I'm sure at first I heard it tick
then it burped or I thought it did
there was something written on the lid.

My mother said we should take care
it could be anything in there
there was this noise, a sort of howl
like turkeys, followed by a growl

Out came streams of purple smoke
that smelled a bit like artichoke
it put out legs in yellow socks
right through the bottom of the box

Mum fetched her old and trusty broom
and then she chased it from the room
down the garden to the shed
then she leaned against the door and said

I'm having words with Uncle Jim
you never know when it comes from him!

People come
they bring mourning flowers
I don't know where the vases are
that was always your job
where did you put them
I cannot find them
not under the sink
or in the shed
they are lost
like you are
and I need them
because flowers are everywhere
and you are not

When I was young

I always wanted to ride on a Unicycle

Quirky

Eccentric

Slightly odd

A bit like me I thought

I never did it

I was too scared

Now I am old

I want to ride on a Unicycle

Quirky

Eccentric

Slightly odd

A bit like me

But braver

I think I'll do it!

A fjord of tears
waters land that now lies fallow
because of the land mines
beneath the soil and the waving flowers
that no-one dares to pick
beyond the wire
where a boot is slowly bleaching
that is the true meaning of a warcry!

Peaceful, I protest against this morning,
grey and wet and dull, not fit for larks
I demand a change
no, I command the sun to shine
rise and get you out of bed
and give us something else instead
I like this not
any decent summer day should start off fine
and then continue hot

On a blue black Monday when my eyes turned red
not a single word was left unsaid
as we left our marriage like an unmade bed
messy and tumbled like we had just woken
filled with things better left unspoken

An ant based society
may lack variety
they work to the beat
of six tiny feet
but they all get to eat
ants don't hold elections
that lead to insurrection
an ant inspired riot
would be extremely quiet

Fall soft you tranquil rain
clean the streets
embrace the light
condemn our cigarette scented night  
send him full in flight to the drain
wash this soiled and gum chewed world
remove a little of the stain

His headphones fit in ears
that haven’t listened for years
I spend most of my time
looking down at my phone
which is marginally better
than feeling alone
mass communication
has fulled our isolation
once love was a rocket
now we only connect
at the USB socket

Mysterious night
Soft and heavy with promise
A velvet hammer!

Sweet undercover night
silence has wrapped the world
in a velvet bag
so soft and heavy
it drinks the light
and makes a cocktail
of the moon and stars

Oh Vincent
if only you had known
the world would one day marvel
at your sunflowers
and those waving fields of grain
you left us
but they will remain
a part of you
the beating heart of you
the art of you
for your success was unforeseen
you left us
with what might have been

Virginia,
bathed in the misty Ouse
overcoat pockets filled with the hard grey stones of life
dark rocks to match the shadows
of the mountain heaped upon her back
until she could not bear the load
so she swam, and did not leave a forwarding address
or bring a towel and sandwiches for a picnic

Water for ink
stains my toes
biro blue
my ending written
casting words before me
gently bobbing
floating flowers
on the sea of self destruction
curled petals
which read
not yet

To amuse myself
I will dance with the mirror
pas de deux pour un

Your rock, the brick,
the stalwart mate you go to when the sky begins to fall,
who gives you tea and sympathy when you make that tearful call?
the questions begs an answer, who holds up the wall?

Wallop, then you hit me with a ten foot pole
love is supposed to be a gentle beautiful thing
not a sock to the jaw or a knuckle sandwich
what did you do to my heart you ******
kicked it into the gutter that's what
then you jumped up and down
and ran me over like a number nine bus
driven by a maniac
ok I give up
hands in the air and waving a white flag
I love you!

Twirl and sidestep

Sidestep twirl

A solemn dance

Over the abyss

Among the tins

And the discount bread

Partners weave

From afar

Marking endless time

In measured silence

A six feet waltz

Of the newly ******

Draw down the waning moon
hold back the gentle light of fading stars
take not their beauty
nor their shine to be extinguished one by one
I love you, let this night be never done

The Ice dogs are howling

Hear them roar

Loose on the wastelands

They mean war

Patrolling at the margins

Looking for an ‘in’

Listen to them calling

Let fighting begin

Scarred of greying muzzle

Torn and rent of ear

They sing throughout the ages

A song of blood and fear

The world will always listen

To their glory tales of  war

We invite them to come calling

As they raise an armoured paw

Then we watch our soldiers falling

As we always have before!

Driftwood hearts
together but apart
no big confrontation
a gentle separation
no rescue boat
we just float
water and sand
getting further from land