Past Present Echoes

All to hear

The ears ring

The wind blows

The pen scrapes the paper

The only connection

Is within

Within these words

Words only of our pasts

Our present futures

Where do they go to

My lovely

All to hear

The ears ring quietens

The wind blows louder

The pen pauses for breath

The only connection

Remains within

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Frozen Out

It is a low-cut Sunday

The newly slung autumn sun

Floods the stubble with its orange light

The fields, once fresh with crop

Are shorn; for the winter, for the plough

As lovers we slept

Under Egyptian cotton sheets

The dreams though, soon to be abridged

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Put Upon Another

Thursday lunch

Crayfish & Rocket

Watching the guy who cleans up clean up

I sit with my own frustrations

But soon I begin wondering

What are his rack-able doubts

Does he talk to himself about a past love

Is the swift sidestep

A sign of more flamboyant times

He reminds me of my own poem

The Fedora from Buena Vista

Already I hear the samba & the rhumba

Maybe he was once a galactico

On the sands of Rio de Janeiro

His sensual slipstream movements

Reminiscent...

A feel of the breeze

With the sun on your back

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Timetabled

Geometric shapes
Forged
Language
Pummelled & beaten
Silences
Whispered over the heads of corn

Take me there again
To where the light of time is lifted
Away from the lonely
Where what is maybe mine is gifted

Local
Somehow global
Revolving doors
Revolve
Noises
Shout across the crowded room

Let me escape
For certain as a polygon would
Eventually as only
A once regular theorem could

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Irksome I: A Review

Breakfast was cold

It suited the cold stories

I came for poetry

My mistake

This was more like

A chilled

Thriller writers exposé

Dan and Ruth led off

Pouring scorn

On our lack of knowing -

The pictures all hung square

Most people had been last year

I won’t be back; the breakfast was old

& it suited their over told stories

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