A RESOLUTION OF FORCES
Page
He sits among us 3
On the Death of a Queen 3
To whom it may concern 4
Pig Farming 5
Flowers 5
Timeless 5
Buggy 5
The Mushroom Farm 6
Young at Heart 6
Gunmen 7
This Point of Earth 7
Now Experienced in a Cinema near you 8
A Fan 8
Time to be Old 9
January Winds 9
War Chest 10
Night Clouds 11
The First of Spring 11
Magna Carta 12
Rituals 12
Dreamboat 13
Power Napping 14
Star-music 14
Forestry
I Used to Paint
Victoria Cross
Train from Lime Street
Grassroots 16
Headstone 17
Light and Dark 17
On a Work by Rodin 17
From a Distance
Just Wandering
A Land 18
Cold Stone 18
Spider 19
A RESOLUTION OF FORCES
HE SITS AMONG US
And so he sits among us still and small,
brass glinting like a wave from
a place to ponder eternal horizons.
I saw with his eyes the gilded path
across the sea towards the blooded sun,
felt with his skin the sand upon the breeze,
with his lips tasted the bitter deep spray of the sea.
I thought I heard night cries,
imagined the steel of his cradle,
the grit and soot of those formative years
before the sinuous trickles of pain.
And I breathed no sigh of regret
it ended this way and
on such wings of comfort I fly
knowing his love for the visions around us
as sits among us still.
A carriage in sunlight
the glint from a helmet
like a wink from the almighty
flags draped like petals around your head
your very air revered
as you move amongst us a final time.
A crown once cushioned the pain
of London in flames and fear
mother to a nation
a steady candle
while hell rained down.
How could one not love God and yet believe
in such creation
to work the good purpose of His will.
TO WHOM IT MAY
CONCERN
An awkward young shadow is waiting in the hall –
sharp suit and laptop – a kid who knows it all;
impressive at interview, answered all queries
gargled with statistics, swallowed all the theories,
rents a flat in Canary Wharf, bought the corporate soul
now firmly on the ladder, promotion his open goal.
Been on training courses – claims he has a vision
not just self development, says he’s on a mission
our brave new world is speeding up – new strategies and systems
where surely each must play their part –
or opportunities we’ll miss ‘em.
He thinks I‘m part of history – in today’s world, can’t compete
so spends his day planning how to jump into my seat.
I’ve seen him in the noon-day bars supping bottled beer
discussing ergonomics and the targets for the year.
He got a first at LSE in macro-economics
but with fresh-faced cheek and rosy glow
should still be reading comics.
I suppose I’m sounding ridiculous, obsolete and bitter
but I don’t assassinate characters, on Facebook or on Twitter.
Seems loyalty and experience no longer count for much
against bonuses and status, company cars and such.
These graduates with attitude who say they’re going places
will trample reputations and stamp on older faces.
Sup and brunch with anyone, perfect the art of schmoozing
and woe betide if after lunch they manage to catch you snoozing.
For in the end at heart you know that probably he’ll win -
new name plate on the door, your CV in the bin.
I may not be able, unlike him, to wear youth upon my face
and my waistband is no longer a thing of pride and grace;
I may not wear cool braces or correctly patterned tie
but I’ll not surrender lightly, just turn a cheek and die.
He may perform before an audience – sing out I’ve had my day
but I’m the one with the microphone, not about to walk away;
So, awkward young shadow, waiting in the hall,
tap this in your groovy i-pad:
‘I am going nowhere, son, nowhere at all!’ 2014
PIG FARMING
Down among the gloupy backwaters
a track gives up its search for solid ground.
iron fingers sift and tear at garbage sacks
beyond the sight and the stench and the feel of it all
scrapings for the sows that wallow
cool beneath the sharp tusked palms.
Out where the waters ripple and slap
nets are strung protecting
brittle skulls from careless fruit
while bony fingers still sort and sift
beyond the monotony and shame of it
scrapings for the pigs that bask in filtered sun
cool beside the diamond pool
counting blessings while
they eat their bacon. 2013
FLOWERS
after iron days of winter
gardens bursts with life
flowers on the crown of thorns
TIMELESS
I no longer wear a watch –
I thought you’d leave me never;
I saw you as my timeless rock
but now you’re gone forever.
BUGGY
Wrapped all snuggy wuggy
we are ready to feed the ducks
but can’t set up the sodding buggy –
reckon the mechanism’s fucked.
