Scissors of Love

Underneath the moon
Hold cold hands

Hold hands - tight
Walk barefoot in the sand

Wear tee shirts
Open minds

Walk to the wave’s edge
Talk to tomorrow

Walk, hold bold hands
Warm deep inside

Talk through the moment
On in to the next one

Wear just our imagination
Wishes that we wish

This one didn't make it into the collection Watercombe - Love in Open Moorland, to find out what did click here

About Eight

Stalled

Seven tall

Into the set of sun

Stopped

Then dropped

This war my course has run

No one knows 

These words I shout

No one understands

Always doubt

My words about

And no one gives a damn

So let me set it straight

Nothing clever, wait

Let me hesitate

Simply a celebration

Rows of poppies

In a wild garden

About eight; in the evening

A setting sun

In these first few days of summer

A photograph

You smile, we laugh

The light catches all the crinkles

We’ve sprinkled magic dust

On our generations rust

In time to mingle, to be singularly free

This poem was left on the cutting room floor when Embroidered Cadillac - Love in Tennyson County was edited, for the final cut got to smashwords by clicking her

A softer story

The history is of a fainter memory
Faded photographs, dust covered pictures
Tears of happiness
Tears of joy

Tears of tearing apart
And the hurt of innocence
All bundled here together
Safe of de-fragmented memory

The hairs on my arms
Tell a softer story; stroked
By all of those who I have loved
And those who have loved me

For now it is our own skin
That paints the richer pictures
That tells the fairer story
That lives, to give a longer life


This poem was left on the cutting room floor when Embroidered Cadillac - Love in Tennyson County was edited, for the final cut got to smashwords by clicking her

Undressed

Eyes open, eyes closed
Mind woken
Soft spoken sunlight

Warm
Round your bosom breast
I rest my love & all of my possessions

Eyes still, eyes filled
With happy
Tender projections

Smile
You go soft across my lips

Erect on my finger tips, blest my love

A breeze
A whirlwinds whisper
Hair sailed, thinly veiled

Yet o so
My girl
You do touch me

Some test my love
Undressed
Of all my flying colours


This poem was left on the cutting room floor when Embroidered Cadillac - Love in Tennyson County was edited, for the final cut got to smashwords by clicking her

Before

Unseen
Between here
And wherever

Sunlight falls on swaying trees

Bay leaves
She left
Just last summer

Waited there
For the last
Passing cloud

Before she hit the road, before she hit the bottle

Forgotten sounds
And pleasure grounds
And lights there

Fair a plenty

Uncared
She stared
Into every which

And every other way

Prepared only for forgiveness
No other thought as mad
Had she to give

Awash

The melancholic grieve
Yet still even now
So softly we believe

Her kiss quite simply did precede her


This poem was left on the cutting room floor when Embroidered Cadillac - Love in Tennyson County was edited, for the final cut got to smashwords by clicking her

Sear shine move blue flame to blue

Sear shine
Move blue flame to blue
Waken, exult, arise
Turn on the blue to angel blue

Each dream that walks
Each step so light
Move on; let them be
Let each one be

this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

Secret Number Stuff

I try your phone
no ones there

I try your phone
someones there; engaged

I try your phone
lonesomes there not you

I wait for you to return my call
read Dylan Thomas

I visualise his patterns
a vocal vocabulary of pain

I drift inside the writers world
poetry is always to be thus

The telephone rings
startled I try to gain a grip on the night

I hear your happiness
forever I can tell you of Rollo May

this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

I found a bit more of the dropped stuff

I laugh on my own
but I am not alone

I laugh on my own, but I am not alone
No you are here you do not disappear
Is this the same for lovers in grief
The disbelief
Shown by friends and family
Who do not, will not understand
You have not gone
Not away
Just to another peaceful place
Where I join you
Everyday, in my own gentle way

this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

Last of the dropped stuff

Recollecting past emotive feelings

How could I have conceit to deceive myself
How can I a man
Imagine how a woman would feel
Not made of steel, not mechanistic
An individual
With one's own thoughts and feelings

How could I have deceit to conceive myself
That I a man
Cannot imagine a woman
Should steal herself not to feel
The receipt of a flower
With a smile


this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

more of the dropped stuff

I stare at the blank piece of paper
My thoughts all over the place
At work, at play, at rest
Melancholy could be allowed to enter
Saturday night in bed by ten all alone long way from home
But more than this would be needed for the basis of despair

Imagine one gene from where their is energy
Imagine more than one, a cellarfull of cells
Where is energy
Meditation calms, relaxes, releases minds energy
Where is energy
Lucozade gives glucose gives body energy
Where is energy
Alcohol stimulates, inebriates, eventually suffocates energy
Where
Nicotine infiltrates to create headache energy
Why
Passion rouses bodies warm fluids flow in a flood a burst of energy
Wow

this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

More dropped stuff

And so we go our own way
A path not trod before
Each bracken broke
A breaking new

