Anniversary

[For Clair May, On Our Wedding Anniversary 31st December 2015]

This gone decade, avowed, witnessed, signed,
your white dress, my suit, hung, long-aligned.

Our large shared-bed (often slept-distrait),
is spirit-levelled by deep dream-spates.

Write those pledges (our private conceits):
Words on pillows and cotton-rich sheets.

Marriage slept in a bed of our choice,
Our vows renewed in our sleep-shared voice.

What’s Written

So, did Corbyn bend far enough down,
as the ‘last stand’ bled into the ground?

How many of us tilted our heads,
with any intelligent reverence?

Media streams fed us the parade,
more heads unbowed on trumpets’ fade;

Murdoch’s press gang want the neck
of those willing warfare into check.

Absorb the reports, and tattle-tales,
learn nowt off right-wing paper-trails.

As our left-over state snaps cleaned, dry,
we’ll all bend to a painful ‘good-bye’.

Cemetery of Souls

We sip tea on Sunday,
Checking house prices,
Whilst off-shore
There is
A washed-up crisis.

As values grow,
In the buy-to-let game,
Thousands of people
Are homeless, again:

This coast has become
A cemetery of souls.
Papers quote the mayor,
As the Lesbos bell tolls.

So we won’t buy
In Europe, after all,
Holiday homes being
The first to fall.

Let us sip tea,
As the East meets the West,
And our cheap values,
Never repossessed.

‘The Truth’

The Sun: what a very
Dangerous thing,
A burning, cynical,
Reprint of spin:

Ever-twisting the ‘facts’,
Even those disproved,
This is the paper
Which stated ‘The Truth’.

Mackenzie’s front page,
Laid by editor’s hand,
Lies, damn lies,
On every news stand.

571f8653160000e40031cb42


http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/oct/10/hillsborough-inquest-police-admit-sun-report-fans-looted-corpses-false

http://www.theguardian.com/football/2016/apr/26/how-the-suns-truth-about-hillsborough-unravelled

Still Standing

Corbyn didn’t drop before the Queen,
I stand too, with my political lean.

Immigrant Windsors on working credits,
deny them all their state benefits.

Which Tory is pleased to go and kneel,
before any other ‘low-born’ schlemiel*?

I suggest we bow down before the poor,
turn our backs now on the hereditary whore:

The Queen is dead, so long live the unclean,
my republican views, are they still so obscene?

*Slang: A habitual bungler; a dolt.

LEWES XMAS LIGHTS – 0 UCKFIELD XMAS LIGHTS – 56

UCKFIELD LOCAL NATURE RESERVES – 2 LEWES LOCAL NATURE RESERVES – 1
UCKFIELD WAITROSE – 1 LEWES WAITROSE – 1
LEWES INDEPENDENT BUTCHERS – 2 UCKFIELD INDEPENDENT BUTCHERS – 3
UCKFIELD GREENS DIY – 1 LEWES B&Q – 1 (HOME WIN)
LEWES AWARD-WINNING CINEMA – 0 UCKFIELD AWARD-WINNING CINEMA – 1
UCKFIELD FREE PARKING SPACES – 60 LEWES FREE PARKING SPACES – 4
LEWES RIVER OUSE – 1 UCKFIELD RIVER UCK – 1
LEWES TRAFFIC WARDENS – 12 UCKFIELD TRAFFIC WARDENS – 0 (AWAY WIN – POLICING INDIFFERENCE)
LEWES COSTAS – 4 UCKFIELD COSTAS – 3 (AWAY WIN)
UCKFIELD RECENT FLOOD – 1 LEWES RECENT FLOOD – 1
LEWES OVER-DEVELOPMENT PLANS – 1 UCKFIELD OVER-DEVELOPMENT PLANS – 1
UCKFIELD FM ON-AIR DAYS – 365 LEWES ROCKET FM ON-AIR DAYS – 30
LEWES BYPASS NOISE POLLUTION – 48DB UCKFIELD BYPASS NOISE POLLUTION – 12DB (AWAY WIN)
LEWES CHRISTMAS LIGHTS – 0 UCKFIELD CHRISTMAS LIGHTS – 56

My Wife

[For Clair May.]

