"cardiff" poems
The marchers make their way today
through town to Cardiff Bay
with whistles, shouts and banners up
for sweet old Mary Jane
they're marching for her freedom
all ages, colours, creeds
have come in joyful spirits
to help us free the ****
The rich, the poor, the movers and shakers
the blowback kings and part-time partakers
the rollers, the tokers, the bongers and such
the teenage goth stoners who've had way too much
skin up as they march while making their point
and meet up with new friends while sharing a joint.
Then down at the bay side
when the bands start to play
they'll **** in the sunshine
till the end of the day.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
I
I am in Cardiff
Where foams pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am in Cardiff
Where the Pilot Star became a conch
I was in the ruse of age
Where the young kiss
I was in Joshua Tree
Where the mind is thoughtless
I am a grove's wilting
I will be an unbearable urge
And I am shivering in Santa Ana near Bristol and 1st
II
There is intent when the addict mutters --
Estranged in his unhappy gutters --
"Life is cheap and love is free."
Hopelessness's epitome
Sits naked beyond the wall.
There is derision in the dealer's call --
Osmium-heat in an unimpeded fall --
"You can't change who you are."
Greed could tear down a star
To sculpt into a Cardiff shell.
Warrant breeds within a child's yell.
III
I am in Cardiff
Where foams pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am in Cardiff
Where the Pilot Star became a conch
I was in the ruse of age
Where the young kiss
I was in Joshua Tree
Where the mind is thoughtless
I am a grove's wilting
I will be an unbearable urge
And I am shivering in Santa Ana near Bristol and 1st
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
The play is written to be staged in a pub or a large cave like yurt in Cardiff. Its action and dialogue provides characterisation, with sound and lighting being used to establish context. The setting a darkened pub corner that is modelled on The Bunch of Grapes in Pontypridd. There are only 6 characters, five speak in haiku-ed verse with the exception of the Drunk who acts as my 'Greek Chorus'.
- Hand-in-hand she enters to **** her thumb in a corner
- Chocolate ice cream soda demanded from Daddy
- Joking banter ceased slowly as the regulars all begin to quaff their brown pints
“Balll uut eass swept -
Chimrrrrr, Chiirriica,
war is never won”
- Church quiet, the village pub listened lips clamped tears swelling
“ ***** cut swapped with eyes -
Chimerica, Chimerica,
war is never won”
- The cornered hero of two Afghanistan tours is seen regressing into childhood**
The set darkens slowly then after 30 seconds a spotlit conversation in lines and stanzas begins.
Haiku and tanka that inspired the coming play include:
*********** -
thoughts sought, taught and wrought,
testosterones
Fighting aggressive games,
Afghanistan camouflage
Globalism and War -
cloned greedy conspiracy,
that third tower
Titled selfish-self-grandiose,
deliver warring terror
Springs cut Irises -
dripping vital red not purple,
far from my window*
.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
the working girl approached him
a busy cardiff pub
stockings and suspenders
gave his leg a rub
hundred quid, i'm yours tonight
whatever you desire
heart beat like a big bass drum
his calvin kliens on fire
could not believe his fortune
what a stroke of luck
so he made her paint his house
and clean his ***** truck
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 6:44 AM UTC
I
I am in Cardiff,
Where waves pummel the jetty
I am in Cardiff,
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
I am nowhere
II
Where the sun severs the street and
Slowly, methodically,
They come, they come.
Electrifyingly stupefied in the dawn,
Tenantry not bound to cause and
Helpless as marred lead in the wind,
Stuck to strata and
Battered under **** pale-green
Thinned on spread fingers.
III
There is intent when the addict mutters ---
Alienated in his nettled gutters ---
"Life is cheap and love is free."
Hopelessness's epitome
Sits naked beyond the wall.
IV
And I am in Cardiff,
Where waves pummel the jetty
And I am in Cardiff,
Where crab skeletons blanch the beach
And I am nowhere
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
I've never been to China
I almost went to France,
I missed a flight to Russia once
I only missed by chance
Rome's intoxicating
The air there is sublime
But, I've never been there either
I just didn't have the time
I missed a train to Scotland
Bypassed Wales, and well Why Not?