We know this way to be our own way
Our own not known before
Each thought awoke
A thinking new

With light and might we walk our own way
Stealth of stride alone no more
Each slice of slight
Incite light new

this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

Dropped

that same old inconsistency
always the same
old inconsistency
continues always
along that same old
road to incredulity
segregated - why
you like to write
egress outward
like to words
release unleash
forgotten depths


this poem lies on the cutting room floor, for the ones that made it into the pamphlet Yorkshire Love Poems & Other Desperate Stuff click her

Bosh

With an impersonators skill
Complete with arm movements
& pointed finger
We are given another chapter
In the latest saga
Of the destructive monologues
Through fizzling gritted teeth
& pursed lips
We hear the detritus
Of the old man’s worldly thoughts
& guidance for youths to follow

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Port

Island waters: seas, lochs, streams, waterfalls
The poet’s father’s daughter plays the pipes and all
All to have a calling from the birth date to the wake
Words that stall, fall short of deep within
Rhythms of the oceans & of the seven deadly sins

Sunlight on the ferry
As for the boys in France
Back to making merry
Lead the nearly men a dance

Tall ships and seaborne warriors
Divers for the crab and clam
Hear the anthems of the Highlands
Fire the fear and then be damned

Dream of wide open moorland
Sleep on thoughts of mountain tan
Lay down old preoccupations
As you would in far away Japan

With the author who committed seppuku
After turning the pages on the love that ran

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Transmission

Past Benbecula airstrip
My mind trips into the past
Your lasting impressions
Stress the importance
Concordance of memory

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Volbeda

He paints from memory
He walks across the Machair
Out to the still or raging seas, on to the life of living sands
Back in his studio he lets the canvas carry his load

He works from memory
The depths of his unconscious are ravaged
Whilst his present mood
Is reflected in the surface tension of the painting

These will be original works of memory
For as  Jac says
He is a professional artist
He is a painter, not a printmaker

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Young Man

Restless soul
Rips at his cigarette
His thin artist legs
Carried quickly by red plimsolls

As he skips
Across the decking
On to the seaweed strewn rocks
By the loch side


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Reclamation Yards

Past the broken down tractors
Past the randomly discarded farm implements
Over the heather moor and peat bog
Past the rebuilt black houses
Past the new houses with abandoned static caravans

The islanders you would think are not fond of aesthetic beauty

Perhaps this is what a hard life brings; years of cutting peat or catching fish, years of toil before this current time in the work of supporting the leisured classes

Perhaps these years of hardship coupled with the very regular visits of mist and rain combine to build an island consciousness, where survival & shelter come first, a very long way first

This is not then a place for you seekers, of the peak, of the self realisation pyramid

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Rain

There is a song at the waters edge
There are pebbles on vacant sands
There are swirls
Where the water heads towards the sea
There are people, why wouldn't there be

The beauty of this beach idyll
Is then all but beaten out of me
By Kate's insistence
That we carry on walking in the rain
Towards a small dwelling
With four windows and a door

I go along with the daftness for a while
But finally insist on returning to the hotel
Kate takes shelter
She walks to my left side away from the slanting rain
My right side becomes soddened

At the cross roads we turn right
Now we walk directly into the wind, and rain
Kate takes shelter
She walks just short of a rainfalls depth behind me
My front becomes entirely soddened

A calm emerges, clear light ahead
There are songs in my heart
There are stones for my feet to kick
There are puddles for children to skip and splash in
There are people, why wouldn't there be


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Steve Jobs

He is a guy I never met
But I think I would have liked to

Willie's Campaign

A warmer wind
Nine seagulls on sentry duty
On top of the ferryboat docking posts

Out in the sound
Past the buoys and the markers
Beyond the Shiants and the fish-farms

A warmer water
Suited to dolphins and whales
Soaked in dreams of human pastimes

Framed for the canvas
Stilled by the paintbrush or camera
Settled by slower words, irregular verse

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Framed

Endless shimmers
Wave after wave of nostalgia
Patterns thought never to be repeated

Bring their own sense of what’s gone on before
They dwell here & now for a while
Before moving on, to afterwards, ever so slowly

Photographers flip out
Their flip up cameras
Form into rows and rows

To capture the ferry's berth
We are number two
In the orderly queue

We look back, focus
With a self satisfied smile
On our fellow travellers

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Itinerant

A hive and a beanstalk

A tin hut on the bog

Heaven on a peat moor

Slow down you damnable frog

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