Poems

phantoms of the recent past

…

in the greyness of a day
chasing trails of spittle’s spit
when the distant horses neigh
watch y’ step for goblin shit

as the brambles tangle knots
in this season’s odd unrest
fingers crossed & dot the dots
silent now the hornet’s nest

stirless stands & faces thee
in the woodland’s whisperings
on a leafless chestnut tree
as a chough above us sings

in the fields – the deed is ploughed
yet an ice cream van is heard
bursting through the wandered cloud
so the calendar is blurred

are these chimes within the mind?
is greensleeves still ringing here
will the garden hose unwind?
will these long nights disappear?

darting swifts between each blink
music moves beyond the swan
fuck the glugging kitchen sink
betty swollocks beckons on

squint & see within the vast
glimpses of a picnic’s gist
phantoms of the recent past
summer’s haunting autumn’s mist

…

the grey list

…

clouds that look like hounds

chasing mountain hares

fog in concrete areas

urban mist & myths

mizzle’s sheet

retired red squirrels

elephantine smoke

geriatric ebens

mosty the morning sky

certain wagtails

patches or parrots

storms in the earl’s tea

spinsters in attics

combing their nasal hair

where there’s only vagueness

stone statues

of long dead poets

in all their faded eminence

mainly snooker balls

on a black & white telly

senior wolves

the shades of sunday’s soul

ghosts of old codgers

monochrome rainbows

the man on the moon’s pubes

…

exit the poets

…

exit the poets
singing like magpies

& combing the hair that
grows from where their earlobes

enters their heads
in pinstriped plaid

or storm trooper casual
because they bloody can

those cobweb cats
with syntax wings

here once & yet
on elsewhere’s road

they fade this out
cloudburst haircuts

trolling horizons
strolling forth – of course

…

re last thursday afternoon

…

why did the traffic jam

      like pitted damsons

air-con off

      so we felt swindled

how come the sun

      never flared up?

good walk though

      over the big hill

toasted tea cakes

      mustn’t effing grumble

a ten pound note

      against the gushing rain

the matron’s face

      these things still linger

like a headless horseman’s

      horse’s hoof prints

on fresh snow

      where earlobes tingle

once we stood

     at a temporary bus stop

a flask of turnip soup

      left at the traffic lights

three brown hares

      always a pleasure

the troubadour in town

     fined without a license

home & up the tree house

      later in the coal shed

drawing games of scrabble

     a pan fried rainbow trout

why did a meteor

      not wipe us all out?

…

poetess ess

…

speak to me in purple
prosaic prozac
of the twinkled kisses
from the sun – no less

all the lovely flowers
cotton something clouds
settle meadow bedlam
such a fluttered mess

butterflies & sweeties
nice shite – et cetera
godesses but no gods
unless they wear a dress

come vomit rainbows
paint another blandscape
in between hot flushes
poetess ess

…

then in ten whens

…

the whether turns again
upon a silver sixpence

the late bus is early
like a worm catching birds

the early bus is late
like a dead dead fellow

the trains run like honey
sticky but sweet

a pigeon never shats
on your lucky hat

a crackpot maverick
reinvents the shell suit

two fat ladies
blow it all on bingo

the moon is on mute
so we read the subtitles

the sun shines my shoes
in between sleeps

& writes you a poem
on a postage stamp’s back

…