There's nothing there in Cardiff
Other countries haven't got
I thought about the islands
Bui I do not like the sun
So I thought about a cruse ship
Still, I've never been on one
Alaska, has the mountains
forests wide and big brown bears
But as you can imagine
I've also not been there
I thought about Hawaii
but I never made that trip
I thought about the hula
And I thought I'd hurt my hip
I booked a flight to Cairo
Never went as you could guess
Saw a story on the news one day
And Jesus, what a mess
The pyramids had scaffolding
The place was full of sand
So I stayed home and watched telly
And then that trip was canned
I've never been to Ireland
or Cuba or Ceylon
And at the rate I'm going
It won't be long before their gone
I've thought about the Norway fjords
and lovely Swedish parks
but I've heard that all their fjords are filled
With big man eating sjarks!
I've never been most anyplace
I ever set to go
I'm not sure why I stayed here
I really do not know
Next week I have a trip planned
I'm not going to Spain
And then a fortnight after
I'm not going again!
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
It can’t be TOO hard- being a duck that is.
My stomach growled watching a tot feeding a duck in the castle garden,
then my famished gears started turning.
Right. That’d be nice- I could go for some bread and a swim.
Ducks don’t even have to work for food- not these ducks
-they get fed.
I have to shop for bread,
and that’s not the half of it.
First I have to get to the bread,
which means risking it in my tired van
or sitting on a bus with a perfect smelly stranger
or pushing my luck crossing a bustling street.
And then, if I’m not way-laid…BREAD!
But I can’t just stuff it down my gullet,
and sure as day nobody’s gonna feed it to me.
The worst that can happen to a duck
eating bread
is getting its head wet…or choking on fruitcake.
Just when I was feeling particularly underprivileged
on the food chain,
I thought of my great grandfather
and his wooden decoy duck bobs
still sitting on my hearth back in Indiana,
and I thought of the dogs he used to chase the felled birds
and I thought of the bullets and the sharp October air, and the teeth,
and I felt silly.
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 2:15 PM UTC
Cardiff still sleeping
The light rain kissing the dark pavements
Delicately in the dim, secluded lamplight,
As lovers do,
Willingly oblivious to the odd lonely commuter,
Who frowns at the fresh, wet passion
From behind bleary eyes behind grey spectacles behind the wheel behind the grumbling, soggy rubber on the road.
Cardiff's lover must too
Make their commute,
The slow, grey flight is blown with such intent,
The wind is cupid and knows
Crops must be watered
Rivers filled
Valleys and hills alike await their romantic precipitation.
And the rain loves to please,
Turning yellows green and greens brown
And commuter's smiles upside down
(if they have smiled in the last ten years...
...sometimes I wonder if I have)
So, rain, peck my cheeks and run through my hair gentle fingers,
Speckle my glasses with moisture from your cool, close breath and whisper silence-quenching lyrics on my window with your pitter patter and I will dream and I will wake again to the early dawn rain and I will turn to you, open my mouth and taste your gentle kiss on my lips and tongue and I will smile.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 5:12 AM UTC
The Roman empire has fallen
sadness weeps bitter tears
how the mighty became poor old waif
and the west held their jamboree without ignominy
For once they were carried on shoulders in sedan trains
in pomp and ceremony the masters sought safaris and ruled lions
from Goa to Timbuktu the whiff of toast on marmalade n Darjeeling
jackboots and clipped voices rang in plantations n hymns in churches
The Roman empire has fallen
Tea two anti-depressants please
Oh no no how have the mighty fallen
unwanted unloved we cry diminished glory
no invites to Continental parties no lovers in Casablanca
the dusky maidens as footstool are Doctors at the corner Surgery
those hunky dark torsos ferrying cocoa to steamers heading Cardiff
are now earning two hundred thousand grand a week and drive Rolls
The Roman empire has fallen
now we just drink Bitter all the time
the mighty s of the universe are now *******
come see the bullies in the school playground playing the Raj
let me show you a place where four in ten cannot spell enterprising
did you know when not in the Tropics some go for weeks un-bathed
shock and awe jealousy n envy is the new black making them so mad
old n young no self respect, no dignity and now only sad mad bullies
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 4:29 AM UTC
Those cosmopolitan provincials sorts
the chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
them retro-grade grade-less sub-humans bottom feeders
who think Cardiff is in East Angular and Magaluf is Eden
and Higher Education begins in Borstal or a stint at HM Prisons
found by happenstance a tin of Caviar
something they'd never seen before
with the curiosity of practiced thieves
they proceeded to examine its worth
'its a tin of hair gel says one'
'No, no, no says another, I think its something you eat'
'it says Caviar Royal Beluga, observes another'
'throw it away, anything with a name like that is rubbish'
'Beluga...some foreign muck, it look dark and oily'
'yea mate, look like **** throw it away'
One of the dis-advantaged rabble with one O'level in Carpentry
took a closer look
'look he says, there's sticker on the bottom that reads
Caviar Royal Beluga – 1kg £3,780.00'
Hahahaha they all roared in ceaseless mirth, hahaha
'some joker is having a laugh, pull the other leg, fancy...