THE
MUSHROOM FARM
At the end of the track they grow mushrooms
by the shedload stacked
and bedded in humid dark
blooming in spectral bunks
unheard, unseen
then come bright bunches of marigold girls
scarved and pinnied
to fling wide the doors
and dazzle the gloom
to pluck and punnet, grade and weigh.
Lolling in the doorway
Dennis rolls a cigarette
tightly gripped by lips
grinning with banter and jest
Just returned with shitloads from the stables
to be dressed and turned.
He inspected his skin, wrinkled from formaldehyde
then left to nail his ear to a bench –
the money saved would buy his next pint.
Years later I learned he’d blown his brains out –
butt end fell
in the open tank of his Norton.
Nothing said – only a memory
at the end of the track
where mushrooms grew.
YOUNG AT HEART
Let me fly round in orbit,
allow me one moment of weightlessness
of timeless ecstasy
that I can recover when I am old;
let me paint and play
let me get the words out
while I have something to say -
while I am young at heart.
GUNMEN
Children of the peace
forever lesser men
tested on the true anvils of humanity
and found lacking
sly of thought
perfidious of action
bearing guns that have the sound
of murder
cruel simple minds with poison in their veins
and the staccato speech of ghetto guns
whose echoes point them to hell.
The summer skies are black
with yet more rain
but floods won’t cleanse us
mired in greed and pain;
if I were an alien tourist
I‘d be about to pack
and until they’ve sorted out the place
I’d not be coming back.
At what point did you decide
to recoil inside your shell
to hang up your running shoes.
Give your books to charity
line your shelves with booze
when did you sell your cycling gear
down at the old car boot,
invest in a woodland burial site
and basically take root!
THIS POINT OF EARTH
To all who have shared with me
this point of Earth
this complex miracle of beauty and cohesion,
whose time has coalesced with mine
in sound and vision, in scent and texture
in this brilliant place,
how great has been our fortune.
NOW EXPERIENCED IN
A CINEMA NEAR YOU
For what reason, you may ask, is the soundtrack so loud?
Curry favour perhaps with this underfed crowd?
Crunching on cartons and wrappers and popcorn buckets
that litter the floor where others have dropped it;
a sigh of relief as you slump in your seat
but soon realise the intention’s to eat
wrestling with wrappers that crackle and crinkle
aromas burst out and make your nose wrinkle;
toffee and coffee, Dorito and Pringle
drift up your nostrils to mingle and tingle.
Rocky and chocky to crunch or to munch
to add to the pizza you’ve had for your lunch.
Ice creams and milkshakes in multiple flavours
washed down by crisps and a packet of Quavers;
salsa with dips and barbecue sauce
chewed up with gusto – and Pesto of course.
Full roast or decaff, regular or grande
headphones and nose plugs would now come in handy.
Who would have thought that food in a packet
could cause such a pong or make such a racket!
Your film may excite and thoroughly please ya
but James Bond would be into the milk and magnesia.
Tummies are grumbling from the shaking and stirring
as they pack it all in – no room for sharing.
I don’t know how people can eat such muck -
it makes me feel ill – a great urge to chuck.
You may want to complain but it won’t do no good -
you’ll always be deafened by somebody’s food
and if you don’t like the smells, you know what to do:
make your next family outing a trip to the zoo.
A FAN
Hers was the face that launched a thousand ships.
Hers were the kisses I dreamt upon my lips.
Hers were the teeth like pearls that munched a thousand
chips
and put a thousand inches upon her bonny hips.
Hers are the eyes that sparkle when excited
and should they turn to look at me I’m bashfully
delighted
although the love I send is sent back unrequited
I’ll not hold that against her as she too hates Man
United.
TIME TO BE OLD
It is time to be old,
right and fitting
to listen as the spirit moves
but then be moved to say
I hear your voice sharp as a pin
but am not inclined to obey.
Though snows fall unremitting
urging retreat from trails gone cold
to contemplate sitting
out the final dance or
forcing the will to join in
but then be moved to say
Time will come to trim my cloth
but it will not be today.
Decaying years these bones refuse to celebrate,
permitting
the cry ’It is not yet time to be old,
rein in the plough, quitting
the trackless slopes of mountain gold
too cheaply sold’
And so I’m moved to say
with no exaggeration
it is not yet time I pray
To release my memories
into the dust-filled care of the child within
or the next generation.
