My Poetry: First Blooms of Spring

First Blooms of Spring

---

With the first blooms
of green,
the warm winds begin,
to melt away
that winter,
and by summer
the coldness of our goodbye
will be gone forever.

My Poetry: His Royal Moggyness

His Royal Moggyness

---

Beneath his chin
his knees neatly folded
his royal moggyness sat
caring not for what hid
behind the sofa
or the lace curtains
or even the door
on this day
when clouds were being
rung dry of their water
like an old bit a rag,
or a lover stood at window
waiting for an adulterer’s return.

Jack, for that was his name,
sat still as a nun’s blouse
silently thunking
about all the ickle mouses
he would catch when sun come.
Trapping their tiny tails
with the pad of his paw
in pastures dyed green
by showers of summer
sun and drenchy 

rain

.

How he would gently coax,
with hirsute whiskered grin,
the scaredy ickle mices
from the hidey corners
into playing catchy
and go runneth, when
they wished neither to be caught
or to be a play thing
for this nefarious feline
who only cared to play
when his regalness
was feeling rather frisky.

But that was for all
another day,
thought Jack, as he sat
on his mat,
for this day,
was perfect for purring
and dreaming
as the grey day filled
the windows with steaming.

My Poetry: Boundary Road, 11:15am

*please be aware it has an astrixed swear word*

 

These are the people,
For whom the plastic spoon
Was their birth right,
Menial work their inheritance.
These are the people
Who live hand to mouth,
Benefit cheque shopping days
In pound shops and discount stores,
For whom whole weekends are wasted
F**king and drinking
And reproducing,
Waiting for it all to manifest
In some medical emergency
Robbing them of breath
Their only god given right.

 

These are the people,
Who clean toilets, tend tills
Stack boxes in warehouses
Serve bad beer
In bad pubs to afternoon boozers
With 40 a day coughs
Yellow fingers and B&H perfume,
Who dream of lottery wins
So they can buy the things
They think Beyonce does,
Watch news for celebrity gossip
So they can bitch on a c-lister
One reality show above them
On a ladder leant against
Bourgeoise wall where
Wit and will will not overcome.

 

These are the people,
And I recognise them,
But no longer know them.

These are the people
For whom subservience,
Hegemony, poverty and deference
Are the price they pay
To Eton’s old boy mafia.
These are the silent majority,
Who laugh and swear and gossip
About TV shows
Cus any dream will do
When reality is a foe.

 

My Poetry: Ballad From A Hospital Bed

Ballad From A Hospital Bed

---

But out there,
beyond the curtain,
beyond the white starched
pine scrubbed corridors
love is a currency,
but in here, breath is:
breath and morphine.
For when love can fill the lungs
no longer, or shoot the red wine
of life through veins
that once got me drunk
as the blood orange sun fell
from crystal sky, or made me feel
like the missing piece
in a million bit jigsaw,
then breath will be all that's left,
until even she fades
like the day from my bed side.

But, alas.....
We are born and we fall
within these white walls,
nature mothering our infant lips
past the first breaths
never free us from her breast
even when our ivory teeth
grow long like a summer shadow,

striping the ebony streets
like a zebras back.
That day returns,
when lamp posts, people, fences
turned from the sun,
to hide their dark places
from the light,
that morn when you let me sulk
then helped me out of bed
when my knees wobbled
and the skin crawled bleak
from my back.

I hold you close today,
through the roar of sirens
which steal silent reverie
as they cart another life
to the mortuary slab
via a white coat stethoscope
prancing from bed to ward
to bed with no patience of death
or beautiful words to break
news that the black wind signals,
like trumpets on battle field,
the final curtain call.
And I feel helpless
like Savanna cub who cowers
but is dumb to know
the jaws of seraphim predator
of concrete jungle
may yet kiss the pain away.

 

My Poetry: A Sticky Wicket

A Sticky Wicket

---

Play straight, keep ya eye
on the ball
ignore everything else.

I repeat this little ditty
like a mantra
as I pad up, first left then right,
always left then right,
adjust my box
for the straight one
on middle stump;
pace the pavilion
prepare for that quick
who thinks a nick for four

to fine leg is comparable
to sleeping with his sister.
Practise my off-drive

always perfect in the changing room;
then a shout of howzat
thickens the blood...

I'm in.

With gloves in hand
I stride out to the middle
willow and wit safely tucked
beneath my arm

a sticky wicket my destination

cricketing folklore my destiny.

Then in time honoured fashion

I scratch middle with my spikes
two lines my guard,
repeat the mantra
play straight, keep my eye
on the ball.

