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Friday 23 February 2024

Schoolmaster or Engineer

A well pressed suit, oh Lord

Close cropped slicked back hair

A bicycle with trouser clips

Memories of service in the Second World War


I thought I saw you today in Lincolnshire

For certain, but a while ago, for the both of us

I also saw you heading for the Post Office

In deepest Devon


Your wife I will now surmise

Passed this way backalong

Dusted off her apron, polished the dresser

And shone the grandchild’s shoes


The Maserati and Isuzu Impreza

Roar on by with the throttles to the floor

Passed the stockings and the trousers

Faster than the well groomed hair


I’m not a working man

Nor are the rest of them

I think that one day I can

Then I hear the news


The bicycles of Tiananmen Square

The flashing flesh of youth

I wondered

If, oh no Lord, were you there?



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Thursday 22 February 2024

Indebted to forever true

A triangle of light, a trigpoint

In your personal space

This then your mountain

To climb with grace


Walk one step, then one other

The raindrops, before the sleet and snow

Wind chimes remind you of your mother

The Inkspots, the Black and White Minstrel Show


A circular sunrise

Vehicular and vernacular

Over nearby trees, and I suspect

Also in far-off valleys


And on the Somerset flatlands

Over the populous Lincolnshire marshes

Across the Arizona desert

And more slowly; somewhere nearer home


Talk, one word and then one other

The bottoms dropped, from down below

Rhythm and rhyme remind you of your brother

Also of Amen Corner and Andy Fairweather-Low



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Wednesday 21 February 2024

Cut with a razors touch

Sat

On the arm

Of the vast armchair


You look

But you cannot

Stare


Your ears

Tuned to some

Super sensitivity


You listen

But you do not

Dare


Flat

On the edge

Of the cricket square


You took and carried

Now you know

You can’t not care


Your hands

Tuned to some

Downhill delivery


My throws

Are curled, hurled

With hopes of receptivity



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Tuesday 20 February 2024

The back end of September

This could be

The long last day of summer

This time so so free

It is now I have I see

Once again to become a number


Though not before the breeze

Or the sunrise

Or the filtered light

So so tight; my eyes, my hands

They have to find their own way


The gardener, in his Suffolk smock

The fairground girl

With her countryfied frock

The world is our oyster

With fate now so firm unlocked


Sit here

In this Mediterranean zephyr

With an English tea

And rose perfume


Among the pagodas

Down by the waters edge

The tinker bells

Tinkle tap their tune


This could be

There goes the breeze again

Through and out the garden

Over the roses, down by the waters edge


You do know how it is now

Now don’t you

Although it could still be the middle of June



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Monday 19 February 2024

Of course he added that bit later

This is not

On the South Bank

Or down

Upbeat Boulevard Way


No, I’m afraid

It’s just a coffee shop in a parking lot

An out of town, out of place

Shopping parade


You do not mind

That you are late for work

Your unkindness then

To talk of Rahsaan Roland Kirk


Across from Chelsea gardens

Uptown though not so far away

The aroma of Elizabeth Arden

All of that from another day


Past times

Walks to upshot galleries

With glass high cafeterias

In the sky


All of that now gone

All but not forgotten

The Rothko, the Derby

The absence of the new


Springs of early summers

When we did not mind

That we were late for work

You and your Captain Kirk



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