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.