This is the tale of the gentleman who wore a trilby hat .
He spoke  Uhum, to himself ,
and muttered things under his breath .
His dress was smart ,
but casual ,
and so the ladies would agree ,
‘What a strange man ,
yet he looks so dapper ,
I wish he would speak to me ‘

Now some of the larger girls grinned and smirked as he went on his merry way ,
he doffed his hat ,
and that was that as he passed them on his way .

He walked home ,
Key in the door ,
‘ hi dear I’m home once more ‘
to no answer came ,
it never did ,
he took off his hat ,
Placed it on a hook on the wall ,
took off his coat ,
and placed it on a coat rack ,
took off his shoes ,
changed into his pjs and slippers ,
and sat down .



His grammar phone played the laughing police man every hour  of every day

It just wouldn’t go away .
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha !
stuck in the groove
Ha ha ha ha ha ha !

The cranes flew and the city grew and what did I do?
put my head in the sand,
so I could no longer see the change that was happening all around me.

A land fit for heroes,city tycoons and wannabe Nero's and now't left in the stew *** for me or for you lot,
and how do you feel about that?

More money than sense and scant recompense for the builders who toil,who make the monsters that rise and eat up the soil, despoiling the land,more heads in the sand but holding out hands for that scant recompense.

Reconciling the bile in their throats with those city gent suits in their trilby's and coats and soldiering on until the earth is all gone.

A legacy indeed for them who would scramble in scrub land and grow things to feed the dysfunction of family,
what seeds we have sown,how defectively grown we've become and all for the buildings that greedily search out the sun,
somewhere up in the heights.

My life was pretty well empty,
I hadn’t a friend to call,
Trying to make a friend was like
Hitting your head on a wall,
Most other people bored me,
Others had nothing to say,
I didn’t know how much longer I
Could go on living this way.

My folks had died in the autumn,
In a wreck on Highway One,
I suddenly felt like an orphan
When nobody wanted one,
My brother had gone to the tropics
My sister had gone to the west,
So there I was on my lonesome,
Just me and an old tea chest.

I looked at the chest in the corner,
It hadn’t been opened yet,
I didn’t know if I was ready for
The surprises I might get.
My sister had packed and sealed it,
She said she felt like a thief,
‘Don’t even think of opening it
Until you’re over your grief!’

It was full of our family papers,
Documents, photo’s and rings,
All the stuff that our folks had left,
Some of their favourite things,
She knew that I’d cry when I opened it,
And went through the things she’d packed,
Our family had been torn apart,
There was now no putting it back.

It was late on a Saturday morning,
And I had nothing to do,
I prised the lid off the old tea chest,
And took a deep breath or two,
I shut my eyes and I dived right in
Tipped all the stuff on the floor,
A thousand pics of a thousand things
That the family did before.

I must admit that I almost cried
When I saw my mother’s face,
Just as she’d looked when I was young
In a bonnet of Irish lace,
My father was holding me close to him
In his army uniform,
He didn’t know it would end like this
In a crash, and a firestorm.

All the sepia tints were there
And the studio photographs,
Each one holding a simple pose
To wait for the camera flash.
There were faces there unknown to me
From the family, way back when,
Victoria sat on the English throne
And our ‘Grands’ were living then.

There was one old tattered photograph
Of our Great Grandfather Jim,
******* away on a gnarled old pipe
And our great Grandma, Eileen.
Then I heard a noise and I looked around
To the corner, in the gloom,
Where an old man sat in a trilby hat
Smiling across the room.

‘Don’t be alarmed, I mean no harm,’
He said, as I went to rise,
There was something vaguely familiar
About the grey in his eyes,
‘I see you’re checking the photographs
And I thought I’d just drop in,
I keep an eye on the family ties
And you, so how have you been?’

I looked again at the photograph,
At the man in the trilby hat,
‘I don’t know whether I’m going mad,
Are you Great Grandad, or what?’
‘I am, I am, you got it in one,
I’m part of your family tree,
Your folks just asked if I’d pop right in,
They’re out there now, with me.’

‘They worry about you doing well
You’re too much on your own,
I came to give you a tip or two
To brighten your life at home.
I met Eileen in a butcher’s shop
There’s one just down at Cleve,
She watches you when you walk on by
And wears her heart on her sleeve.’

