A single sunflower
in the absence of sun
windswept rays
of a swaying refugee
capturing bliss
like a beaming nun
gripping her gilded
bible with glee;
I have no way
of knowing the real you
or getting closer
than the last few feet
each time I see
your face, it’s true
though now it’s so rare
that we ever meet;
once, all was light
and they floated to me
all the shivering ladies
and goose bump breasts
and afterwards, we
would all seem free
of life’s little trials
and worthless tests;
the cold has arrived
here much too early
and the days are begging
for scraps of light
I’m still reaching, but
it’s always nearly
and our flimsy passion
will never ignite.
I wrote myself out of the dark
using buoyant words from my youth,
then simple sound of a dog bark
halting my lonely search for truth.
Sunshine in early October,
waiting for the brittle to fall;
time before Christmas spent sober;
undressing trees suddenly tall.
Your love remains well out of reach
- all the barriers we cannot see;
breakwaters on the tidal beach
try to stop the land breaking free.
It seemed much easier back then
to surf the vulgar flow of words;
kids poked fun at the smelly men
sleeping streets of the shitting birds.
Now our own teeth are falling out
and pages of the book are blurred;
inside, the silent scream and shout
as certain death is just deferred.
I walked myself out of the dark
- winter morning at last got light,
kept going beyond the prim park
- tousled wilderness just felt right.
York, click image to grow
I watch trembling
leaf shadows on the wall
and feel that I can cope
with winter and the dark
if the sun still
bounds along the hall
like golden retrievers
in the frosty park
astounding light
climbs the wooden door
and creeps across
the kitchen table
like soothing waves
licking the shore,
always moving,
never stable;
yet her gentle knock
never seems to come,
I know the bell
is no longer working
the sound of love
is a distant drum,
rarely seen, though
it might be lurking
there is some comfort
in this draughty light
even when the clouds
are damp and thick
she can still surprise
in soft dreams at night,
quivering beauty –
her purest trick.
I imagined you
would save me
in the lifeboat
of your arms
and take me
to your cosy
little cottage
of fire and shells,
we could lie
in every morning
ignoring
the alarms
and never see
the workers
as they drive
to prison cells.
I knew that
you would see
beyond my shabby
outer self
and tears came
like boulders -
the harbour wall
cracking;
it had seemed
that we
were just left
on the shelf,
pretending
that nothing
could ever be
lacking.
We listened
to the sea,
lying naked
by the flame
and I was happy
to drown in
fathomless
eyes,
we turned
our two-backed
beast, on fortune
and fame
believing
their world
was nothing, but
lies.
Staithes, Yorkshire - click image to grow
The pot-holed, tarmac road
disappeared like a snake
reluctant to spit its
precious venom of death
I looked ahead to the small
hills beyond the lake
and saw they were a woman,
and her morning breath
was in the lush valley
of my stubborn dream,
and I realised our love
had lasted many years
we were often scared it
might vanish like steam
- a ghost train puffing
up the incline of tears.
There was never a card
on that February day;
you kept passion secret
like a country unknown
and always I walked
the invisible way
beyond manicured trees
and pathways of stone;
there was something
startling around the bend,
a happy surprise past
the blackthorn bush
the road just went on
- there wasn’t an end
to the bliss still thriving
in a timeless hush.
Why does a poet
always fall in love ?
Finding expression
in words, not flesh
rolling sad eyes
to the sky above
eternal emotions
ancient, and fresh.
Why does a poet
always fall in love ?
With a fragrant lady
on the bus, or beach
and then to lose
the soaring dove
to stretch an arm
and overreach.
Why does a poet
always fall in love ?
Instead of working hard
like normal folk
some would like
to give a shove
into the real world
beyond a joke.
Why does a poet
always fall in love ?
When others are happy
to fight a war
refusing armour
or protective glove
begging his muse
for a little bit more.
Why does a poet
always fall in love ?
Not really knowing
the reasons why
dreaming soft breasts
dangling above
and fleshy buttocks,
supple thigh.
