Chalk Springs

Love in Leeds

2012-02-01T08:56:00.005Z

LOVE IN LEEDS

Horseplay in the corridor,
but where was our first kiss ?
Was it in my dinky room ?
The taste of balmy bliss.

Cycling on the ring road
- the rolling ups and downs,
towards your pretty garden -
the foxglove’s drooping gowns.

Your eyes were bright and bold,
like the big city lights;
we fumbled with new words
shaped by the sleepless nights.

You took me to Cottage Road
to see a soppy show,
I stretched a nervous arm
through the celluloid glow.

A Slimline Bitter Lemon,
a pint of foaming ale,
in the noisy pub later
our romance seemed to fail.

Wandering round the market
and in the Corn Exchange,
through the glass arcades -
loose light will always change.

We had a day in Ripon
and came back on the bus;
between the Sunday sheets
there was nothing, but us.

The outside world retreated
- so buoyant in your sleep;
I woke you with a gentle kiss,
and it was pure and deep.

A tall lass in Leeds

> The full story of 1982 >

Lifeboat

2012-01-09T08:47:00.000Z

LIFEBOAT

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.

Sign, in our nearby town of Yarm

Taj

2011-11-13T18:12:00.004Z

TAJ MAHAL, AGRA

We crossed Jumna River
in a leaking boat,
and saw three camels -
a train through the water

I felt something, like
a lump in my throat
to see radiant marble,
brought by elephant porter;

on her deathbed she asked
for something to show the world
- what true love means,
its intricate shapes

floating above the surface
where dark waters swirled,
and the night spreads out
vast, glittering capes;

a paradise garden
for the palace jewel
who died giving birth
to their fourteenth child

life and death
must often seem cruel,
but in subtle splendour
their passion smiled.

My picture, taken in 1991 - click to enlarge

Haiku

2011-10-14T09:11:00.014+01:00

LAKE DISTRICT HAIKU
Persistent black rain -
cloud snagged on the mountain's spine
like fleece on barbed wire

WRITING HAIKU
Always the white sheet,
and wondering how to wake
my sleeping beauty

MOROCCAN HAIKU
Her blazing eyes see
through the hijab of charcoal,
the endless desert

BREAKFAST HAIKU
Joy of buttered toast,
melting in my morning mouth
like your sultry kiss

DESIRE HAIKU
Undisclosed desires -
my whole life is made of them
- bricks of crumbling love

> My haiku book >

Poem Number 23

2011-09-06T09:22:00.002+01:00

LOOKING TOWARDS LINCOLNSHIRE

The south bank was just
an impressionist smudge

we could see the earth’s
curve in the floating deck

February was clinging
to the estuary sludge,

the juggernaut of goods
- a shrinking speck;

you looked to the flat
fields of yellowbelly

flavourful sausages,
and midnight poaching

Yorkshire folk call them
coarse and smelly,

and their language skills
need careful coaching;

I see you’re thinking
about years of war

when women fought
for the army of land,

she’d tell you how
their palms were sore,

and kids of today
could not understand;

the same wide river,
the dream of a bridge

where merciless
Roman legions came

down from billowing
chalkland ridge

- enforcers in the
Emperor’s name;

you try to recall
through winter’s fog

gathering samphire
in your summer coats

hearing the wind
like a whining dog

ripping the scarves
from tender throats

Poem Number 22

2011-08-08T10:51:00.002+01:00

THE BOOK

I’m still holding the hardback,
still reading the book you gave
almost thirty years ago,

pages are hovering wings
- a wind-snagged kestrel
eyeing the verge below.

A birthday present
showing your passion
in pictures and words;

could we ever find
the fluent secret
of soaring like birds ?

New love did come,
over a simple meal
nibbled and bitten,

greedy eyes meeting,
our hearts pounding -
the story is written.

Poem Number 21

2011-07-24T08:55:00.006+01:00

VACANCY FOR A MUSE

Perhaps because the summer
has drowned in heavy rain

maybe because that lover
I’ll never see again

I just can’t keep gazing
in the same old direction,

it’s like the people voting
at a landslide election -

so desperate for change
after years of petty sleaze;

and here in my wilderness
is a sense of deep unease.

We’re not going to Greece
for a holiday this year –

a muse on every corner
despite financial fear,

so many descendents –
the daughters were nine,

Zeus seemed everywhere,
like overflowing wine.

Finally the rain stops
in England’s green hills

pummelling ceases on
white gloss windowsills,

I look through spattered glass
and see my dream is walking

as clouds disintegrate, and
the sodden birds start talking.

Girl at the spring, Naxos (click to enlarge)

Poem Number 20

2011-07-01T13:11:00.003+01:00

THE HEART

The heart of a young man
and brain of a child,
but you are no longer
soaring in the wild

you are not a swallow
drinking on the wing,
sipping from a sky pool
while blackbirds just sing;

you are not so clever
as your garden fox,
or dazzling student, who
thinks outside the box;

there were many chances
at that music club,
not to just watch the girls
who’d smiled at the pub,

but that was much more than
thirty years ago,
when you danced like a freak
at the disco show;

your heart attack just came
while painting the fence
- the neighbour did notice
your face became tense

Poem Number 19

2011-06-08T09:11:00.002+01:00

DREAMWEAVER

In my dream
you came back
like a scented
boomerang

and birds of
the rainforest
hovered
and sang -

a feathered choir
in the
canopy
of joy

they tried
to restore
what others
destroy.

I kiss
every wrinkle
and every
scar

you are
battered and bruised
from travelling
far,

your healing
tears are
wilderness
dew

it’s startling
to see
our world
made new;

and now
you light up
the bleakest
room

weaving strands
of light
on a fragile
loom

Poem Number 18

2011-06-01T08:31:00.001+01:00

FULL ENGLISH

The isles of grease, the isles of grease !
Where yearning Duffy loved and sung,
Where grew the flabby and obese,
Where Tories rose, and Labour sprung !
The English breakfast fills them yet,
But all is undone, all is debt.

The mountains look on Cumbria –
And Cumbria looks on the sea;
And walking there an hour alone,
I dreamed that life might still be free;
For standing on old Wainwright’s grave,
I could not be a mere wage slave.

A queen sits on the shiny throne
Blanking out that horrible year;
Prince William on the mobile phone,
Sensing her Crown is very near !
He courted Kate in public glare –
Always The Sun is frank and fair !

Why choose AV ? Why choose PR ?
Because the voiceless vote will count
Not only in the smokeless bar,
or when the kettling cops dismount;
Democracy must still improve -
It’s sweet to see the people move.

The X Factor, and easy fame,
Escaping from a dead-end job;
We’re burning the Olympic flame,
For winners, not the angry mob;
For what is left the person here ?
So many lives are lived in fear.

Fill high the glass with alcopops !
Our women dance on spilt cold beer,
And breasts emerge from skimpy tops,
She’ll punch you if you call her: ‘Dear.’
Later, it’s all tears and vomit,
No dinner date – so far from it.

We’re victims of a subtle plan,
Far removed from natural law;
So obsessed with the hunting ban,
Or what the bloody butler saw.
A land of slaves we’ll never be -
Let’s raise the English cup of tea !

Notes: Thanks to Lord Byron for the verse structure.

Duffy, refers to either our Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, or if you prefer, the singer Duffy.

Wainwright is a famous dead rambler, who loved the great outdoors above anything else.

The famed English cup of tea is of course not English......

Poem Number 17

2011-05-01T10:09:00.001+01:00

ICON

I saw a priest
click an icon

in the Internet
cafe by the sea

with one of those
starving Greek cats

rubbing his
wine-swollen knee;

there are sacred
things on the Web

and many nude
ladies too;

old women still
lighting candles

and praying for
something true;

the tiny little
church was empty

our scientists
will always say

yet it felt more
than just a shop

open twenty-four
hours a day;

the image of
a golden saint

brought to life
in dusty rays;

the unshaded
computer screen

disappears in
a blinding haze

Poem Number 16

2011-03-01T08:57:00.003Z

TIMESLIP

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

Poem Number 15

2011-02-01T08:38:00.002Z

Single

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

Poem Number 14

2011-01-01T10:01:00.006Z

ANOTHER DAY

I let another day slip by,
but what could I have done ?

Walked the Wolds last night
under a harvest moon

waking in a dewy hedge
to the mist-wreathed sun

putting all the noisy owls
to bed - it’s breakfast soon;

but I went on walking
towards the soothing waves

through the dry valleys
of luminous chalk

a fine dawn to explore
the smugglers’ caves

and then proceed
on my autumn walk;

it’s glorious to be
lost in beauty

or simply pause
at a pretty spot

and it’s also
a delightful duty

to do those things
others might not;

old friends would
be impressed

if I told them about
the ancient barn

how beauty
simply undressed

as I span her some
fantastic yarn -

a kind of history
of the northern folk

the wanderers, who
forgot how to wander

and lost the knack for
wearing morning’s cloak;

believing the modern
world’s propaganda

Click image to enlarge, and browser Back button to return

Poem Number 13

2010-12-01T07:55:00.007Z

This poem has been removed due to Government cuts.