A few of my favourite things

 This just a bit of fun nonsense that came out of a writing exercise:

 

A few of my favourite things

I like when a song spirals almost out of control

A wildness, a madness, yeah rock n roll

 

I like the heat of a scorching shower

And the geometric intricacies of some types of flowers

I like cold feet when my temperature’s raised

And do get a buzz if my poetry’s praised

 

I like heavy metal and I like reggae

Anything that might give you a headache

I like to live in a song for a week

I’d rather write than stand up and speak

 

I like to hear smart people say smart things

And for singers to sing, and funny people do their thing

That every voice is distinctive

And recognition seems instinctive

 

I liked the day when the nit-nurse came

And massaged my scalp

And then checked me once again

 

I like blue skies, and I like sky blue

And antimetaboles*, a term that’s new

Like ‘ask not what your country can do . . ‘

 

I like a whole raft of random things

Sea lions, and proper defending

Genuine smiles and walking for miles

Marmalade on toast and birthday post

 

I like the hot sweaty grip of a baby’s fingers

I couldn’t think of a rhyme so I’ll let that one linger

 

I like nectarines

And movies set on submarines

Femme fatales with dangerous curves

And the courage of men who kept their nerve

 

I like to know there’s people like you

Who make space for us, to do what we do

 

I like pretentiousness

slogans that sound clever,

And bad rhymes

meaning this is contrived

to finish with Trevor.

[* AN-ti-mə-TAB-ə-lee-s ]

 

House of Allusions

 

Woken in the night

by drip drip drip

snare drum beats

like regrets and broken promises

and ever since, silence

we’ll fix the hole

before the rains return

but the memories remain

 

Damp patch by the front door

creeping slowly

a lengthening shadow

beyond the chalk outlines

which never became high and dry

during the hot summer

next door has them too

but theirs is brown and patchy

a different metaphor

 

Black spots like minor sins

appear in corners and conscience

it takes something industrial to remove them

I’m not sure I’m up to it

 

The windows are misted up

inside the double glazing

where no one can wipe

obscuring the view

like fading eyesight

like fading recall

 

The sink cupboard has shifted

gaping from the wall

I think my floor is sinking

pulling everything apart

 

Outside this house

the sun shines still

after the rain

and the garden appears

full of life

drawn up from underground

where buried are plans and desires

becoming real and vibrant and possible

a surprise of colour and texture

and miniature worlds like poetry

 

 

Sometimes I don’t know where the house ends and the metaphors begin

I can’t tell anymore

We need a lot of work done

 

The Shed of Dreams

 

If I sit on the floor, and look up at the window,

A square of blue sky waiting for my release

Imagine a stone cold floor beneath me,

And the ratty debris is of my only companion

 

And the rain lashes the window like a ship tossed at sea

Expecting the crack and flashes of thunder and lightening

I could steer us from an upturned bicycle

From a skateboard sliding as the waves roll and wallow

 

In the dark looking out at the constellations burning

Waiting for my orbit to roll earth into view

Hot tea breath steaming up the window

 

The door is open, and the enchanted path leads to the giant tree

Through forget-me-nots and unkempt grass

Beyond the Himalayan honeysuckle,

And the flowering currant bush where the wasps make paper lampshades

The door framing wild flowers and foliage

Cropping out fences and markers of suburbia, extending the view forever

 

Yes a shed of dreams,

not just a place for lawnmowers and rusting garden furniture.

Hibernation

 

Every night we hibernate, cosy in our den, the covers lies in folds and ridges, a snow drift stretched between us, domestic topography,

 

Frost scratching its way across the windows, winter sun barely disturbing our slumber,

 

And every morning we half-wake, uneven and confused, losing fragments of dreams fading, wondering why it isn’t spring, and shuffle through the day, evading the wide-eyed embrace offered, shy of text and tones and intrusive lights,

 

While some are energised, to make change and plans, we let each day remain unchanged, untouched, unruffled, with no more energy than subsistence, not breaking the rhythm of slow slow sleepy slothful observance of the conditions that keep us still, 

 

Awaiting the turning point, the slow tilt towards, the sun in our face, until then peace, content to let the days pass, forgetting each one as if we had slept through them all, something we read immersed in a novel,

 

The outside world an unforgiving place, reminders everywhere, wind whistling regrets and broken promises, threats and insults,

 

And later much later after the distant winter sun fades out and the moon appears against the black, and the lights are inside the walls,

 

We prepare ourselves again, to bed down again to sleep through, cosy enough hopeful, and cancelling the lights, to sleep through, to another season. 

 

Smothered the snow drift rearranged, long slow breaths disappearing into the night, the steady train to neverland.

 

Dreaming to die under cover, and wake renewed with the equinox.

 

 

Holocaust Poem - The Survivors' Verse

 

My writing group read and performed at a Holocaust Memorial Event on January 26th. This is the fourth section of the piece I wrote for the event (there wasn't time for the whole thing) although written for the Event it might apply to any culture under pressure

 

- The Survivors' Verse :

 

Survivors cannot forget, cannot want to forget, to betray those left behind

This is how we remember, by doing those things we have always done

And always will, with or without you, because they tried so hard to finish you

It's who you were, who you are

 

So come break bread, light a candle

Tie fast to the faithful line of history

At this our point in time

Drink deep and remember who you are

 

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven

 

There is a time for reaching out and a time for drawing in

A time for trying new things and a time for treasuring what has lasted

There is a time for closing the doors on the storm and a time for opening the windows to the sun

A time for forgiveness, a time for healing and a time for remembering

Each of us only has so much time.

Ghosts

A poem in tribute to the camaraderie of team sports, and a friend forced to retire. 

 

Ghosts

 

Our ghosts play on

While we wash and change

And weary back to work

 

The empty hall echoes in our absence

As he flicks the ball up so he can turn and volley

As another runs hard, chops back and shoots

As he slides past obstacles and hammers one goalward

While urgent messages bounce off the walls, coded,

A pass goes astray, is not forthcoming, too early too late,

Or follows a perfect trajectory, picks out, pinpoint

As he fills the space obscuring the target, no sense no feeling - no goal

 

All the shirts don’t match, training tops, replicas, vintage

and the teams reshuffle each week

 

A player slaloms smoothly, the ball always in possession, rolling.

Another stands over the ball, teases, twitches, waiting for the moment

One runs onto the ball, ignores shouts to shoot and plays in another,

Another holds the ball ignoring pleas to pass,

keeps the ball out of reach until, left foot, bam !

Another lets off a volley, of how unhappy he is with his team

These boys are chameleons, serious then smiles, real wild cards

 

Others came and went,

retired, moved on, but you,

You were taken from us,

And every reminder puts you back in the hall

in triumph or dismay, treating each with good humour

 

A cry for a foul, handball, disputed goal, disputed score,

a pass, an apology, proper marking,

all echo around while we wait for the next match.

 

Your ghost is in there too, finding space, trapping neatly,

holding up and driving one through.

 

The ghosts play on, organised or shambolic,

winning by teamwork, or individual skills and passion,

lucky bounce, unlucky deflection, patient decision or rash folly,

zig zag passes finished crisply,

unstoppable, blocked, intercepted, breakaway,

no one’s tracking back !

 

Appreciation grown over time,

of who and what we are,

respect friendship analysis

 

Blood sweat and tears, mostly sweat

 

Our ghosts they play on,

long after the inquest for this week’s game has ended,

waiting for our return.