BBB Poem 18

It is easier for me to write
Than it is for me to sketch or paint
For one thing I am less certain
Of my mistakes, with the written word

Also I am able to go back in time
To many places; all at a once almost
And I can root around, to find my feelings
To gather in; my past, my present emotions

And as I attempt to convey what I feel
Of love, lust, longing, and loss
I myself share in, and enrich my imagination
With feelings, of love, lust, longing, and loss

The writer's world is left, right, back, and front
Above, and below
To the very extremes of perception
Writings of witnessing the vanishing horizon

Between land, and sky, and sea
Listening intently, and seriously engaged
By David Hockney, talking on the radio
About art, as I soaked in my moonlit bath

The certainty, that one word will follow another
A couple of words will be offered up to me
By a view, by music, by dance-steps, by a film
Of the seasons; meditations, an island in a lake

And, in contrast
By the doubt that the words will not be read
Or will not be understood
By the person, or by the audience

For whom they were aimed at
For whom, and without whom
They have no purpose
Neither in this life, nor in the next life

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BBB Poem 17

Today it is Plemont
Last night was the Oyster Box
I tell you this for no reason
Other than for love, or is it for the paradox

Today it is rocks and cliffs
Last night; oysters in champagne butter sauce
I tell you this with naught held back
Other than for love, or is it for the vibrant rose

Today it is clouds and sands
Last night was lights along the promenade
I tell you this as if for anything
Other than for love, or for the Marquis de Sade

Today the rib is cancelled
Last night was the opera house
I tell you this with a care to record
Other than for love, or is it for the lousy louse

Today it is wind, and rain
Last night was Newton Faulkner’s songs
I tell you this in case you see me
Other than for love, or the rights and wrongs

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BBB Poem 16

Where love was lost
Where lust was found
To touch-tone evenings
Is where we were bound

From Gorey to St Aubin
From restaurant to bar
To you being propositioned
Beneath the moonlit star

Where aches were shared
Where pains were hidden
To touch-tone evenings
Is where we were bidden

From airport to airport
From car to car
To our becoming lovers
Plans offered from afar

Where smiles were ours
Where frowns were left behind
To touch-tone evenings
Is where we were ultra-kind

From house to flat
From together to apart
To becoming parents
New dreams to start

Where tiredness did enter
Where impatience arose
Those touch-tone evenings
Brought silent, to a close

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BBB Poem 15

Granite houses
Granite walls
Granite quarries
Granite souls

Soft sand beaches
Slowly turning surf
Hold on to your reaches
For what it is that I am worth

Granite towers
Granite stepped
Granite defences
Granite swept

Silver screen horizons
Fishermen's old boats
Prayers to far off Zion
Gathered in with all my hopes

Granite outcrop
Granite coastline
Granite harbours
Granite moonshine

Waves turning, also lapping
Before the singular shingle boar
Sea breeze on faces mapping
Quiet now, the departing roar

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BBB Poem 14

I didn't take breakfast at the breakwater
I came here
Because you may have wanted me to
Though I have no memory
Of St Catherine, or of being here with you

Move on

To Rozel Bay
Where Beau Couperon hotel as was
Is now a ten million pounds private dwelling
With its own steps onto the beach
From the door in the battlement wall

I came here
Because we stayed in the one-time hotel
Which is now someone’s house
I remember a balcony, a shingle beach
I remember rock-pools, a meal in the restaurant

Wasn't it the year we went to St Malo
Also to Samares Manor
I know these facts
Because of the photographs, stored digitally
On many computers, since those very days

Move on

To Archirondel, and the Driftwood Cafe
Where I have ordered breakfast
Taken snaps of sea, and rocks, and the tower
I don't recall sitting here with you
Yet I feel I must have

I imagine, that in ten years time, or so
This place
Will also have gone upmarket
In the style of El Tico, and La Braye at St Ouens
Altogether more gentrified than I remember

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