Afternoon

Above the clouds 

Clear blue sky

‘Customs Union’ 

Is in the news

But for now 

Free passage 

Well

Not exactly free

Indeed

Quite the opposite actually 

But you do get my drift 

Don’t you

Lauri Loft

No.2 via Catarina

Four people ascend serially

In the one-person lift

Two couples

Each pair

Having their own bedroom

With en-suite bathroom

Swiftly we are out onto the street

Where we pause for gelato ice-creams

One each is chosen:

Pistachio, pear, mango, and milk

Next it is a short stroll

Down the cobbled road

To the rear

Of the leaning tower

Tickets are purchased

For the cathedral

Also

For the ‘Place of Miracles’

Followed by a few words

To confirm the stasis

Or the stability

Of the lean

 

Available from Amazon

Steal What Else There Is To Steal + My Own Fair Hand A Wayward Strand

The wretched pace of saving face

No more than a single drink

What I’ve become, by staying shtum

Does not stand to rhyme nor reason

The hamster wheel and electric eel

Steal what else there is to steal

Seal the casket, with neoprene gasket

It is mornings which are the worst

My own collusion brings self delusion

I would be better somewhere safe

The solitary walker, the midnight stalker

My past life led from reel to reel

Magic Numbers midnight slumbers

My mind can make a ready meal

As you walk away, just another day

For my insides out to slyly feel

Limpet rocks and lifetime stock

Shock the sense to deal

Without compassion, absolute of ration

Crock a wound to heal

One day at a time, a find sublime

A mantra as I calmly kneel

Shee Vo Hum, Shee Vo Hum, Shee Vo Hum

Under my breath, it is the breath I steal

How long I’ve tried, how close I’ve cried

Hopeless as those past gestations peel

Another bell, the ringers tell

Scope to wreck my leafy land of zeal

My own fair hand, a wayward strand

I came across altogether unreal

My golden voice, my freedom’s choice

Ponderous, before eventually I yield

Available at Amazon

For Me My Stem It Said So

Again then

My stem

Stated not to name

Tension climbs the spine

Pulls right across the shoulder

Brought on by

Being of the bold

In the untold middle of nowhere

The water

Runs slowly into 

The drain below

Below the wisteria

Below the bamboo cane

The clay and slate rotate

In some forbade rectangle

Emigrate

It’s not too late 

For you and Mr. Bojangles

A corner light, a mistook sight

Mistletoes of Spanish rain

Temeraire from County Clare

The swollen peace there to sustain

The clock ticks

The room is cold

Olden days

Are over

Silence is the pastime

Write once more the last rhyme

Onward goes the beach wise drover

With the loss of heather and clover

Carriages and crucibles

Rubies and cubicles

Statuettes of liberation

The siren and the seagull

Drift through shores of evil

From wave to wave

They crave

Until the neaps

Are fair full

Carved wood

Fallen leaf 

Compost 

By the thrush

It is no shame

Again then

Not to name

For me

My stem

It said so

Available at Amazon

On Every Sunday Of The Year

Tick tock, drip drop

Clocks gong in the garden

Chitter chatter

Bach plays a cantata

Newly scribed

Fairly scattered

On every 

Sunday of the year

Be dur a dub

Per dup

Ber dub 

A dup, purr dup

Mathematician

Of the counterpoint

On every 

Sunday of the year

Lah la de la

Di lad

E la, lad

A la de dee

Introvert

Invert of controversy

Available at Amazon

The National Game Of Men Insane

Out of the box, it falls onto the floor it owns

A photograph; black & white football stripe

A sight to see forty years odd, and ripe

Before the scars, the tissues torn

The cortisone injections

A time of legends and football unshackled

Cindered covered parkland in skilful sin

Sticking the boot in

Cut tight skin on padded shin

The premeditated, berated

Serrated sliding tackle

Youths prepared for battle

Marsden wreck on Monday night

Little love lost; local league, a game, a fight

Soccer; it’s like this from Stockport to Seattle

Later; time for pints in the bar

The bus to town, remember to score

Chasing starts; toes touch the dance floor

Foes in frolic and fellowship with. Those

Infamous football stars

Back home

All over for another season

They visit, we visit

We don’t need much reason

Keeps us cut to the bone

We’ve kicked and spit; breathed our last

Put our arms around each other, inane

The national game of men insane

Caught up, as the red mist

Falls upon our past

Available at Amazon