JANUARY WINDS
Leaves seek refuge in the park
blasted by a cold wind
scurrying through the traffic
sheltering in doorways
piling in banks or
blown on
to be absorbed taken in
by a grateful earth
or the pitiless worm.
WAR CHEST
His prowess in the kitchen
she could never hope to match -
just about coped when he was itching
for an egg and sausage batch.
So when he said he understood
the reason for her leaving
and probably for the best,
her fulsome chest was heaving.
But what a mighty chest it was –
a body of English oak
to run your fingers over it
the dream of any bloke.
Such an age, so weathered well
clasped in leather bands;
from the shining surface you could tell
caressed by many hands.
Down the generations passed
from Lionheart to Blair;
strong had been the temptation
To carve initials there.
It once bore silks and ermine
eastern spice and gold -
now lavender keeps out vermin
and Ronseal keeps out mould.
She said ‘I just can’t take all this-
I’ll bear whatever comes –
Get a job in M and S
and go to live at mum’s.
Gallantly he closed the lid
and thought:’That’ll learn yer!’
Went to lift and as he did
gave himself a hernia.
Three months gone by when next they met
in a cafe by the park,
each hoping a cheese baguette
would reignite their spark.
When nothing much materialized
she said ‘I’ve done my best
but some things I’ve internalized
and must get off my chest’.
Your chest looks pretty fine to me
and my operation a success
but since we split my life has been
a complete and utter mess.
I miss the wonders of your chest
above all else, you know;
I miss our untidy nest –
can’t we give it one more go?
Never to criticize your chicken pies
not even your lumpy custard
but putting the two together with fries,
do you wonder that I got flustered.
Well, darling, I’ve a surprise for you
for since that fateful night
I’ve attended a culinary course – its true,
and now work for Marco Pierre White.
Caloo, callay, oh frabjous day
then noticing her chest
heaving as in the good old days
Said, ‘It’s all worked out for the best’.
NIGHT CLOUDS
Night clouds chase the sun
out of her domain
with tales of darkest blue,
while lights below appear
dumb, deaf and blind to the
lingering warmth.
THE FIRST OF
SPRING
this dewy morning
a winter-thawed shining sky
the glory of spring
pummelled by hail
but the old oak has borne
centuries of storms
MAGNA CARTA
A name to quicken the blood of
all who would truly govern,
responsibility of kingship laid
before the sovereignty of property,
life and liberty.
Carried from Runnymede
far across time and mile
in the minds of all who would uphold
a fanfare of trumpets
for rights and freedoms
in all those little Englands
waking from slumber
in the face of internment
extraordinary rendition
the war on terror.
Magna Carta – no myth,
for it lives,
a banner to be flown
in the context of war
to check our sleepwalking
back into the arms of King John.
RITUALS
I have observed the rituals faithfully
worn my lucky vest, socks and hat,
eaten with my lucky fork.
Through thick but mostly thin
I’ve shivered and shouted devotion
given the opposition boos
not missed a game all season.
Kicking every ball – must be the reason
we only need to draw to be safe –
providing United lose.
Hope and despair swing back and forth -
part of the collective urge
to suck the ball into the net
and feel the collective surge
of hysteria building
ludicrous gestures and prayers
as the final whistle approaches.
Heart pounding, muscles tense,
celebrations on hold as we sense
that at Palace there’s been goal
or has someone just hit the post.
As we wait and we pray to discover
whose rituals God favours most.
DREAMBOAT
Juke-box boys are out tonight
but where are the lovely girls
whose perfume blows on the wind?
They are down at the pally
dreaming of the lover they have yet to meet
a night off from a fumble in the alley
or tobacco snog in the lamplit street.
For she’s discovered the boy
who sings only to her
that shows her her dreams.
It lies in the hair, the pose
the clothes the jeans,
the attitude that says
‘I don’t care about the wind-driven rain
for you are the heart of my desire’.
And she yearns for a kiss
for her moment of bliss,
one night free to sail with her heart
splashing in a warm and crazy pool
of devotion
she just opens her lips
and SCREAMS!
Down in the caf
the juke-box boys
collars loose and trousers tight
compose and strut their quiffs
like they don’t care -
scarcely noticed
they’re not there but knowing
they’ll be back tomorrow
at the end of the day,
when the latest dreamboat
has sailed away.
POWER NAPPING
Your book lies snoozing
in your lap as you
slip into a timeless dream
till you are awoken
and the spell is broken
as daylight reopens your eyes
surprised at the world - not as bad as it seemed.
