Poetry

beyond the vale

…

on the other side
of the hill that
r o l l s

like a granary bap
or a wholemeal
b l o o m e r

is another valley’s green
a new dream
t i c k e t

the odd smallholding
gritstone
b r i c k e d

but mostly more fields
& the drystone
w a l l s

the scattered woodland copses
where pheasants strut their
s t u f f

as the ewes baa back
at the oak tree’s
b a r k

& starlit badgers wonder what
life is like for us
b u m p k i n s

…

( of a formless morning )

…

backwards barks again
a backdoor key

cartoon rudiments
cloven hoofed clover

a zoomorphic moon
with rain in between

an ache in my right leg
a lake in your left eye

the day became frogs
human cattle banging pots

remember the moos
& the chalkboards thank yous

& irk the normalz off
of a formless morning

on is reverse
we the scattered ash

& quercus quilled ink
still the unbecome

melted into fundaments
rearranged yesterday

grew a green tomorrow
ate baked magic

beans on toast for tea
with grated cheese on top

…

although – a poem

…

although
the butler saw him last
although
it smells of pickled eggs
although
the sun rose quietly
although
the gob nextdoor misheard
although
the dinosaurs got bored
although
the eggless omelette vanished
although
the breeze turned left
although
chest down & stomach full
although
i was only breathing
although
the cloud came running
although
the wing commander fell
although
the post was late again
although
the poet’s plot was lost
although
the skeleton’s key was found
although
this toast is overdone
– although, although, although

…

twaddle blues

…

my baby left me
for an untuned steinway
with no middle c
so now i’m a’drinking
lukewarm horlicks
in this ghostly bungalow
& feeling like the headless
corpse of charles gordon

my sweetheart ran away
with the milkman’s long lost uncle’s
cousin’s best friend’s
labradoodle groomer’s
vivid vignettes of
martians made from marzipan
so now i’m a’licking
the smudgy bathroom mirror

my pet gerbil burst
into a flaming ball of
smokeless plasma
on the feast day of saint elmo
then chartist upstarts
torched me citroën saxo
& my robot boss replaced me
with a sack of winter barley

& my true love legged it
for a tuesday afternoon
in ashby-de-la-zouch
& a signed seven inch
of never gonna give you up
by rick ruddy astley
so now i’m a’combing
my hairy palms alone

( yeah )

…