a tin of black gunge in some slimy stuff cost three grand,
must think people are born yesterday, Beluga..fuckoffluga'
And with that, they tossed the tin away and walked off
laughing like *********
Ignorance is a disease, ignorance is bliss
will vandals extol the sheer magnificence of a Constable
or see anything other than a chair in a Chippendale ribbonback chair,
will Barbarians shed a tear on hearing the sensuous notes of Chopin or shiver at the graceful notes of Debussy or melt in sheer
adoration as Tchaikovsky's romance soars in magical resonance.
Will cosmopolitan heathens gape in mesmerizing wonder on
seeing Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel and praise God for being alive
So who has great expectations of our dear cosmopolitan provincials sorts
those chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
for in disparaging excellence
and rubbishing the noble and the exceptional
they make us appreciate more that we are blessed
and privileged
and do not have
semolina for brains
hey!
who would like some caviar
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
A girl on the train with witch's hair and dark eyes
Stared at me as if I was hiding a secret in the curve of my lip
Or the space between my eyebrows
Or in whirlpool-pupils
I wonder if there is something of the occult in the way I walk
Like a dead woman who adores the crows that pick at her bone marrow
Is there something in the hollows of my eyes that suggests
I am not afraid of the demons summoned to hunt me down
On my morning commute?
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
English countryside rolls
by like butter on banana
pancakes. The heat of
history keeps me cringing
with a full stomach. Aches
softly convalesce veins
from head to toe,
concentrated in the solar
plexus as I become the weary, dreamy traveller with little left
to seek, hoping that every closed door will lead to you wrapped in a duvet taco shell. Every bed is half-empty, so I fill your gap with a warm pillow and whisper, "I love you, Amanda. It's a softer heart at the end of every highway."
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:43 AM UTC
She was almost tempted
To jump from the bridge
Despite the crowds that
Passed, despite the coldness
And filth of the water below,
But she didn’t; she walked
On and slit her wrists in the
Hospital corridor instead;
In some dark place no one
Noticed until the blood
Followed her footsteps
Like a worrying child.
Two men stopped her
And took her to nurses
Busy at some sideward
Desk; found her in the
Corridor, they said, blood
Everywhere, doesn’t answer,
Though, we’ve tried that,
Won’t say a dickybird,
Maybe she’s dumb or deaf,
One man suggested, standing
Back as if to see her better,
Watched the young girl as
If for the first time, taking
In the blood soaked jeans,
Tee shirt, hands and arms
And turned away, nodding
To his companion, with a
One of those druggy types,
No doubt, suggestion in the
Slow movement of his head.
Then she was gone, taken by
The nurses behind curtains,
Low voices, murmurs; their
Interest slipping away, the
Men moved on, chatting
How Cardiff would do in
The next match, and don’t
Tell the wife about the girl,
She’ll get the wrong idea,
Then there’ll be hell
To pay, one said, walking
Through the doors into
The afternoon sunshine.
She was almost tempted
Speak, to say how the devil
Tempted her to jump, how
The voices told her what to
Do, but she said nothing,
Just watched the nurses
Dab at her slit wounds with
Wads of bandages and frantic
Touches of their hands, while
Up on the ceiling, she noticed
A fly buzzing around the naked
Bulb, looking for a way out
From death; just like me,
She thought, just like ****** me.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC
WAITING FOR THE TRAIN
As we sit here in the the sun, we all love to see her run.