I knew the shop, I knew the girl,
I wanted to ask him more,
But where he’d sat in the corner there
Was a piece of empty floor.
I went for a walk, to buy some meat
And she smiled in a sweet surprise,
When I said, ‘Don’t think that I’m forward, now,
But my, you’ve got lovely eyes!’

David Lewis Paget

(This poem was brought to you by the letter...V!)
She vacuums the worn carpet
Her gaze on the surface vague and vacant
But when you lift the lid
She has been ****** into a vortex
Of whirling cosmic space dust.


She's entered a parallel universe
There her name is Vanessa
And her life's so diverse
By day she announces on
underground trains
  'mind the gap, next stop
Mornington crescent'
Her voice is sweet, virtuous,
clear and efficient
  But by evening her voice has
  more va va voom
She sings sultry jazz
in a smoky back room.
She looks almost the same
Voluptuous lines and a
red haired mane
But gone is any trace of mundane.  

Each verse of song she wraps in a sway of the hips side to side
and a ravishing smile
 And if the audience  try it on
or  become volatile
A valiant handsome trilby wearing
gentleman
Can warn them off  
With a choice few nouns
And vexing verbs
make them run a mile

And after the show
She and the gentleman
Vanish from view
And as their heated passion grows
 They sink down onto A velveteen couch
 exploring her peaks n valleys
With his keen mouth
And she traces his muscles
Vivid veins, v lines
She reaches his peak further south.



Back out of the vortex
And back in the room
She is breathless
And her heart is fast and keen
She has stopped the vacuum
Instead saught solace
In the vibrations of her washing machine

And Helens mother says as Helen climbs down the stairs of the building mind the road and dont talk to people you dont know and make sure you get the right change from Baldys you know what hes like Helen holds the stair rail and takes one step at a time as they are quite steep and she doesnt want to fall down in her small palm she holds the coins for the shopping and they are becoming damp as she holds them so tight and in her other hand she holds a bag to put the shopping in and thinking over in her mind how much change she ought to have if her sums are right and she thinks she has got it right although Baldy will get it right no doubt but she must try and get it right or her  mum will tell her off she reaches the lowest stair and stands there looking back up the stairs and waits to hear if her mother has stopped talking and its all quiet and so she moves out into the street and the sky looks grey and rainy looking and that man is on the corner in his black coat buttoned up to his neck and the black trilby hat and he looks at her as she passes and she looks away her mother had said dont talk to people you dont know and she doesnt know him but her dad said the mans a bookies runner although shes not seen him run anywhere as yet although he may run when shes not looking and she wonders as she passes him what a bookies runner is and why he stares at her so he doesn't look friendly in fact he looks like a criminal as far as she knows what a criminal looks like the man turns away and gazes up Rockingham Street and she walks quickly to Baldys shop and climbs over the steep step that leads into the shop and it is quite full and so she waits her turn behind Mrs Knight who is a tall thin lady from upstairs who has cats and she smells of cats and when she looks out of her door when at home she looks like a cat too Helen sniffs yes cat smell she thinks and looks at Mrs knights coat and sees cats hairs and she holds a purse in her thin hand and a shopping bag in the other Helen being only eight years old cant see beyond Mrs Knight but at the side she can see other people at the counter and Baldy is busy and his assistant is rushing about quite madly Helen thinks she ought to have gone to the loo before she came out shopping because now she feels like she needs to *** but she doesnt want to go back home again so she tries to think of something else to take her mind off of the *** wanting feeling then someone taps on her shoulder and as she turns she sees its Benny the boy from school who lives up the road and whom she likes and who doesnt call her four-eyes or take the mickey out of her hello Helen says looking at Benny what you doing here? shopping for Mum he says holding up a brown shopping bag got a list or ill forget I always forget he says he moves close to her and shows her the coins wrapped in a paper list in the palm of his hand you shopping too? he asks yes she says looking shy and gazing at him got to get some things I can remember what Mum says and what change I have to get afterwards he studies her as she stands there her hair in plaits with a center parting and the wire framed glasses which make her eyes look large and cow like and the faded red flower dress and green cardigan with two buttons missing what you doing after? he asks dont know she replies why where are you going? going to the herbalist he says get some liquorice sticks and a glass of sarsaparilla could I come too? she says if Mum lets me and Ive done all that she wants? sure you can he says meet me by the Duke of Wellington if you can go about ten or so if youre not there by ten past ten Ill go without you he says she nods her head and hopes she can go and looks at him standing there his brown hair and hazel eyes and a cowboy hat at the back of his head and the six shooter in the belt of his blue jeans and she feels happy for the first time since shed got up and she says can Battered Betty go too? sure he says and she smiles and senses her heart go quickly in her chest thump thump thump thump yes Helen what can I do for you? Baldy asks her as she is next in line to be served so she recites what her mother had told her so much sugar in a blue package and a certain amount of cheese and a pound of broken biscuits and a loaf of bread and o yes a dozen eggs she says offering him an empty egg box and he goes off to fulfil the recited list and Benny is served by the assistant and he hands the man the list and the man reads it and goes off to put together the items on Benny list and suddenly Helen feels the need to *** again and hopes Baldy wont be long getting the stuff she asked for and o yes Benny says my old man says hes taking me to the pictures on Sunday did you want to come? he wont mind its a U film so kids can go too she pushes her knees together hoping Baldy will hurry up Ill ask Mum Helen says feeling the sweaty coins in her palm and having to pass the bookies runner and hope she wont do her any harm.

