LAST

The last days of summer 
picking berries from the hedge, 
and the morning dew 
soaking through our shoes; 

in the pie we could taste 
both warmth and rain, 
and imagine the fields 
- ever-changing views; 

now grass is cut low 
it’s easy to walk free 
on the smooth or stubble, 
first leaves from the gale; 

we heard a young man 
was lost at sea, 
saving some friends 
who never learned to sail; 

these nights are almost 
frosty, but we keep 
the heating off, it’s not 
long past September! 

and we’ve stacked 
no wood in the garage 
that might become 
tomorrow’s cheerful ember; 

life will seem more normal 
now the kids are back,
chained to their desks 
and struggling to spell 

talking very fast 
about wanting a Wii, 
and summer abroad 
on holidays from hell; 

the village will be 
silent through the day 
apart from playtime voices 
riding the autumn breeze 

it will be just 
the natural world 
- exquisite colours, 
before the big freeze. 


Note: Wii is an electronic gaming platform 

York

YORK

I           Giant ship sailing

towards the dream of Heaven;

waves of weathered tiles.

II         Golden banks swaying

to deafening spring trumpets;
        scented city walls.

III        Street that ran with blood –

now tourists tramp neat gutters,

snapping the Shambles.

IV         Ouse can’t be contained,

like the swords of mad Vikings;

flood of history.

V          Corroding statue,

council estate avenue;

Constantine the Great!

VI         Strolling snickelways –

paths through the palpable past
        - passage of the sole.

VII       Our explosive son –

we remember, remember;

bonfire and bangers.

VIII      Steam trains came puffing

to old station, then the new’s

monumental curve.

IX         Wind stirring cocoa -

drifting from the KitKat club;

chocolate city.

X          History of York

is history of England;

future of white rose.

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 new smartphone,

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!

A Disturbance In Whitby

Whitby church is falling down,
buried bones are raining free
on the kipper-smoking town
by the heavy rolling sea.

Will they find a damaged rib,
wooden stake through darkest heart?
Surely vampires are a fib –
nonsense tales right from the start.

If you wander on the beach
when day trippers have all gone
normal rules slip out of reach,
like the sun that almost shone.

Beware the slavering dog
leaping on to harbour wall,
hard to be sure in sea fog
now smothering almost all.

We can’t stop the cliff sliding;
gales through the Abbey remains.
Is it death we hear riding,
or whistle of toy steam trains?

A row of houses was lost
- too much water underground;
and often the storms release
a sudden, unearthly sound.


Strange folk on the steps to Whitby Abbey and church

21st Century Haiku

According to my English dictionary haiku means: amusement in verse; Oxford Dictionaries differ slightly with: light verse, and add that it’s a Japanese poem of seventeen syllables, in three lines of five-seven-five, traditionally evoking images of the natural world; and also that it can be a poem in English written in the form of a haiku.
The great haiku master Basho died in 1694 at the age of fifty; it was common in those days to observe a few other rules of composition, which many of us have deliberately disregarded in the micro-poetic world of today.
Twitter, with its limitation of 140 characters, has surprisingly provided a platform for all manner of short form poetry celebrating many of the mundane, and eternal themes such as love, life, death, and the natural world. Perhaps, even Basho would accept that in the 21st century we should be allowed to express ourselves more freely and decide the contents of the haiku rule book – if we have one.
Our main concern should simply be to attempt the creation of something meaningful, simple, & beautiful that might resonate with fellow human beings.

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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.

I WROTE MYSELF

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

Her Purest Trick

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.

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.


Staithes, Yorkshire - click image to grow

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.

THE POET IN LOVE

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.