The tide is getting low, a little farther out is where I go,
Just holdin my position in the show.
The train set is sure to be some fun.
As sure as the sun will rise and the salt gets in your eyes,
The train set is sure to come.
When you hear her coming down the track, just be sure not to turn your back.
Cause as every cardiff ****** knows, the train set is why you’re here.
Just wait until you hear that whistle blow.
She’s screamin down the rail, with one foot set tight on that new pintail,
first look left, then look back, She’s lining up, she’s right on track.
Just wait until you hear that whistle blow.
She looks so sweet heading down that perfect line.
with the sun setting behind the peak, underneath her shoulders we sneak,
just wait until you hear that whistle blow.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
What's the smallest living being on earth?
a graduate of music school
First class degree won with some leeway
but that can't pay for my MOT, no way
four hundred and thirty seven quid and 26p to pay
for new suspension ball joints and wishbone, wiper blades and an emission test pass grade
and now my car has scraped a "pass with defects"
I hope someone made a wish as the old bone cracked
as they took it to the tip with the entire contents of my bank account
I wish I was back home again, scared to answer the phone again
but now every phone call I'm praying for a gig.
For nine grand a year I wonder how well she would do in the next few tests
if she'd have a long career ahead after a short rest or if she would still be run into the ground,
one day kicking the bucket at 90 miles an hour on the M4 back to Cardiff; I recently found
she won't quite make it to one hundred.
One hundred miles an hour!
Such power, so close, but no cigars for me any more - I can't even afford to smoke rollies.
When I'm seventy I'll start again
whether I want to or not, I need that one lifetime guarantee.
If I make it to seventy.
Hopefully boredom, rejection and ************ aren't causes of early mortality.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:54 AM UTC
I was on a train out of Chorley
Happy to be sad to be leaving
Smalltalking strangers with a great accent
Hot and uncomfortable because my super cool leather jacket wasn't breathing.
Lancashire, you've made me think!
Actually, trains make me feel pensive.
Or was it Mrs Barton?
Bumbling and hypersensitive (in a nice way)
"Remain vigilant through your journey"
"Do not leave your heart unattended or it may be destroyed"
We'll get into Cardiff at zero zero six teen
That's technically Friday; there'll be drunks to avoid.
We're past Crewe and I know
Younger me made the right decision.
The path I sometimes hesitate to follow
Is bold, beautiful and scenically inefficient.
It twists and turns, trees stream
Past the train's windows
The sky looks lovely tonight
A candyfloss cloud for each of my woes (only three or four obstruct the sunset and they make it shine all the softer)
Mother of a lover, you said
You thought you'd never see me again
You often think of me, and will "follow me".
Facebook makes it easy to pretend.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
She said she’d only be gone for a week,
I saw her off in the car,
‘It’s not that long,’ she began to speak,
‘It’s not that I’m going far,’
So I waved goodbye and I turned to go,
I wish I could live it again,
For that was the last I saw of Flo
I’m missing her so, Amen.
Her mother phoned on the following day,
‘What have you done with Flo?
She said we’d meet in the market place,
Did she even set out to go?’
I said she had on the previous day,
‘Is she really not there?’ I said,
And then my mind kept racing away,
I thought that she might be dead.
I called the police and the hospital,
And even the Fire Brigade,
No-one had ever heard of her
Or knew where she might have stayed,
Then I saw a clip on the news that night
She was walking along in the rain,
They were filming down at the station as
She was boarding the Melbourne train.
A week went by and I heard no more,
I thought that she might have phoned,
I saw her brother and sister too,
‘I think that she’s left,’ I moaned.
‘They hadn’t heard, not a single word,
Since that man in an overcoat
Had called in, said he was looking for her,
And left her a simple note.
‘Catch the plane at Tullamarine,
I’ll meet you in Istanbul,
Pick up the pack from the man in green,
Make sure that the pack is full.’
‘I thought you were going on holiday,’
Her brother had said to my face,
I said I didn’t know where she was
She’d gone, with never a trace.