 

Then start thinking 

of getting myself in

by getting off strike:
a leisurely single to deep mid-on
where they've hid the old man
they dragged from the pub,
ignore the village idiot
positioned at square leg
with his impenetrable accent
and comedy commentary
about something to do with bows.

Tap, tap take the stance
eyes down then up the wicket,
and wait......
ignore the fly circling
and stray jumper thread
right now it don't matter
if I turned off the hob
or if my boss has realised
I lost the report he asked for,
wait, watch, wait and watch.
That hairy quick steams in

off 30 paces
like a concussed rhinoceros
who's just heard it's last orders,
and with a lazy swish
I play the line, but
the bat heads down Bakerloo
when the damned ball's on Waterloo.
With a thud into the pad,
cries of howzat ring out,
I try to look confident

like Clark Cable

or Marlon Brando giving the eye

to the desert menu
like it took a thick edge,
even look at the bat,
but the umps finger slowly
raises upwards,
and any hope it's to scratch
his wine tipped nose fades
when he points it my way.

As I trudge back to the hutch
moaning under my breath
it was going down leg

another golden duck

I repeat as the bat lands
with a clunk, on the becnch

and vow, on this perfect summer day
when clouds are still
as sleeping sheep
to quit this stupid, bloody game,
least until next week.

Play straight, keep ya eye
on the ball
ignore everything else.

Yeah whatever!
 

My Poetry: Satchmo aka Satchel Mouth

Satchmo aka Satchel Mouth

---

This is a poem about the jazz musician Louis Armstrong aka Satchmo (nick-named due his 'satchel mouth')

I blew a battered horn
From since I remember
Dressed in dusty rags
And holy shoes
In a country shack
The size of Rockefellers wallet,
While he sipped champagne
We had soul food suppers
And watched our bones appear
Through our skin.
I blew from dawn
Till the sun set agen,
The wind it expelled
Took me from the projects
To up town dining clubs
Where white folk tapped toes
And silver spoons outta time,
Those same ones
Whose friends banned me
From eating at their tables
When my name was writ small
And I was just another negro, so
I just blew that ole horn
All the time working
To drop a little revolution
In their coffee on the sly
'Cus a man with a gun
In his waistband told me
There was only two ways
To escape the south:
Either a burning cross
and a noose,
Or be a white man's nigger.

So I blew black and blue
Notes for anyone
And everyone from Africa
To rich white America
'Cus music understands
Nothing of apartheid.
And I kept blowing
Watching my brothers and sisters
Fighting for bus seats
Or the right to learning,
Urged the president
To take a coloured hand
Lead her through school doors;
Cut off the tongues
Of those who fight against
Civil rights of segregated souls.
Till those same starched men
Who bought my songs
Called me a commie
For opening my satchel mouth
For some other purpose
Than blowing
America's classic music
Into their homes.

But the years were kinda
To me and my kin
Till TV only saw the colour
Of my smile, and now,
Lied in white linen sheets
Blowing my last breath
I remind you
It's a wonderful world
If you look at it
From the sunny side of street.

 

It's a Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong

 

My Poetry: His Little Girl

His Little Girl

---

Multi-coloured hearts
Blow on soft wind
Across the blocks
of town centre shadows,
like blossom shaken
From an apple tree,
To mark the marriage
Of original sin and love.
An ivory gown
Swollen with seed
Of live in lover, but now
Honest promises swapped
With vows made
Within golden ring
Turns little girl to bride
With a simple 'I do'.

Friends and family mingle
After the ceremony
Like oil on a puddle,
In ever increasing circles.
A woman brushes
Away a tear from dress
Dusted off for occasions
Just like this
When happiness is currency
And those broken and skint
Loan smiles from the lips
Of the bride's father
Who sips at hip flask,
Stood proud as a peacock
Hair preened and hands
Deep in pockets waiting
To say goodbye
To his little girl.

My Poetry: Introduced as an Old Friend

Introduced as an Old Friend

---

We kissed, a wet kiss,
The last time we met
Our lips parting each others
With practiced ease
Outside a nightclub
Neither of us wanted to go in.

You pulled me away
From your friends
As I flirted with my hands
Though it had been months
And we'd both soothed our heartbreak
In other people's beds.

I only remembered it later,
After you'd introduced me
To your two girls
And the man pushing the pram
As an old friend;
We spoke of people and
Places who'd crossed our paths
Avoided all the parts
Best left to the past.

It was twelve years ago, you said
But for a second it felt
Like yesterday since you led me
Upstairs in a student house
Before we spent two years
Swimming in circles
Till you got bored and
I got fat as I mourned.

We kissed last time we met,
On the right cheek,
When we said goodbye again
As I wished you the very best
This time meaning every word.

My Poetry: These foreign fields

These foreign fields

---

These foreign fields,
Where my Granddad once
Marched behind tanks
Rifle butt under
Regulation starched armpit,
Turned green to muddy red
With caterpillar tread and shot.
Where death was
A by-product of survival.

Beneath flat skies,
As grey as a December Sunday,
An army of farmers
Hid village wives and daughters
From foreign men,
Each with sorrow in his hands
Or on his brow,
Preparing to greet their fate.
Where my Granddad met death
For the first time, as he
Refused sons the right
To become grandfathers.

Now in nursing home fatigues
He remembers what
The booze and Alzheimer's
Has not stolen,
The old gang: Mick, Patrick and Ernie
Boys left in that field,
Who just months before call up
Were tilling wheat fields,
Now lost beneath bricks and mortar,
Where they turned mud to green
With plough and tractor tread.
Soon he will meet death
For the final time,
When he goes to that foreign land
And the old gang are united once more.

My Poetry: Wildflowers II

Wildflowers II

---

For Alice Denny

I do not know,
and please, do not say
what other poison rained down
upon the Wildflowers
the day the sun was lost
behind dull tongues
which spat sharp
scything words
to cut them down
where they stood.

Before that day,
before naivety was butchered
by barbed word,
I'd never met anyone whose
fragile shell was stronger
for the cracks,
whose shell was the lesser
part of the sum of their whole.
Someone for who
the war still raged
to be equal in the eyes
of those who only saw
big hands and a throat
with the kiss of Adam upon it.
Someone who fought back
as those ignorant of beauty
squashed stem and petal
under jack boot attitude
to repress Wildflower's bloom.

But we all know your heart
is stronger than fear
all seen you stood naked,
clothed only in vulnerability;
seen you retell your world
in poetic verse
with ink black words
writ big in tears across the night;
seen crowds soak them up
then applaud your bravery
as you held their attention,
while your red flower dress
kept them guessing,
because you are more complex
than poetry and fashion
or a simple word.

*This is a poem about people who are marginalised and oppressed, but who still stand up and refuse to be terrorised or kept down, people who stand proud and say 'This is who I am'.*

My Poetry: This Is Home

This is home,
where memories lie in dark niche
of lampless streets
older than the birch trees
under which we spoke
of our first kiss 
then played video games
into the night until we hit 
last base guided by cheap cider
and sleepovers of our teens
became reserved for girls.

This is home,
Where hedges I saw planted
are now head high,
hiding houses now home
to unfamiliar faces 
lined up in front of a TV 
throwing iridescent shapes 
onto muted midnight street
where silent foxes skulk
and we all pretend Monday
will never come.

This is home
where the big skies of youth
have four more stars 
looking down upon us
since I watched them
glaze over in smoky teenage haze
then later smudge with tears
so I raise the glass
a little higher tonight
in memory of those
who are eternal now.

This is home
where new faces are introduced
as old friends by friends
in pubs where our father's
fathers beat their way 
through weekend pub rounds
till Monday’s bruised knuckles
returned to building sites.
Where we now spend nights
mopping up whiskey to
escape everything the beer fails 
to silence, in company of people
whose roots have not yet took hold
in expanding village. 

This is home,
where we learnt that love 
not obsession rules the heart 
as the metallic summer sun
rose and fell with the leaves,
where green turned to golden brown
as we sat with stoned smiles
trying to outrun ghosts
of our childhood
but we all fell like Icarus,
and as we watched our youth 
race away in the rear view mirror
of old age we learnt
we could never completely leave 
our memories and tears behind.

This is home,
where memories lie in dark niche
of my lampless heart.

NB this is the sister poem to 'Docking' which you can read here if you wish: [url]http://www.thepoetryforum.co.uk/showthread.php?t=57460[/url] Both poems are about the Norfolk village I grew up in

My Poetry: Wildflowers

Wildflowers

---

They have dug up the garden
Where now shall those Wildflowers
Of our city bloom
And how will they now grow
Old with us and wilt
Within the arc of the sun
Under rainbow skies.

They stole a solitary corner of beauty
From where beauty hides
In the shadow of sky risers
Where piss snakes from dark corners
Where people hide in niches
Where roses and hyacinths
Only bloom on inked arms of hipsters
And poppies arrive in ten pound
Bouquets, drawing blood red tears
From the skin of the thin pale poets.

Now the Wildflowers are gone
We’ve one less way to find beauty
In tower block cemetary
To know nature's subtle cause
Behind the mourning eyes
Of those haunted empty beds
Which wait for life in silence,
Who know beauty is transient,
And so never chase the sun.

They have taken the garden.
Removed it from our reach,
Now how can we

teach the youth
That a tooth for a tooth is the same
As leaving hickies on a virgins neck
Like laughing at the freaks
Falling sideways down the street
As pretending life will call
After screwing you again.

They have dug up the garden
Where the wild flowers grew
The ancient worm licked soil
Which gave life to society's edge,
And fed them from its breast
Must not stay barren
Must one day return
Resurrected from concrete tome
For when they are in bloom
We are all wildflowers.

My Poetry: Carnival Ducks

Carnival Ducks

---

Lined up like carnival ducks
stalled blank faces
with old rucksacks and plastic bags
on precinct meeting place.

A hundred holy shoes lined up
along a bench,
each corner of each mouth
turned to the floor

listening to the one with
a bottle of cheap blues
and bad news on her breath
recite her lines as if she were
a leading player in a Beckett play.

They all prey for something
to soften the day, her words work
while they wait for time to pass away
like a loved pet.

An acoustic busker jams
another nineties hit;
a child dances, unaware
of everything except the music,
his parents aware of everything,
but the music.

I sit on the bench
eating a pre-packaged cheese sandwich
as i read the poster
on the theatre wall opposite.

Art mirrors life,
tragedy and humour
are married, unfaithful lovers
in this carnival town, i think,

we are either shooting
or are the game,
but never both.

 

 

My Poetry: Chocolate Cake

I bought you three cakes
all different types,
peddled those sugary wedges
across the city when demons
had you chained to your bed.

Bought you cake
because I wanted to make you feel
like I cared you got better,
because I felt helpless
to do anything else.

It was the last time I saw you.

That summer afternoon
when all the things that didn't matter
sat outside your window
baking in the afternoon heat.

The white cardboard boxes
looked like coffins
laid out on your blue cotton sheets
which turned to metal
under your touch,

you reached out
with a fork for the chocolate cake,
ate it like a sinner
consumes a last minute pardon,

you didn't speak again
after whispering a thank you,
until I left, I never knew
if it's sweet medicine healed,
I only hoped.

My Poetry: And It Stoned Me

And It Stoned Me

---

Sat, watching waves lick the beach

like a dog in summer
I find a stone and I'm stoned,
A thousand lifetimes
Cupped in my hand.
Silent, constant like the water
Which shaped it,
Or as if it'd seen things
It could not articulate

Or understood all words

Lost truth in translation.
Quite, like it had seen seas

Which no longer exist
Except in myth,
Like it could not tell of its birth
Formed in the breast
Of infant moss mountain
Riven by infinite time
Whose back was scarred
From ancient footprints.

Could not tell of how
It's been thrown by hand

Of unknown man
Knee and back bent
To a matriarch diety.

Could never speak of the day
It survived robed preachers

Whose twisted tongue
Spoke of ritualistic secrets
As they confiscated innocence
Singing from hymn sheets gilded

By soiled coin;
Curupt men who put worth
In stone tablet words
Then forgot to look
Beneath their noses
At a simple stone
And question why
Some mountains reman silent
Reaching to caress
The sad cheek of sky
While others caress
pebble beach sea
And others incite
Violence and greed.

My Poetry: Notes from a Thursday Morning

Notes from a Thursday Morning

---

The cold air,
is still as the sea.
Gulls hunt on wing
for tourist offerings,
but the barren streets
are litter free this morning,
except for the gum freckles
making them look diseased
somehow,
and of course
they are for those
stuck in god forsaken city,
static except for the lines
on bog-top tiles
and the cracked face
greeting people
with a beggars courtesy
on the bit between
St James' and North Street.
But there’s nothing
but fluff filling
my pocket so I shrug,
and offer an appology
by way of explanation that
I can't even buy a smile
from the hipster barista
in destination café,
or short order waitress
in the corner ignoring me
filling her notepad
with pencil sketches
for a new sweetheart,
cold and still as the air.

 

My Poetry: The Empty Chair

The Empty Chair

---

And from nowhere,
the empty chair appears,
its cheap pine veneer
blankly staring.
I was not even thinking
of you or her or them,
but there it is,
a silent reminder
sat neatly opposite
in sullen soundtrack cafe,
as if from nowhere
like a summer storm or
guest house ghost
to remind the eye,
what it does not see
that a solitary coffee
is no substitute
since we said goodbye.

My Poetry: The Old Hobo

The Old Hobo

---

Bare threads drawn close
against the dry cold,
he looks to all the world
like an unmade bed;
unkempt beard bursting
to break free of chin,
smelly and stained with
butt-end smoke, but
never food.
Seasoned by six winters
with outstretched palm,
four soiled nails and
baited tongue he
boldly seeks to snag
the odd spare coin,
where spare coin is none;
some see this seaside man,
some choose to ignore
him stood like a question mark
on pavement ends,
back twisted from concrete
mornings, preaching
empty bottle homilies
to commuters for free,
but he knows the price
freedom demands so he obeys
life's three constant truths:
a man must water his thirst
then feed his hunger
then damn the rest.

 

My Poetry: Friendship is one long monologue

Friendship is one long monologue

---

Friendship is one long monologue,
says my shadow as we walk
swapping witticisms
like a whore accepts compliments.
In the breaks between words
I number the pavement cracks
the way I count my failures:
one at a time and in no particular order.

But, I can feel the sun rising

and know one day I'll be without you,

as light pushes you back,
but you'll be there each time
I tip-toe round the cracks
as I count my successes -
one at a time,
so lets make the most of now,
while we can my oldest friend.

My Poety: I Hold Your Favourite Flower

I Hold Your Favourite Flower‏

---

In left hand I hold
a flower, least it was once
before shaking hand cut
its green thorny fuse
by morning light.
I raise it to my nose
to see if the ghost
of its perfumed spirit
still remains
within its velvet white petals.
I hold it hoping to bring
back beauty to where
a beauty was lost.

The grave evening is so still
I can hear autumn's breath
blow gold leaves
across the unmown grass,
pure green except for the patch
at my knees;
hear the wind whisper,
just like you used to:
'Get up before you ruin
your trouser suit.'
Your voice fills me again
as wet fingers return
broken flower's fuse to earth,
though I know
it can no longer grow old,
just like you cannot.

My Poetry: My Youth is not Dead

My Youth is not Dead

---

I hum a song you say
you don't recognise,
a song you may never know,
for we are yet to share
such intimate secrets,
perhaps we never will.
You joke, I smile
till my eyes craze at the corners
like a broken plate,
your eggshell skin, smooth
and uncracked, reveals only dimples.
You make fun of my mobile
and my CD collection,
how my 90s shirt is worn
at the lapel and cool again, almost.

All the while you remain immaculate;
scarlett lips in jet black cloak,
wise in knowing the facts of youth,
thinking beauty will protect you
from the echoes of time,
but before too soon you'll hear
the melancholy bell
which chimes for lost years,
feel the pull of gravity
as your smile slips like chalk cliff.
And as you question the songs I hum,
I remind you my youth is not dead,
just as yours will grow old,
but not today,
for today you glow.

My Poetry: It's Easy To Be Lonely

It's Easy To Be Lonely

---

It's easy to be lonely,
spend solitary months
speaking only to buy beer
hid in busy pubs,
watching receding tide line
of cheap porter fall
in unison with the sun,
and later coke black rum.

Silent for whole days
wasting empty afternoons
walking without destination,
till old broken bench beckons
from where to watch
churning eternal water
swell and fall away;
feel the ebb and flow of life
wash through poison veins.

Sat next to a stranger
with daydreams in blue curve
of jean thigh and rose lips;
but no words seem sensible
making hello redundant
so we watch the day tick by,
quiet in each other’s company
because it easier to stay lonely.

 

NB> Loneliness, like love and happiness, seems to be a topic many can relate to.

I think all writers crave a little solitude - it's where we acheive our thinking and creating - but as a great lyricist Annika Norlin aka Hello Saferide put it 'Loneliness Is Better When You're Not Alone' can hear it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2xgUXNJuIQ

My Poetry; Hunst'un

Hunst'un

---

It’s June and the streets are pretty
much deserted in Sunny Hunny.
I sit watching the promenade's
hardy city tourists trudge
hunting for candy floss and souvenirs
around clearance sale shops
with fading, tattered veneers.
Jelly arsed woman and bald men
cower from the shower
under the canopies dotted along shore

of shellfish and burger stalls.

I watch the bus trip tourists,

steam rising from their hands,
move to bench to consume tea,
coffee and hot doughnuts.
The matriarch of the group sits
beneath a large blue and red umbrella;
they smile despite the drizzle.
These people have no idea
they are becoming immortalised,
statues chiselled from words,
have no idea what it means to
slowly calcify in this small town.

The rain falls lazily, steadily
flat grey sky from horizon to horizon.
On concrete wall, barricading beach
from the rest of the world, I remain.
Thunder, like a death rattle,
reaches across the wash,
the sea-side resort breaths heavier,
the fairground far right
works on half mast, rides closed,
just the dodgems and arcade
throw fluorescent beams of noise
onto the glistening world,
a reminder of yesterday’s promises
today has failed to honour.

Behind this is Hunst’un town centre.
The town closes at 5pm.
Coffee and clothes shops,
discount stores and local bores
head home to prepare for tomorrow.
Walking past funeral parlour
I see it’s taken on the keys
from closed Co-op shop next door,
as if death has started to take over
slowly ingesting this town
one bit at a time.

http://norfolkdialect.com/villages.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hunstanton

My Poetry: I Pretend the Rain

I Pretend the Rain

---

I pretend the rain dropping heavy
on my windows are beetles,
running to get home before
the day drowns them.
Sipping at a cracked glass
of cheap red wine
I wonder if the world has stopped:
the streets are empty,
the sirens are silent,
even the cars seem to have disappeared.
I wonder if the world is at home,
warm and dry with loved ones.
Not wasting time
watching beetles race
on their window panes.

My Poetry: Docking

Docking

---

The autumn hues of this land
have long faded into winter,
which bites at ears and ruddy nose.
The landscape has become pastel,
a thousand shades of brown,
burrs of the muddy borough
shorn smooth of its sharpness,
smudged outlines of naked trees,
hibernating hedgerows,
three hundred-year-old farm stays,
crumbling blacksmiths, closed,
next to duckless pond,
old railway working pubs now holiday cottages;
like morning mirror I recognise it all in reflection.

This village moves on between visits,
Station Road, that now leads to defunct lines,
is quiet as rumbling bouncing machines
of agriculture rest in barn beds,
while the seeds of tomorrow's bread
lie patiently in frosting earth for sun
to wake them; some will not make it,
taken early by the shadow black raven
who sits on metal gate
till the time is right to swoop
with lavish swish of wing to swipe
poor seed's destiny afore its prime.

But the world is hid, today,
squirreled away from the dull shades
of a month’s winter,
from the sad trees, boughs bowed
to the wind and weak sun,
from green tartan patches turned brick red;
I remember walking those fields
when the summer of my youth was strong
and my heart was light blue
like the milky skies I wandered under.
I did not fear the winter then,
it was yet to draw me asunder.

But some things never change,
the accents draw out nostalgia,
like a bramble splinter from finger.
This land, beyond the flats and broads,
where stars hug the sky close like new lovers
and even twinkle in silent icy evenings,
where stereotypes prop up bars,
and youth ages with old responsibilities,
Yes this land will always be my home.

Docking is the village I grew up in. It is the highest point in north-west Norfolk, close to Kings Lynn, Hunstanton and Burnham Thorpe, the birthplace of Lord Nelson.
why not have a look: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Docking,_Norfolk

The old blacksmiths (now closed)

The Railway Pub (still open)

                                                       

The duck pond, looking down Station Road (is quiet as rumbling bouncing machines
of agriculture rest in barn beds

 

My Poetry: Rapper V Poets

This was written after a rappers v poets night. both parties had to 'battle' ie put the other team down. This is what popped into my head...

For context:
Boots is a UK pharmacy
Primark is a cheap clothing store
Jade Goody - was an media idolised idiot from the council estates and winner of Big Brother
Source is the US Hip Hip magazine
O Dog is a charactor from Menace to Society (a film about LA gangs)
GCSEs are high school grades
Waitrose is an upmarket grocery store
Queen Lizzy (UK's Queen Elizabeth) is on all UK banknotes

There's no need to diss us poets,
O' hip hoppers, we're not that different
the same things ococupy our minds:
words and bitches and guns,
except the ones who inspire my rhymes
leave me crying at Big Bang storylines
and the 10milli guns which protect I
come in pin bin boxes from Boots.

Your flows flavoured with beats
wankin over lyrical disses
and how many bitches you think
you should be fucking,
if only you didn't have weed impotence
from idolising O Dog from Menace.
Stinking up vinyl bedrooms with semen socks
used to mop the cover of a '94 Source.

Our bedrooms are just as musty
and barren 'cept we live in dusty sanctuary
of poetic page.
Reading dead scribe books
memorising sonnets and rhyming couplets
...pretending we're Shelley like that'll get us laid.

Who cares if we wear shiny, shiny shoes o leather
when your logoed sneakers and hoody
make you look like a Primark Jade Goody.
Presuming we're pretentious
'cus we got past the opening sentence
of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night
and use the word in context
without needing a thesaurus
cus you couldn't sit your GCSEs
even though your mum's a teacher.

Presuming we don't understand the streets
and beats because you use hood slang
learned from Wu Tang cuts
even though the only corners you know
are the Mueller yogurts
home delivered by Waitrose.

And you say we're all middle class
but I'm on first name terms
with Mr Singh from our road
who sells me out of date loaves
cus its been three months
since I heard Queen Lizzy Sing.

My Poetry: If You

If You...

---

If you love,

                  You must understand
                                                   Nothing is forever.
If you dream,
                     You must realise
                                                Life's alarm clock is set.
If you care,
                 You must dare
                                        To give completely.
If you worry,
                     You must know
                                              Storm clouds are temporary.
If you try,
               You must accept
                                         Rejection as a given.
If night terrorises,
                            You must remember
                                                            The sun also rises.
If once you believed,
                                 You must again
                                                         And heal what cleaved.
If you forget,
                    These things, then
                                                 Know this poem is for you.

My Poetry: I Think of Her

I Think of Her

---

Sat listening to Billy,
ensconced in pub,
watching afternoon busses
through squared glass
pass pedestrians and bikes
along exhausted streets;
I feel the need to return
back home to her side,
leave these half started
monochrome days, sketched
with discontented pencils-
days erased by rising sun
only to repeat again, again, again.
And you continue to sing
but, oh Billy what strange fruits
this town bares, bowl empty
with promises unredeemed
by those naked branches,
sedate till next harvest?
What crop awaits I, a seed of
broken teen condom-
guess i was a fighter, once,
eager to escape captivity
of eternal holy womb, but
now I want to return,
to the mute Autumn colours
of a farming county
I grew through childhood with,
to her rattling chest, which
sings out mournful psalms
which date before black books of tradition
took its toil and toll
on her ancestor's bodies.
Home, where life taps her shoulder
as if to say
you are next to be served
in endless death queue.

My Poetry: A Gin Evening

A Gin Evening

---

"I don't read", you said,
I replied I did, then
On bare tree evening
Became Illiterate while
Leafing through the lines
On your face, during pauses
In pregnant conversation,
Noted folded arms,
Right hand raised to bare shoulder
Then a touch of ear,
As you slid back your hair;
Trigger movements, maybe,
Between cucumber sips
Of botanical liquids
Drained hi-ball refilled.
Your red lips, smacking tongue,
Was still yet to release
Fears and neurosis, then
Later, you leaned inside
My arms and surprised me
With a cool gin kiss.
So I took your hand,
Led you through dark morning streets,
Where the only stars shining
Were outside late night bars,
To once barren bed
And as we lay naked,
but for candle light cover,
I finally stopped reading.

 

 

My Poetry: That Old Low Moon

That Old Low Moon

---

That old low, white gold
button moon, mottled
by the seas of our tranquillity,
sits as if holding up
the ink blue fabric of the night
from falling, suffocating
our evening's dreaming.
And like the red head's dress
I wonder what secrets hide
behind that fabric;
what would be, if
with twitching fingers I flicked
the golden button,
relieving soft cloth from stella,
then slipped it from the shoulders
of the universe and gazed upon
the infinite magic
of her celestial body.
Would the secrets of life
reveal themselves?
To I a humble servant
of Eros and life.

 

 

 

My Poetry: So Tired

Don't you know?... im tired
of chasing rainbows,
ass, drugs, false careers.
Tired of the hangover
of a year bent double
deflecting constant blows
to bruised ego, which left me
longing to climb umbilical noose
back to the shelter of my mother's womb,
which took 24 years to cut, and
almost took my life as i fought
for the sort of internal peace
only oblivion or death can offer.
Im so tired of texting,
stupid words thinking it will make her
drop her drawers and point
that holy hairy cnut in my direction.
Im so tired of hoping inspiration
will take me from this place
I never planned to be, and
stop me poisoning a body
already weak from late night recoveries.
Im tired of hearing
pavement evangelists insisting
God knows Me,
but can only answer simple questions
with practiced homilies
while trying to slip me salvation
verse pamphlets promising
to bear the weight of parent's cross.
But if He doesn't know,
after so much praying,
his flock knows,
the sea knows, the empty glass knows,
the cut magazine wrap knows,

my bank knows, salt cheeks know,

 now you know,
I'm so tired.

 

 

 

My Poetry: By Candle Light

By Candle Light

---

         S      
               O      
                   L      
                         I             
           T
         A  

            R        
Y
waning candle
casts orange light
across the ceiling
the walls, her face
which lays with soft
movements - in, out.
On this black morn
waiting for rising sun
she looks like a child:
no fear, hate, prejudice
lines her face. I imagine
the whole path of life
unfolding in small flickers
beneath her gentle eye lids,
and for the first time, I want
to take her hand, be led down
that path so far as to forget,
so far as all I remember
before her fingers found mine
are those summer country
months of youth; when fears
lasted minutes and a day
was found in every hour.
My heart beats fill the silent candled room,
And as the sun creeps through the cracks
In makeshift curtain, waiting for her to wake,
I cup lightly her delicate white hand
And dream a long, simple
Dream.....

__________________

My Poetry: She Now Rests

She Now Rests

---

Wind whistles against window,
warm duvet hugs paling corpse
but sleep is no friend
to I, or monotonous minute hand.

As deep night closes in ,
my love's ghost creeps,
to and fro, piercing
consciousness like a corkscrew.

Nefarious nimble night, still
dances lightly round the bed
singing ghostly indigo verses, full
of gravest memories, which fall

Into shadow shaded room
while heaving howling wind cries:
'oh, woe is he,
that dresses day with dreams

'The pitching, rolling naked night
will not make manifest
lest promises pledged to pagan witches
stewing heathen magic brews come true.'

Insomnia song repeats till
madness starts to sing:
''oh, woe is me, who mourns
till dawn for return of she,

'She, laid sadly in salty dirt,
with worm and three and thirty rose
to hold cold body warm,
now sun shines on her no more.'

And so this spectre, nightly haunts
with soft incessant songs, which fill
the spaces left between the clocking ticks
where love, and sadness and she now rests.

 

                              

My Poetry: When Christmas Missed Us

When Christmas Missed Us

---

Pyjama clad, in duvet wrapped,
he lay meditating on expectations
inherent in the most holy
of consumerist days,
when families gather around
to compare gifts received
beside silenced TV and plastic tree.

Child still, till silence tempts patience
from crumpled bunk-bed sheets;
so in secret slippered steps
down wooden hill, he tip-toes,
to check if, to eldest son,
Mum's mournful tongue
had spoken truth, when,
with wet cheek confessed
Santa would not stop this eve,
‘cus pennies were scarce
in single parent's purse.

So he creeps to catch a secret
peak beneath and behind sitting room
sofa seats, but all that hid
was tortoise shell kitten sleeping.
So back to bed, and flooded pillow,
not for lack of action figure,
but because he knew
who it hurt the most,
when Christmas missed us.

My Poetry: Notes From a London Bus

Notes From a London Bus

---

Bare trees reach up from small islands
Where tarmac refuses to grow,
Knotted, callused branches
Like an old man's finger,
Point towards an iron sky
Lined with ornate gold bauble roofs, and
Black glass high risers, which
Harbour the dark suited whores,
Sat in window boxes, at electric desks
Sucking up to bosses they diss
Biting lips cus of double dip recession fears,
Smile and continue to tap screens,

Renting out their lives by the year

Till carriage clock pensions yeild.

Meanwhile, Friday night saints and sinners
begin preperations for weekend absulutions,
Who will either kneel before
A folklore character or false pop idol
Before Monday arrives, carrying
A suitcase full of stresses, and
Five quid M+S mel deals for one.
Believing promises of happiness,
Will come true if they sacrifice
Their time on wealth's alter
Ignorant it will be the only god
Certain to let them down
When that eternal night falls.

A plumber's mate sleeps in passenger seat

As bus crabs alongside white van men
On congested four-way inner city streets
Where people move like crazed ants:
Across pavements, on foot, on crutches,

On scooters, in wheel chairs,
Searching for the end of their rainbows,
But the sun hides today
In deference to rain and fog,

Besides all precious metals paving the streets

Is just fool's gold for minor men.

Meanwhile the bus battles on like a ship
Chasing the minute hand, till
Metal fences turn to hedges,
Buildings become lower, cleaner,

nuclear incubators of suburban dreams
Till even they fade from the horizon,

Into a thousand different shades
Of green and browns

Decorated with silver ribbons, winding
Long and smooth from distant mountains.
Tired eyes follow flashing white lines,
Refocus on reflections on tinted window.

This side of the city divide
Some trees cling to leaves

As if the fight can be won in the country,
But their fallow branches must relent,
Just as an old man must repent,
And smile as he goes toe-to-toe with his fate.