STAR-MUSIC
Such stars –
like a musical score torn
from staves and scattered
sown across the heavens
to feed and inspire the world
since the dawn of thought.
FORESTRY
Like a visit to old friends
trying to retrace the way
using a map of forest bounds but
finding oneself derailed
misoriented by the absence of
expected pine, spruce and larch that
grew with us through our youth.
Gone that dark cavernous world
of dens and wolves and highwaymen
of the beds of needles and
stray sunbeams that probed
among the close bodies of the
stalwart pines.
But now it seems a crime scene,
chainsaw massacre, evidence of murder
on the forest floor, severed stumps
in a state of fungal decay,
bodies hauled away disposed
for some other purpose their
orphaned off-spring left behind,
broadcast, scattering the slopes,
perky bright little things gleaming away
at the strippings and waste of
a gone generation.
One may contemplate their fate
in a half century or so as we
dispatch machines across the hillside
ripping the old guys from the ground
stripping them of branch and bark and wildlife
dumped by the roadside for instant haulage –
a holocaust of sorts that we might regret
but must also live with.
I USED TO PAINT
I used to paint –
landscapes, not people,
at least not real people,
never a portrait – for me no appeal.
People only appear in miniature,
distant on a beach or diddymen as
part of a rural scene to lend scale
or interest, out of earshot
beyond reach but no,
never a portrait close or intimate –
they’d become too large, too grand or
ultimately too complex
for my unskilled hand.
ON WRITING POETRY
A poet’s pen is dipped in sweat and blood and tears
and so it has taken all these years
to compose my verse until it nears
convey my loves, my hates, frustrations and my fears.
VICTORIA CROSS
Brilliant bold medallions
inflate respect to legends
that still hang in the skies
where an ANZAC lies
on Gallipoli.
And they should plant a rose
for every one of those
prepared to die in vain
and where they fell, remain.
TRAIN FROM LIME
STREET
You caught the train from Lime Street,
the day not fully awake
but the apple blossom blooming
trying to sweeten the air –
you and your rucksack –
far too big for you,
like a faithful hound
becoming huge as my heart
as you shrank down the platform
and your final wave
in the style of the man you are
that asks inside
will we ever meet again.
Then in the space between a whistle
and a thought
you were gone –
such a long distance farewell.
GRASSROOTS
Grassroots soccer is the way to go
says every TV pundit
but the FA chairman just doesn’t know
how on earth to fund it.
The national team is floundering –
we’re well behind the best
and we’d save a lot more money
if players stopped swopping vests.
But by the next World Cup in Russia
we’ll have reviewed the situation –
told the guys to stay at home
and let the girls represent the nation.
HEADSTONE
To have at my head
some natural stone
to forever share memory of
time when Earth
under a past climate
beneath a benevolent sun
attended to my being and
ultimately allowed
expression of me.
LIGHT AND DARK
Light and dark
have waxed and waned
flamed and died since before the
birth of consciousness
penetrating the depths of man’s
evolutionary mind
in calm or tumult
perceiving enlightenment or intolerance,
love or hate,
the clear sharp air of justice
or the rancid prison of depravity
according to immutable laws of the universe
wherein I seek my god.
ON A WORK BY RODIN
She shows in her pure chiselled form
the flesh of her universal existence
created from her unity with
the rest of creation
by a consciousness sharpened
to resurrect a lost world
in itself
a timely emblem of perfection.
FROM A DISTANCE
From a distance
a speck, nothing more
till time forces us closer
to see for ourselves
our future
a world of movement buried within
leading to the stillness we call death.
JUST WANDERING
Just wandering
to see where it takes me
a sea of buttercups and clover
to where the callows lie
the fluty whistle of redshank
and plover
warning me away
along the shores of Lough Ree.
A LAND
I am conversing with the land
aware I bring my own world to bear
alert for that moment something holy is revealed
and I, a part of the experience
with regard for the mystery and the wisdom
the expression of colour and form,
of weather and plant and animal;
for the land knows I am there
knows I have opened a window
on a new state of being
and offers back a mirror to my soul.
COLD STONE
I hear only weapons in your voice
I see no life within your eyes
so dare not touch for if to touch reveals
a cold stone in your heart.
SPIDER
So, spider has no concept
her web has been broken,
for there she sits
waiting to welcome
with broken arms
little bugs and flying things
that pass in ignorance
of their closeness to death
till something tells her
she must weave again.
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