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Poetry, bikes, dementia...
Poetry, bikes, dementia...
If music be the food of love then poetry may just be the language of emotion. Home for my own words and those of others who in some way inspire, inform, entertain or educate me.
Dear Mum Wish you were here! El Medano reminds me of Swanage. Sand, sea, sunshine, taut salty skin. The tide of geological time turning as the waves wash in and out and in…But then these days everywhere reminds me of Swanage. Wish…
* wuldres wealdend || woroldáre forgeaf “Take as long as you like he’s ready for you.” Shit and surgical spirit. There, I’ve said itIt’s only taken 22 years A forehead kissed. No words. No tears Too airless. Two chests deflated. His dressed in half…
He spoke to me in a dream on the road to Santiago The pilgrim father. Ochre boots. Lamp black hair. “Any path can be a Camino. “Just start walking. You’ll know when you get there.” Now forgive me if I…
I see him still, his face in mine.In this grey hair, that laughter line.Me on a chair to match his heightDad shaving in the morning light. Reflecting back a boy and manThe man now gone the boy a manDip the…
First south and west, then north and east, I quarter up the sky.I’m watching for your sickle wings to scythe across my eye. I look, I look, then look again and listen for your scream.But bar the clap of pigeon…
They didn’t want to be fishers of menWomen and children first hauled from the seaAnd laid out on the deck like a prize catchGently by hands that are roughened by saltCalloused but not callous softened by saltTears that fall from…
Lesson one: let nature be your teacher.No scrape of chairs indoors, no blackboard chalkFor him. Classroom fields. An outdoor creatureWho smelled of earth and planted with his talk… Elms. Galleons afloat the pasture seasBut scuttled by scolytus. Now un-helmedHulls, boreholed…
Furrows the Plough ‘cross the field of night.Bellows Canis at the owls out of sight.Callow Orion unbelted his might,Shallow-breathed Virgo sowed without fight. Sorrows the brow, Cassiopeia the queen.Mellow the music of Lyra, unseen.Hero Perseus his sword broad and keen.Hallow’d…
Eastern ashes astir aglow As new moon lips mouth morning’s breeze The arc then melts like springtime snow Unshackling Earth from night-time’s freeze. Nocturnal creatures can’t be caught By hieroglyphs to leaf-lined lairs Their secrets safe in shadows short Billowing…
Everybody heard him, the dead migrantBut still they say, moaning:Our compassion’s much further out than you thoughtAnd not saving but drowning. With apologies to Stevie Smith.