The bomb in the old Ramada Hotel
Went off, I saw on the news
The old city part of Istanbul,
They published a set of views,
And Flo was running from smoke and flames,
I saw her, clear as a bell,
And right behind was a man in green
In front of the old hotel.
They said a woman with auburn hair
Had dropped a pack at the desk,
And then had run, she carried a gun,
Was currently under arrest.
The following day, she got away,
Squeezed out through the window bars,
Then jumped in a waiting limousine,
One of the Russian cars.
I heard she went to Saint Petersburg,
Had asked for asylum there,
They’d said, ‘No way,’ that she couldn’t stay,
She replied, ‘It isn’t fair!’
Nobody wanted to charge her so
They flew her on out to Wales,
And that’s when I met her in Cardiff
Where we sat, with a couple of ales.
She said she had won an adventure
All hush hush, in an online quiz,
But had to deliver a package first,
‘I should have asked what it is.’
She said she was sorry not telling me,
I reached out and held her hand,
‘Where did you think you were going then?’
She said, ‘to Disneyland!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 5:30 AM UTC
...the morning tv
...when your phone and your earphones connect
...mr. cardiff singing, i carry your heart in my heart sung with every song
...the opening line of your favorite radio show
...your mispronounced name
...everything on mute each time you have coffee
...your hands typing
...your seatmate laughing
...all the steps you take on your afternoon walk
...the moment the day gives way to the night
...thought bubbles on your evening commute
...your eyes closing.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 11:15 PM UTC
Off the Back of a Truck
The black painted truck drives about the country doing its job
Moving things from A to B and losing them in-between
Passing thru Chorley it drops a mountain bike without wheels
Going past Leeds it discards a new microwave oven minus door
In the middle of Rochdale it dumps a crate of empty beer bottles
Speeding in Yeovil the truck gives out used bullet proof vests
And at Aberdeen it abandons some PCs minus hard drives
For Cardiff the lorry leaves hundreds of out of date pizzas
Hours later in Birmingham hooded tops with just one arm are left
The ******* trail goes to Whitby where books of fake stamps fall
Onwards to York to discard plastic crosses with half a Nazarene
Back to Dover to chuck a hundred coffee flasks with drilled hole
On and on drives the strange lorry with its load of goodies
All are useless and no use to anybody except a fool or idiot
Like the one driving the truck on his nationwide dumping trip
Ticking each place off his list as he follows his map
A to ****** Z...
******* Upside Down In a Blazing Avro Manchester Bomber – Poems from My Life and More
Nick Armbrister
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC
S...ensationally charged atmosphere.
P...erfectly mannered fans.
E...xceptional riding skills, no gears, no brakes, no fear.
E...xcellent rapport between riders and the crowd, fans like to cheer.
D...angerous sport, injuries kept minimal, within reason.
W...orld Champions crowned at the end of the season.
A...bsolutely awesome fights on the track.
Y...outh riders, coming through, watch out Tai they're at your back.
G...reat day out for the family, lots of fun.
P...oland, Sweden, Germany, Cardiff , stadiums galore under cover or open to the sun.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:14 AM UTC
If I were to bottle this it would be
Fleeting moments of such deep joy it’s hard to recollect the moments of utter misery,
Of which there were more.
It would be bitter loneliness without the sweet tang of friends,
The ache of realising alienation isn’t about being alone.
It would be waves
Crashing into rocks after washing over us
Curling our ankles on pebbles
Tripping but running headfirst anyway
Toes in the sea.
It would smell like sun cream
With the coarseness of sand
Salt and sun and summer.
It would sound like jazz time on a friday afternoon
Blues, show tunes and improv.
Empty balconies,
Wind
Leaves
LMTs
Conversions I listen into but don’t join.
Thunderous silence.
It’s white walls awash with laughter,
Paint fumes and flying
Fresh puddles
Stifled tears
The longing for something more.
Feb 18, 2022
Feb 18, 2022 at 8:11 PM UTC
There has to be madness for sanity to reign,
'do you need an ambulance?',
she asked him as he lay outside the bank
he replied,
'no thanks dear
I'm quite alright laying here'
the park was just across the road
it might as well have been in Cardiff.
The empty bottle told a tale
although
I couldn't read it well,
the time was one o-clock
and
the bell began to ring.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC