Category: Poetry

For Baby Phoebe, on a wet Saturday morning in Plymouth.

Lucy the lamb was sitting on a hill.
‘Baah, I’m starting to feel ill’ she said to Jill,
so they went to the farm house for a bite to eat.
‘Baah, I’m tired. Get me off my feet!’
So, Jill took Lucy to sit on a pile of hay
and they slept and slept for most of the day.
Come evening, Lucy said ‘I’m too tired to sleep’.
‘Well’ said Jill, ‘blame your feet.’
So they went to the pigs sty to find some mud
and stomped Lucy’s feet in with an almighty thud.
‘Farmer Joe will go spare at this mucky mess.
He wanted your wool for his wife’s new dress!’
‘Oh no!’ cried Lucy. ‘We better go in to town.’
Off they went shopping though Jill did thrown.
‘Have you got this in an eight?’ asked Lucy
but the cashier said ‘…no!’ rather goosely.
Lucy and Jill arrived back at the farm.
It rained and rained but Jill stayed calm
for the dirt was washed from Lucy’s feet
and they were both now tired and started to sleep.

Two wires crossing a road named Bridge

‘Hi Jean!’ said Hugh Man excitedly.

‘What’s your problem? Do I smell?’ asked Jean in a rush of panic.

‘What are you on about?’ replied Hugh with a wave of confusion.

‘Hygiene. What’s wrong with my bloody hygiene?’ Jean began to angrily shout.

‘Hugh, man. You’re so bloody rude!’ she continued.

‘Listen, you’re clearly getting the wrong end of the stick. It’s a bit much to right off a whole fricking specie as rude’ reasoned Hugh.

‘What, I’ve done nothing of the sort. But I’m not having you say I smell!’ snapped Jean.

‘Humans. Rudeness. You’re so horrifically generalizing. Get bent, or better still, go shower!’ said Hugh.

‘Man, I’m out of here’ said Jean.

‘So what, we’re not even on first name basis now? Don’t trip on the way out’ yelled Hugh…Man.

Penguin Shuffles

Three dimensional television’s back in, again,
though the perfectly paced snow falling all around
streets evacuated by breakfast news broadcasts
provides all the layered magic of a widescreen
without the plastic, pay per pair glasses
disposed into a bin of stale popcorn, chewed straws,
the final gummy bear that proved one too many
and ticket stubs on a Sunday afternoon’s expense.

Even the waiters are consumed with weather talk
as a stomach rumbles to another story; no buses,
a baby to get home to, slow trade, slush and grit.
Though there’s moaning about the groaning,
national hysteria captures all sooner or later,
sitting even the most determined and resolute
media sceptic onto their warm sofa at last,
in front of around the clock travel updates;
a sucking vortex zapping panic into a diary’s plan.

The morning walk pins a tramp’s bundle of blankets
across people’s iced through heart strings.
‘I haven’t seen him sleeping around here before. Oh,
how terrible it must be like that in this awful cold.’
though that same guy’s been on that corner
way before second interviews and first days,
all the rat racers forming one loud blizzard of business
so no single unit has the air to take note, squeeze
in the sight and flick chewing gum change to a cup.

Taps, rings, yawns and shuffles close another day,
the few who made it switching computer for TV screen.
Comedic portrayals of every day life in synthetic universes
created by upper class writers of working class slang script
leak across living rooms to melted microwave meals
steaming the stained pillows beneath their plates,
right up to the zoned out minds each story cycle rots
to mute, as desired, those pictures of paper piles
or meeting room murmurs from an evening’s day dream.

Bar Staff without A Key

Who Is John Barrowman? we joked
fingering through HMV’s plastic and tree emporium
faintly inquisitive but still sick of the sights;
Martine McCutcheon’s debut novel,
key ring straps embroiled with a TV pop band’s logo.

In the pub we sighed, about the number of Tescos appearing,
the broken cigarette machine and our swallowed coins,
getting more stressed and running to a tube station’s kiosk
to stand in cold weather that made us even more aggrieved,
as we talked about gym and diets, taking a last drag.

A Geordie bar girl’s warm northern smile
set us on our way, weaving through Kings Cross,
past miniature Irish pubs and university offices,
lights still turned on above dedicated students
or teachers with no friends and/or time for a Sunday evening.

From a half past one meet to window shop guitars
through Sunday roasts and sponsored Christmas lights,
we walked in the key of disgruntlement, grumpy old men
but only half the age and putting the world to rights,
digesting the solace of a good friend’s sounding off.

Then the separate ways, headphones slivering into ears
and familiar routes teasing impatient bladders.
Engineer works stretched non office life by an hour,
Monday morning’s shirt wasn’t ironed nor hung
but the weekend had been milked, drank, for all it’s worth.

Neither Here Nor There

Sometimes I wonder if I’m British,
taking to the cold in just a shirt.

Then in a line at the supermarket,
I’ll see someone drop eggs and smirk.

When someone collides in my path,
an apology comes first from me.

A sign and thrown in bus stop queues
will have me begging from on my knees.

But I’ll tut when I see a waiter harassed
because someone’s tea’s taking its time.

My wage feeds charity standing orders
though eat my food and I’ll profess a crime.

I like to think I’m usually on point
but quite often I get it pretty wrong.

Chasing the calm of meditation,
I begin by sub-woofering hiphop psalms.

Almost here…

People, we have done it.

We’ve left our weekends of freedom and peace
and made it through Monday blues.

Thawing into the week, we’ve knuckled down to chores and challenges.

In an act of productivity, we’ve worked and worked our ways
through midweek slumps.

We’ve breezed through evenings of television,
food, conversation and sleep.

The majority of this seven day’s sluggish plights
through the tube are over.

It’s Thursday and the hard parts have ceased.

Few alarm clock sirens, chilling mornings
and depressing bowls of wheat in front of breakfast TV remain.

Omnibuses await.
Text messages, phone calls and preparations are stirring.
Bank balances are taking a deep breath of foresight.
Social diaries are being reviewed and arranged.

There will be no free newspapers tangled beneath your feet before long.
Your iron, biros, pads of paper, post it notes and decorum may calm.

Goodbye Bill Turnbill. Your jokes and the joke you are is going to sleep.
Hello Dermot, Steve Jones, lovers, friends, family and fun.

It’s almost time to pump your bicycle tires, ride the winds of obligation’s departure, stir fry a wok of dreams, bite into cheese on toast treats
and soak in your own filth whilst thinking nothing of it.

It’s Thursday. And your two days are almost here.

Circles

We are the sofa you crash on when all your cash’s gone
and we feed your cats when you’re away.

The plants get watered
and you’re always free to borrow sugar, milk and tea bags.

We come together amongst crowds
through mutual interests and smiles.

As hearts break, our hands are there,
hugging or just passing pints.

We are your first home sick thought,
a speed dial veteran with advice.

We’re Christmas presents and invitation lists,
the biographers and prophets.

However much neglected, let down or used,
we’re a given.

There’s no divorce, obligation or chore.

We’re almost all there is.

Home & Away

Fiona frowned when I humoured the thought to bring my laptop computer abroad and praise to her I packed a notepad instead. For all the tapping on keyboards in this hostel lounge, I may as well have stayed in the office.

Relativity

A sports pundit asks, of the twenty year old motor racing champion who dates an international model and pop star upon his early departure from a racing session around Monaco which he has to watch the rest of from a gold plated two floored yacht –

“You must be bitterly disappointed with your situation today?”

Away To Work

Walking through
a train’s tap worth of gazes –
some blurred, excited or plain,
going against the grain,
side steps and slides make it
to paper layered seats.

Feet rest whilst others dash
towards each carriage door,
garbage bags in hands
slowly bursting with used news
beneath automated directions
luring clusters on board.

Familiar refreshments girls
rattle cabinets of crumbs,
stretching lingering coffee clouds
above our half read novels,
ear plugs of tinny thumps
or business calls, too early and loud.

Rhythmic churns fade to halt
for the face off between glass,
both sides drumming ‘open’
ahead of the static freeze
before silent passing bys
sandwiched by destinations torn.

Home Base

Waking up besides a ledge, potted blasts
of rich, minute petals tickle senses alive
as the squints of colour, genial whiffs,
linger around my dome, through tunnels
of closed eyes, blotted with the pinks,
greens and oranges of a window box,
in line for waters after toasts and teas
sitting simply in breeze, savoring times
to shyly unfold more delicious detail,
drenched with the patience of divinity,
as the office node retires atop stairs,
reaching for a ring of too many keys
to be revived by perfection’s flourish.

The new way’s tail in an old way’s teeth.

pencil, pad
canvas, coal
hours, years
ages, goals
spectacle, fan fair
theatre, applause
indulgence, greed
demand, cause
type writers, keys
zeros, ones
minutes, moments
concepts, none
muted squeaks
bounces, blocks
filters, folders
catalogues, stock
dormant tiers
lagging streams
attention spans
shut down screen
silence, space
time, thought
journal, pen
lesson taught

Accumulator

clicks and taps,
stranger door mats,
another tally’s strike.

misleading snaps,
someone’s flat,
just minutes on a bike.

a lapse for scraps,
of boredom perhaps,
not a lot to like.

Mere pants and pats,
of the night like bats,
the ‘orgone’ of W. Reich.

Episodes East

Occasional briefcases, carrier bags of dinner party foods and handbags of early commute makeup mirrors burst into the chaos of closing marketeers.

The leather coated Hindu chances spare pence from suited flocks that didn’t look down their noses outside the kebab shop at three in the morning that weekend.

Rotten fruits fill dustbins as tired dribble about exhausted celebrity sweeps amongst the ankles of pirate traders, angry little men beneath buckets of hair gel and traffic.

Stale lives in blue overalls linger, smoking on aged steps in shadows to monuments of the medicinal, along the way from the electric wheel-chaired drunks of a local mission.

To the supermarket, beer gardens glorified by text books of theft and murder, new conversions and done up dives above stores selling everything or nothing, crowds march their grind.

Shivering grins of the elite pile from taxis outside fully booked kitchens, no more indulging on the tongue than less esteemed eateries where tourists bite away.

Open plans of excess power up rolling stories of trauma as microwaves erupt plasticized cheeses and rubberized pasta across the street from where greens glint in neon light.

Electric gates thump closed secured heights of door chains, alarm clocks, ironed ties, organic bread bins, decorative book shelves and polished shoes.

The frown making stenches of morning breed to night bus hums as bone bags wake to mirrors, slide into cereal boxes, drown in soaps and wrap in uniform grin.