I’m Oxfam clothed and head full of henna,
he’s Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner.
Does this make us rivals or more compatible?
Anything’s possible now I’m out of hospital,
picking his path oblivious to obstacles,
catching him in an unguarded interval;
he’s too hospitable to swerve my tentacles
and I too intent on the prey.

“What’s with the titfer?” I bubble up giggly,
kissing his cheek and trying his trilby,
holding his eyes – why should I feel guilty?
If he’ll play Jesus lurking in Gethsemane
then I’ll be Judas flirting with the enemy.
Don’t say betrayal and the double agent,
I’m just a female at my play station.
He used to be nurse and I the patient,
now we negotiate new relations.

Aspiring to more of an equal footing
I’ve climbed too high and abandoned hoodies,
the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes,
the words that stuck to my tongue like glue.
Between heavy make-up and credit crashes
I talk too naughty and hug too warmly –
he must take his turn to be poorly,
his turn to breathe in blue.

In minutes the mood will be mellowing:
I shall saxophone and cello him
and proffer the charms of poor scarred arms,
the burnt flesh of thighs and *******,
this sin within my second-hand dress
to caress his heart and capture him.
Wind and string go enrapturing!
Pull him close to the edge of the abyss –
I want him to hang on my lips
as I’ve hung so long on his.

Argers heart burns bright
her warmth felt throughout the room
where nana bakes fresh home made bread
Sunpat cheese spread and pork dripping wait
upon a plain white kitchen table
where grandad laces tight his ******* boots
a canvas bag beside him dirt stained smells like peppermints
he looks at me and smiles handing me a stick of liquorice

"for later"

snap packed boots fastened he cuts and spreads the slices of hot fresh bread
jacket and trilby taken down and worn he leaves to walk to where
he works
in absolute darkness he remembers the argers heart burning bright and smiles.

A stark shaded light swings
From the office ceiling
Making cartoon shadows chase
Crazily around the walls
She stands on one leg
Quite easily and bizarrely
And types with her other foot
Tapping the lettered keys
With the stiletto heel of her shoe
And hanging in the juggling rays of light
There is a trilby hat with teeth and no eyes
Wearing a raincoat indoors
Ectoplasmic cigarette smoke coils
A trilling piano
Tickles around a neon light
Somewhere
Out there

The stiletto becomes a cigarette holder
Daintily dribbling ash
****** trumpet notes insinuate
Sliding brass around the walls
Overlaying the chasing shadows
Teeth do a flash-bulb grin
The top comes off a bottle
And two glasses are splashed into
Negotiations are pursued
A flirting of commerce
Flash!
That grin again
A service has been purchased
Glasses *****
The light still swings
A jazz singer sings
Pouring sweetness over the neon light
Somewhere
Out there

Outside the moon scowls in silver
A pistol writes an anonymous threat
And with inappropriate optimism
The chorus presents
A monstrous garish dance routine
Bang!
And screams off-stage
The dance becomes the soft-shoe scatter
Hands slide inside double-breasted jackets
The cops howlingly arrive!
Car doors slam, bam!
But all players have dispersed
The night is seamless again
And a lazy jazz band plays
Behind the neon light
Somewhere
Out there

                     By Phil Roberts

It was the fourth day
since the break up
from school
for the summer vacation

and you were riding
with Janice
on the bus
to London Bridge

and she was wearing
the lemon coloured dress
you liked
that came to the knees

which were pressed
together
and the brown sandals
with the patterned holes

and the red beret
on her fair hair
was swaying
with the motion

of the bus
opposite you
was a man
wearing a trilby

and a moustache
who kept looking at you
with his dark eyes
his head going

from side to side
as the bus moved
and he sat next
to Janice

his hands
on his knees
and he turned
and gazed

at Janice’s knees
then up at you again
his features flushing
and then he looked away

at the passing scene
behind you
pretending
you weren’t there

then at London Bridge
he got off
and so did you
and Janice

and you waited
until he had gone
walking up
and over the bridge

and you said
he was a queer fish
who?
said Janice

that bloke
who sat next to you
why?
she asked

he kept staring at me
and ogling
at your knees
did he?

Janice said
you wait
until I tell Gran
about that

she’ll say
you watch out
for his type Janice
he’s no better

than he ought to be
you nodded
and smiled
at her imitation

of her gran
and she laughed
and you both
walked down

the steps and by
Southwark Cathedral
to the embankment
by the River Thames

and stood by the wall
looking at the passing
boats and ships and tugs
and the occasional

ducks floating  
on the brown water
and you felt Janice’s
9 year old hand

touch yours
as she pretended
(as she often did)
that you were

a married couple
out for a romantic walk
gazing
at the passing scenery

with the added
small talk.

Hello old friend
I've come to see
How time has fared
For you and me
From distant days
In white trilby
With metal cased
Laboratory

You've kept well I note
New cobbles, posts and signs
Adorn your ancient routes
Some familiar names I see
Comfortable but cool to me
Some names hollow or tired
Some refreshed and bright
French antiques have shut their door
And Kwiksave now a factory store
Butcher, baker ghostly corpses
Faced yes, but blank and still
Emma’s cookware welcome calm
A mess of pots bright and warm
Some old rogues still lurk
Catching breath ‘til evening
And time for more
half hearted cooking

There's money spent
It's the rural modern
I like and loath it all at once
Which isn't fair because
It is me that grew old
Uttoxeter changed
For better for worse
I mourn my youth
But glad still more
For remembrance sake

She purchased a Trilby hat in lieu of a Stetson
Her shoulders seemed to stoop
whenever she lit her famous Sobranie.
The rolling countryside always felt like despair
more bramble than Strawberry Fair
She found herself in New Brighton, bracing the sea air
a sought job in a Mobile Fish and Chip Van
was assuredly the Lisa Presley way.
But her heart hankered for Hull, the dare was brazen
to  partake in a  Photography class
to record civil disobedience.
Perhaps a suitable hat
would be a beret
for that inveighed look
our dear Sandra McClain.

A stark shaded light swings
From the office ceiling
Making cartoon shadows chase
Crazily around the walls
She stands on one leg
Quite easily and bizarrely
And types with her other foot
Tapping the lettered keys
With the stiletto heel of her shoe
And hanging in the juggling rays of light
There is a trilby hat with teeth and no eyes
Wearing a raincoat indoors
Ectoplasmic cigarette smoke coils
A trilling piano
Tickles around a neon light
Somewhere
Out there

The stiletto becomes a cigarette holder
Daintily dribbling ash
****** trumpet notes insinuate
Sliding brass around the walls
Overlaying the chasing shadows
Teeth do a flash-bulb grin
The top comes off a bottle
And two glasses are splashed into
Negotiations are pursued
A flirting of commerce
Flash!
That grin again
A service has been purchased
Glasses *****
The light still swings
A jazz singer sings
Pouring sweetness over the neon light
Somewhere
Out there

Outside the moon scowls in silver
A pistol writes an anonymous threat
And with inappropriate optimism
The chorus presents
A monstrous garish dance routine
Bang!
And screams off-stage
The dance becomes the soft-shoe scatter
Hands slide inside double-breasted jackets
The cops howlingly arrive!
Car doors slam, bam!
But all players have dispersed
The night is seamless again
And a lazy jazz band plays
Behind the neon light
Somewhere
Out there

                     By Phil Roberts

A stark shaded light swings
From the office ceiling
Making cartoon shadows chase
Crazily around the walls
She stands on one leg
Quite easily and bizarrely
And types with her other foot
Tapping the lettered keys
With the stiletto heel of her shoe
And hanging in the juggling rays of light
There is a trilby hat with teeth and no eyes
Wearing a raincoat indoors
Ectoplasmic cigarette smoke coils
A trilling piano
Tickles around a neon light
Somewhere
Out there

The stiletto becomes a cigarette holder
Daintily dribbling ash
****** trumpet notes insinuate
Sliding brass around the walls
Overlaying the chasing shadows
Teeth do a flash-bulb grin
The top comes off a bottle
And two glasses are splashed into
Negotiations are pursued
A flirting of commerce
Flash!
That grin again
A service has been purchased
Glasses *****
The light still swings
A jazz singer sings
Pouring sweetness over the neon light
Somewhere
Out there

Outside the moon scowls in silver
A pistol writes an anonymous threat
And with inappropriate optimism
The chorus presents
A monstrous garish dance routine
Bang!
And screams off-stage
The dance becomes the soft-shoe scatter
Hands slide inside double-breasted jackets
The cops howlingly arrive!
Car doors slam, bam!
But all players have dispersed
The night is seamless again
And a lazy jazz band plays
Behind the neon light
Somewhere
Out there

                     By Phil Roberts

The burden in my Heart
is also for our good Name.
I always knew they would close down the shop.
The City Guilds sweeping shadows.
A man in a Trilby hat dot's what's left of our pride,
he plays fickle to our once Emporbium,
sanguine like dishes of indisposition
should bicker with the hand sewn purple curtains,
like a sacrament permitted just that once
at the time the betrayal turned cold.

Time reigns
it smacks you in the face and it scrambles up your brains
until you think you've had enough but you need a little more
so you hang on to the second hand
as it sweeps across the pool hall floor
and the hour glass is halfway full
so you pull a face
but that's no good, you can't see the forest for the wood
and you can't cut it down.
Time laughs and laughs at you,
the clown
and the clock spins on in the Circus
reminds us
we're mortal
but made of more than flesh and bone
that gave a home to the time invader
the raider that loots the hours from our day.
One day he'll pay
but not before we do.
we who
are stuck in the seconds that turn and bump in the minutes
and bring us to a final conclusion
where time being fused
in the time we have used
and any time we had left
we had no time for that.

I put on a coat and an old trilby hat
pretend I'm a spy
but time has his eye on me
time stands and spies on me
what
irony.

Janice said
she wanted to show me
how well she skipped
with her new skip rope

I watched
as her small hands
held the wooden ends
and her arms

circled like windmills
and her feet
lifted from the ground
in an odd dance

the rope going over
and under
over and under
have a go

she said
no it's OK
I said
let me show you

how good I can draw
my new gun
from my holster
I said

tapping
the toy gun
at my side
a brown hat

(an uncle's trilby)
plonked
on my head
she watched me

her red beret
on her head
the lemon dress
I liked her in

the black plimsolls
touching toes
I took out the gun
and spun it

around my finger
like I’d seen
in the Jeff Chandler films
my old man

took me to see
my other hand
spaced at my side
I put the gun back

in the holster
and on the count of
1-2-3
I drew the gun

in the blink
of her lovely blue eyes
as 1-2-3
bad cowboys

(invisible to her)
fell and died
can I have a go?
she asked

sure you can
I said
so undid the belt
and holster and gun

and handed them
to her
to put on
which she did

in clumsy fashion
all fingers and thumbs
once she was ready
(at her own

female pace)
she said
count me in
so I said ok

and counted 1-2-3
and she went
for the gun
and sent it

spinning
through the air
catching sun light
on the silvery parts

as it fell
to the ground
with a clattering
spark flying

cap banging
sound.

Slouching...

                   From an idea suggested by Robert Graves in
                                       On English Poetry

I. Thesis

Formalist poetry to attention stands
In ordered meters, ranks and files and lines
Of scansion as determined by disciplined minds
And set in place through skillful strategy

II. Antithesis

Other poetry slouches indolently, insolently with its louche trilby askew
Sleeping late, smoking cigarettes,
                                                     sauntering off
                                                                ­              for a beer
Through scansion as admitted by the heart or the pancreas or something
And seldom set in place at all unless it just sort of happens

III. A Perhaps Unnecessary but Useful Conjunction

But

IV. Synthesis

All poems ramble the same neighborhood
In quest of the true, the beautiful, the good

well indeed, what a pretty picture except maybe the trilby hat.


i imagine them to be blue and green you know.


we went into town yesterday and wanted cake.

quite a kerfuffle at the hotel as i asked for the menu  to look at cake so we were sat in the luncheon area which of course was incorrect especially as they had no cake

not even a teabun

I imagine Melancholy to be a person,
rather like Jude Law.
He's dapper,
handsome,
well-dressed.

He wears something
straight out of 1945,
a trilby hat,
and suspenders.

Sitting on a short-legged wooden stool,
he appears at the corners
of my consciousness.

He always has a lowball glass in his hand,
casually sipping an amber liquid
and smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
He tells me that I cannot
seem to do anything right.

He tells me I am a fraud.
He tells me that everyone I know
already knows this.

Melancholy comes to call,
sits in the same room with me,
smokes cigarettes,
stubbing the butts out on the floor,
drinks my whiskey,
and laughs at me.

A typical Sunday.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2015

Saying nothing to no one
about nothing you could know,
let the time slow his wits
not yours.

In the cauldron, we'll all turn to smoke
and then something or nothing
will make the joke
and we'll laugh as we go around in circles
looking for the flue,
smoke turning to blue
as it does.

I heard you at a bar down in Clapham
you had a hat on,
a trilby
it killed me,
but you were good
the audience applauded and
the girl is the sequins bought you
a Martini.

When we die as we do
doing what we know
going on with the show
because that's what we do,
we do it and enjoy it
that little bit of death, the fear
that brings breath to your lungs.

I slave away each day and wonder what was it that the slaver would say to me as he cracked the fat whip at me and suddenly as the lights are turned white when the night checks in
I see the grin on his face and there's no place like home.
ask Toto he knows and nothing or no one says nothing that they know
except me,
slow-witted
pitted against the world and its wife
I live it and that's life
to me.

In God I see
the thousand years of war
the blood and
sweat that shines the book.

I look at me and wonder if a God does too and if he does
who's
looking at you?
I am rich and poor can afford to be sure because that doesn't cost me much,
but the sign on the God says,
'don't touch'
In this museum I see them,the good and the bad men,the trilby and stetson but they're a medley of cowboys in God's hands,wind up toys.
'DON'T TOUCH'
this time in blocks and each capital letter locks me into a system that I am locked out of.

In God I see
the quandary
the quagmire,
hell and damnation
the flame of the fire
I stay
more in hope than expectation
waiting for the page to turn.

They piece me together and it's a Wednesday whether I like it or not.

Got a seat for a change then it's all change, this train terminates at the next stop.

She's wearing sunglasses or what passes for sunglasses, but
I see no sun.

And he's got on a trilby
( nothing to say about that )

The staring man with eyes like a frying pan looks ahead.

Mind the gap at the bank
not sure if they mean the
deficit
( if the cap fits )
back to the trilby
and this time
it will be
a rhyme.

The start is when I start
to fall apart
but
they'll piece me together
again
and tomorrow it'll
be just the same
with a different
cast to cast my eyes
over.


The further I go into a Wednesday
I know that a Thursday is around the next bend
and that makes it worth the wait.

his life
my life
is built upon time lapse
bordered by chip shops
and Kit Kats
topped off by the old chaps
who meet down the green.

I have seen the cynical
join with the maniacal
to plot diabolical acts,
time lapse.

And the pollsters who all
think like gangsters,

Gotti taking shots at the
politicians and cops
topped off by doughnuts,
cold cuts are the best though.

Now there were ruins and now there were mansions
all in the blink of the cameraman's eye
high rise and low cloud
don't think I am too proud to
take your advice.

It stutters on taped to feelings long gone
and the time lapse
and the Trilby's and flat caps
and the Kit Kats
and the chip shops and
it seldom stops anywhere
where I could make a
comment,
torment?
my punishment
reliving through creased folds
on clean linen bedsheets.

There are the gaps in the time lapse
when I seem not to exist
as if part of my life
has been missed out,
on purpose?

Fending off scrubland and bare, blue mountain
Logroño huddles in a heap and appears to slide
Almost lazily away from the slow-moving river.
Originality created and arranged easily
By the gloom trapped inside each filthy passage.
Garbage piles against *****, brown walls,
Crammed together and splintering in the sun.
And now and again a scrap of paper
Will fill huge as a sail and deny these still
October nights with a careless movement,
******, obtrusive and far too sudden,
Like the iron bridge which astonishes the dark
With such bright lights and emptiness, asking
For the beige mac, the turned-up collar and trilby,
The mysterious meeting, the garbled message,
When there is only me and the stone Roman bridge,
Illuminated and from another time.
The road from Santiago and the sandalled
Pilgrim loaded down with belief are no more than
A thing remembered or to wish for. But still,
High above the town, the twin Baroque towers
Of the cathedral resist change, insist on
More than a casual glance as I stand here now,
Balconied above the square, safe with French songs,
Edith Piaf and my cultivated tongue
Which nobody understands, and their so strange
Words which I try to learn, and don’t.
Then suddenly to see you simply among
These narrow streets and crowds of people,
Long boots and beautiful, is more than enough
To recall something bright in life after all.

Sorry it's long (said no one ever)

Working in retail opens your eyes to a whole world many do not see.
A world of such diversely, fascinatingly, mundanely grey, vibrantly glorious, disgusting and bright human behaviour.

You may think we just stack the shelves and clean up the unmitigated and immense damage you cause after you visit our place of work.

But we do so much more, we see so much more.

We watch, we listen, we cry and we laugh both with you, and admittedly, on occasion, at you.

But do forgive us as we are too, diversely, fascinatingly, mundanely grey, vibrantly glorious, disgusting and bright humans.

You can, as our customers, wholeheartedly make our day, you can be kind and courteous, funny, and quite often, we love having you with us, especially when you are considerate, considering this is our place of work.

And in that place of work, where we spend more daylight hours of our lives with you than we do with our families and loved ones, in that place of work we come across those who frustrate and annoy, who are aggressive and demeaning, we are made to feel unworthy and on occasion, occasionally you make us cry.

But you also lift us, with your own brand of madness :)

We have 'Buddy' who often comes in wearing a puffy coat and a blue baseball cap, precariously perched on top of his head.
'Hat family' visits were mum and daughter each wear a trilby and dad wears a cap.
"Carol" who is always decorating and most often needs...
" A thing, you know, with the part that folds over, it's grey" or an "Orange do-dah, you use it in the garden, it was on the telly"...

Be assured, we see you all, we remember you all. The good, the bad and those we endlessly try to help but always ask for things we don't sell and end up saying "fine i'll just go to Dunelm"...

We don't just stack the shelves and clean up the unmitigated and immense damage you cause after you visit our place of work. We also share with you your joys and your woes.

We spoke to a woman who was in floods of tears as she had been made to feel stupid and had been spoken to unkindly in another shop. She was looked after, consoled and taken care of.

We spoke to a woman who was on her first day outside after her husband of some 40 years had passed away. We listened and gave her many kind words, she left feeling much less alone.

We spoke at length to a woman in her 30's who had been told that morning she was finally in remission. We shared her joy. And relief.

We help the elderly Scottish gentleman with his son who has autism. His wife passed away 4 years ago and his son is his world. His son likes to touch our soft cushions and always asks his dad if it's 'time for tea yet.'

We don't just stack the shelves and clean up the unmitigated and immense damage you cause after you visit our place of work. We do understand, more than you know.

Today I met a quite exhausted woman, covered in dry paint, wearing a weary expression. She was holding a tin of paint with paint covered hands.
And with a tired voice she told me she had been...
"Painting all ****** day" and she was... "so bleedin' tired I can't think straight". She had run out of paint and asked how much the paint was.
And then I felt a whole new level of understanding and compassion.

She looked me square in the eye and asked "Is it wrong to wish everyone would just *******?"

I said "Of course not, it's perfectly normal considering the day you've had, can you leave the painting until tomorrow, after you've had a bath and a good nights sleep?"
She looked at me and smiled wearily "I guess it can wait"
Handing her the paint i said "it's 7.99, then do that, get some sleep. And tell everyone who says otherwise to ..."
"*******" she smiled.

Into the torn trilby upright stands a feather
Hiding hair enthused with dirt and a touch of woodland heather
Blood shot eyes look tired and heavily sunken
From the bottled spirits that the mouth has frequently drunken
A Scarf hangs down which was once so beautifully green
Hard to envisage it when it was vibrant, pristine and so clean
Rivers of blood dribble down a grey woolly chin
From tins and cans creeping out of an overflowing bin
Hidden clothes under mould spots and wretched smells
A heart that’s barely alive miraculously somehow still dwells
On cardboard is scribbled a beg for food and change
Well worded and well meant but with a hint of subtle derange
Humanity shuffles past like ghosts lost in time
Rejecting and ignoring his pleas for help, attention and social climb
Stuck in a painful slumber and thinking what could have been
A ***** is now a figurine derived from a portrait made from the obscene