Revealed

Knocked about
Rough edges smoothed over
Rough diamond
A touch too smooth

Shaped by all
That society could muster
Trusted too many pamphlets
Too many self-help books

Stripping bare
Is not an alternative
For the King
With too many clothes

A poem from Rising Shoots & Falling Stars Love Caught in the Crossfire - Available from iTunes - see details by clicking on this text

Rivulet

Wave crash

Whiplash

Onward

Unknown soldier

Wave crash

Sea splash

Oceans grow

Ever deeper, ever colder

Salt water drains

Across bitumen tarmac

Lit by starlight; the streetlight

Goes as nowhere

Rain water

Drains into rivulets

Hidden, moss grown stones

Roll on, roll on over

Wave crash

Pebble-dash

Inward, homeward

Onward, boulder

Wave crash

Cars smash

Society’s apart

Grown colder

A poem from Rising Shoots & Falling Stars Love Caught in the CrossfireAvailable from iTunes - see details by clicking on this text

Invitation

Where are you now
Write to me more often
Where are we now
So innocently spoken

Where I am
Fairly often
There you are then
Nothings broken

Written invitation
Simulated tactile sensation
The coffee’s black
In Massarella’s café

The light is bright
Behind the lens
I smile, awhile
In moments of magic

Where are you now
Write to me more often
Where are we now
So excitedly spoken

Knocks on the head
Some say I still suffer
Knocks on the head
Woken with beauty

Concentrate
On a transparent mind
Postulate, bring to life
Disorder thoughts inside

Drive me
Madly
Introverted
Extrovertly

Where are you know
Write to me more often
Where I am now
Panic fades slowly

A birth is more special
Than I can contemplate
A life is more special
Than I dare care to admit

How to release
Unwise ineffectual pressures
Retain, explain
Loves compassion learnt

Where are you now
Write to me more often
Grow me
Slowly

I feel
To exude high expectation
Is this received
Perceived, untrue

You seem able
Stable, of invention
Thoughtful, real, true
You, you…

Supportive or disruptive
Challenge or cajole
Balanced or biased
Me or you

Energy flows
The picture grows
The smile returns
Doubts burn away

Where are you now
Speak to me
Speak to me more often
Kick me

Metaphorically
Engage me
Express me super-sensually
Draw me, repeatedly

Tell me
What I should give
Demand of me
To reach you, with you

Command; perhaps
On reflection
The flow should meander
A little

Where are you now
Still with me
Instill in me more often
Be no more a distraction

Extracting
Self satisfaction
Self sufficiently
Unaware

People need people
Compliments breathe
Human intercourse is
The second oxygen of life

Where are you now
Will you
Be
By my side



A poem from Rising Shoots & Falling Stars Love Caught in the Crossfire

Available from iTunes - see details by clicking on this text

Phantasy

The rules of deception
A modern boutique hotel
Sepia tone pictures on the wall
Leather clad menus at the table
Sultry jazz music for wallpaper

Sat at separate tables, to begin

The cast iron posts and rails
That divide off the raised area
They appear to be authentic
Carry years of painted layers
Fixed down by torn headed bolts

We look away at the sea-view, to begin

Her long hair is dyed jet black
Straggly, but not in any way untidy
Sure, for sure to be authentic
The significant ring is on her finger
If you don't know me by now
You wont ever, ever know me

Elegantly she moves, to begin

Dressed entirely in the finest silk and lace
She makes slow passage to the ladies room
My watch drains towards eternity
Into the light the black clad mistress emerges
Floats on air past me without motion
Past me, on to the funeral directors parlour



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Engineer, Mathematician, Poet

Twenty-five years
Before I dared
To use the p word

You used it
In the first poem
In your first published collection

Although even you
You the most forthright
Of your generation

Even you
You dared not go there
Not on the first line

Instead you cared
To lead us on
With a quaff of the black stuff

& words drawn
From the north-south divided
Attractions of polar-physics

Later I will paint
Fall in love
With absorption

Think of gin
Stilled in my
Grandparents parlour

Later still I will dream
Walk or fly
Run or skip

Become endearingly
Overwhelmed by the days
Experiences & visitations



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Nuclear non-laconic

All of all time
Dwell on physical love
Soft blown heads of corn
Newly mown, fresh laid hay
Warm skin with the elements
Traced lines in virgin fields
Fondles on summers sands
Shadows, on and off the page

Temptation of sensual deliverance
Open to touch, open to exploration
Manyfold the layers of reflection
In the hazy afternoon sunshine
Daydreams of coastal paths
Of bathing in salt water
Naked and immense


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Shag

Shag
Wings open
To catch the prevailing wind
Lord of all he surveys

Lord of the waves
The sun, the crescent horizon
Lord, of the diminutive rock

On which he stands
Lord of the igneous intrusion
Further out at sea

This is the blue
These are the blues
Blues you are my colour

Thus he sits
Night to day
To keep the flock in order

To absorb the blue light
To infuse the blue energy
To turn his back on Prussia's blue

To rush through
Way ahead of the rest
A seer
A black-blue guide
A singular portrayer
Beyond the oceans cosmos



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Take

Take in the air
The smell of the sea
The stench of seaweed
Beached by incoming tide

Take in the sound
The soft splash of leaves
The shriek of gull
Swooping for your ice-cream

Take in the view
The unhurried horizon
The tar splattered rocks
Of the environmental disaster

Take in the touch
The so submissive sand
The discarded broken bottle
That gashes your careless barefoot

Take in the taste
The neeps & tatties
The stale steak and ale pie
Left on the squalid pantry shelf





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HD Day One

How does he do that I ask

I don't tell everyone but this is a sunken shape, coloured with non-reflective pigment says the gallery guide

I go on to ask about the transparent cube?

I can't actually say much about that, Anish is till secretive about some of what makes his fortune

We are outside now, into the industrial landscape, to see art that makes a statement; did I even hear someone say ‘he is the beginning of our fresh shoots of recovery’

Almost impossible to photograph, in isolated entirety at any rate; I am though affected; first physically, from the distance of the footbridge

I feel to be being drawn inwards, as though the wire shape invokes the effects of a fairground vortex
Back on terra-firma my consciousness marvels at their ideas, commends the fine technical skill

We continue our journey onwards, propelled across the river; our first time on a transporter bridge, further impressed we travel up the coastal route, past the tall ships; sails at rest to the backdrop of boarded up terraced houses

We pass edge of town shops, securely shuttered, travel on to a solitary column of rock off the cliffs edge where we take photographs, before checking-in to our 4 star hotel

After a couple of beers, in a pub full of hen-parties we have lamb biryani with aubergine on the side, followed later by a stroll along a quiet promenade
We are in search of the nights invisible starlit moon




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At Table

The straight glass cylinder
Leans over, ever so slightly

As a younger man I might
Have had the certainty
The arrogance to tell you
By how many degrees

But for now let me say
Less than one or two
At least insufficient
To raise any concern

The tube sits on top of a vessel
A voluminous crystal container
For oil or paraffin, or whatever
Would cause the wick to flame

Between the vessel and the tube
There is a mechanical contraption
A geared disk, for the butler
To raise or lower the light

This controlled illumination, with fine adjustment
Is placed at the master, or his guests convenience
There to set the ambiance for their lusts fulfilment
& the more exotic forms of demonic debauchery

Today the whole device is stilled
It as been drained, washed, cared for
It sparkles clean; but it is without use
Other than to fix this writers eye


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Back when you’ve gone away

What did you say
About downtown
On Saturday
Would you so play

There on the bank
The brink of fair happiness
Dressed in mink
She winks and walks on by

Hey now they say
She'll be back
Wait for time to take
The rough cuts… the malady


This poem is from the collection East of Lincoln Central available now on kindle - click on the text for details

Its early how are you

Other singer's songs
Are singing in my head
It's eight in the morning
I'm more alive than dead
I've woke and it's quite early
Sleep came as such a fake
I've spoke to no one lately
But smile so soon I wake
But smile so soon I wake

Other florist's flowers
Are garlands posed deep red
I wait for early warnings
In all the words I've said
I wake within the bird song
Fawn as the love of life is led
I wake in the early morning
Look back at what I've read

It's early; bird's are singing

It's early; I am bringing
Bringing you
Back into my bed
Cocoa pops and cider
Lay right down beside her
Smoke that slow cigarette
Pluck the strings so slow
Undress again my blue
Undress my beauty baby blue

You came to be my lover
You came to be my life
No shame you said to smother
No blame or sacrifice
Other writer's words
Walk easy in my land
Other talkers talk
They seem a happy band
I've woke and it's quite early
Sleep came as such a fake

I've spoke to no one lately
But smile so soon I wake
But smile so soon I wake

Other chartist’s showers
Are sprinkled now unsaid
I wait for curlews blinkered
On the entire world I have fed
I wait with soft words fingered
The gift of life is bred
I wait as lightness itself still lingered
Love laid back on the weeps of wed

It's early how are you
It's early how far you
It's early my star you
Come
Back into my bed
Your fragrance here beside me
Come back into my bed
Your fragrance clear beside me
Calm inside my head

Jelly tots and liquorice
Allsorts; to do with as we wish
Talk that fabled sensuality
Flex my tummy kiss
Undress again my lover
Undress again
My zoobie zombie miss
You came to be my lover
You came to be my life
No name of any other
Past flame to patronise

Other painter's pictures
Are laid upon their stands
My mother's footprints figure
Set soft there in the sand
I've woke and it's quite early

Sleep came home as such a fake
I've smoked for no one lately
I smile so soon I wake
I smile so soon I wake

I've woke and it's quite early
Sleep came home as such a fake
I've choked for no one lately
I smile so soon I wake

I smile so soon I wake
I smile I ache
I smile so soon I wake
I smile for you, I ache for you
I smile for you, I ache for you
I smile for you
I smile so soon I wake
I smile I ache
I smile so soon I wake
I smile, that so soon I wake

This poem is from the collection East of Lincoln Central available now on kindle - click on the text for details