"southbank" poems
As I wait, I see on an uncomfortably high stool
the grandmother perching opposite
the comfortably bored teenager
replete in his distressed Ramones tee shirt
and ripped white jeans.
She holds her black coffee with both hands, while he plays
with the long spoon in his tall glass of hot chocolate,
her eyes focused on the top of his head,
his engrossed in the puddle of brown milk around his saucer.
Below the music, she pleads for a friendship that he
shows no interest in until she reaches into her bag
and emerges with perhaps something that he’s been waiting for –
And beyond the counter, shielded by formica, the percolators and stacked cups, the apprentice barista drops his tray and from the back two men in ill-fitting suits give a half-hearted cheer, while his boss withholds her anger in front of the paying customers, but judging by her face she would gladly take her protégé by his stained apron and string him up – I think this isn’t the first time she’s taken the cost of breakages out of his salary.
And I’ve missed what it is grandma has presented to her grandson
– all I can see is a suggestion of his fingers playing with silver,
a ring perhaps? The hot chocolate is pushed aside and his shoulders straighten.
She still looks uncertain, and the seconds drag until his face seems to soften.
He looks up and mouths what might be a thank you.
And he doesn’t withdraw his hand when she covers it with her own.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:33 PM UTC
London. January. 7:45pm
A bench possessed by a single gem
Thinking obsessing over a single thought.
Of the last argument they ever fought.
The saxophone player blowing his tune.
His only audience the shining moon.
Trying to earn some last needed dough
Wondering why he even puts on this dumb show
The other street acts already home
Now he stands, alone.
Southbank market nears to an end
Time runs out between two friends.
The spark has gone- the light is out
Now every mind is filled with doubt.
Her mind starts to wander as she contemplates
On all the things she has to complicate
A kiss, a hug, a humorous lie
Did they even try?
Her eyes start to fill with the water of a tear
She fails to keep her mind clear.
She stands up and leaves
Walks away.
She doesn’t know where she’s going
Or why. Or how. Or how long she can postpone
But she still walked. Alone.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
I was the jubilee runner
You were the southbank stroller
Carried away in your hair
I turn to see you turn,
To turn my steps into
Paused awkwardness
On the platform to my
Heart you stood, standing
Me still dead in my tracks
You were April’s showers
Raining down on my grey
Metro , the girl outside
Waterloo station,
The one sharing my
Thoughts unspoken
Watershed second
I was London’s haze
Set adrift in your eyes
Parted, but closed around
Your boho-chic attired
Kohl hairedness
I see you
Southbank bound
In my eyes forever
Open note to the
Sky you set me adrift
In, in that shy second
You were I, were we,
Were us, less them
All we, paused in the throng
Framed in my clickety
Clacking jubilee my
Train-track love
Story, I was the jubilee
Runner to your
Southbank stroller
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
fronds of palms
bougainvillia drapes steel frames
taken root in silt
river depositing
minerals for strength.
fifteen years after
lost love & other chapters
tangled branches present
to a cloudless blue
all melts
across copper water
licks at mangroves
camoflauging a walkway
swept away by a record flood
new planks anchored
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
And the night has great spirit
so she will be disgusted if you do not
at least prove that your measures of horror
are forgotten like dead poems and unformed cities
where she steps over them with you
and litters their roof tops with her feet
our scents know our shadows
welcoming them, creating them
like drunk shadow puppets guessing names
below a tower bridge,
– light
eating my fathers old teeth, remaining our mother
growing day from slashes in the river tone
calling out, sleeping well when the diving pace
is still, or floating in a crazy tank
that x-rays our hands until they release our fist
asking that no thought should permeate
the vice of our restless birds, the day humble
rolling out like animals from a burrow, I
throw my eyes out. curving them against the wall
all the better for having some dice,
as the street changes them and unites
our mirrored limbs near the southbank
where it chooses a low voice to speak in the thames
and hides 2am in the wind,
and that same voice
throws my eyes back, and lets me see yours,
where finally, the last reaction in the black,
is never human, it’s the breath, that shares it all
letting dominion know
that its welcome too, as long as it rests
whilst we dance
and relays our union
from skin beating drum
to landscapes that join
finding spirit in the meakest time
that sing the same
as cries of war
or laughter
within the fox hours
of our home.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 5:04 AM UTC
I walk in from the dark and wet
The glass door sprung to slow me.
Find a chair.
Collapse.
Am I exhausted or
Not?
I don't know.
A friend of long ago and now is dying
The shadow of his place with gulls and shops
I leave on Albert Road.
Broken arm across his short betraying breaths
With that inevitability grin
I know so well from school and later,
As little bitter fortunes
Unfurled their flags.
I walked in through his easy door
Words floundering till whisky hits
Then:
Of course we will! Sure we will!
- We fill the months and weeks with plans
Travel to the sights he wants for him.
Boats and Locos, Houses, Friends.
The evening slews in amber liquid,
Fades in fervent words.
Morning grey.
For me the stunned drive back to work
And England's ridges higher - home to home.
Finally Southbank - monied words.
Their voices to the ceiling reach:
A gentle civilised hubub of the saved
Bathed in culture, purpose and the careful light.
And you are back there, purposing a
Fractured night
That counts each clock chime you restored.
Oh now, by all the alleys, faces, roads
And domes of London,
Would it were not so
Not so
Not so
Not so.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 8:23 PM UTC
Where are you now?
-
Well I'm here. Here at the -
-
I can't see you.
-
No.
-
Well I'm looking at it n- Yes.
-
What do you see?
-
Okay. Okay.
Yes.
-
No, I'll come to you now. Yes. You stay there.
- -
What a ***** This is going to be a long day.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
it's somewhat sad
when the distant skyline
can offer so little
healing.
and i have walked
along the sands
of Southbank. looking
for a reason
To stop or start feeling.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC