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.