She has to plot for me,
Our re-measured half-life:
Side-step a wish-flat world,
Navigate every strife.
She ensures my sleep is taken,
Re-fills the gap.
She has to micro-manage
Each low-kerbed trap.
Such mis-rules were never our
Rung out wedding vows:
My shaken hand, still in hers:
This we espouse.

Night Shifts

I will sit kitchen-stooled,
until just before five,
having jolt-woken at two,
(eyes sleep-slump, too wide).

At these, irregular,
single-digit typed hours,
I dawn-patrol,
gliding, with low-level powers.

Our dog, bed-dead, sleeps
through my keyed low-chatter clicks,
as I tap my life out in,
sequential-stroked hits.

Daily poems, built up,
is my concise crossword:
Lined arguments with gods,
my solution – verb-blurred.

Do You Know Her Name?

She stands, cold,
at Waitrose’s door:
An immigrant washed-up,
on our shore!

is an instantly-fired
typed-up-rant,
quick-raged, sick,
a tuneless, descant:

She stands, wet,
at Waitrose’s door:
‘The Big Issue’,
her limp offered store,

undersold, in
our freedom trade,
dignity, her
last held barricade:

She stands, ages,
at Waitrose’s door,
her light smile,
your corner-eyed reward:

A few fear
this awaiting grace,
her quiet held issues,
the rest embrace.

Re-Righting

This stiffness: a gift
I would rather return.,
These tremors,
Bad habits, I wish to unlearn.

My wife will command me:
‘Mike, move upright’,
Without her this evening,
I tilt to the night.

I don’t have her near,
My kind carer and friend,
Her absence is noticed,
Because I now bend.

Should I refrain
From Parkinson’s re-right,
Or can she forgive me
For bending tonight?

Our Library


Libraries’ hours will reduce,
their lending overdue:
Google will then charge us all
for e-book content view.

Our library is all knowledge,
day-long care and quiet reads,
our vast bookmark will be lost
if all we do is cede:

Loved tomes will not open,
nor the library’s oft locked-doors,
no free church for free readers,
we have to fight for more.

Less bookworm-work for staff,
all that knowledge has been sacked,
they may find jobs in Tesco’s,
where books aren’t freely stacked.

 

Uckfield Floods

Uckfield is flooding,
a slow-risen tide,
not left on The Uck’s
surge-measure pipe.

Currents flood twittens,
pavements, and paths,
fouling by dog ‘Messis’,
but no dog-drop red card.

Stomach-churned-twirls,
often bluebottle-fed,
To be foot-stepped, trod-in,
and then deep-carpeted:

Land mines to be cleared,
by the rain, or unpaid,
but ’til the flood’s gone,
we’ll continue to wade.

Lifted

Steep steps off the platform,
On a re-railed trip,
A lad lifts my bag:
My sudden short-stair blip,
Is unstepped-signage
Of now being infirm;
These journeys
my stick informs.

I once held doors wide,
For the fading greyed-few,
I am now a member
Of the stick-crazed crew:
Entrance and exit,
No longer shoulder-shoved,
Now cared for by strangers,
In dignified love.

Insomnia 56 – Aged 51

To acre-wide halls, in Birmingham’s inner guts,
With ring-roaded shorn verges, of yard-placed shrubs:
I am here for a busman’s brief holiday:
Booth-trooped through Hall 3, for my youngest’s game play.

Wrist-wrapped with Day Passes; and my fourth child shines,
This, his Nirvana, a gold (Minecraft-ed) shrine.
‘Do you see their addiction?’ I ask a dad,
Stood too in solemn duty, his face spend-sagged.

From across the hall , a shrill-scream, voiced en-masse:
A Minecraft gamer is iphone-snapped,
His soul is hired out in selfies as thanks,
His signature a contract for our cash in his bank.

We return to the show, with my stick-clicked walk,
My youngest beside me; more game-playing talk.
His love of this, my complained hall-hell,
Is the reminder to me that all is well.

This we will succumb to, for our kids’ delight,
(Pleasure is best supped when served up right).
The childhood I lost, before the web’s weave,
Is no longer the one I wish to retrieve.

A to Z

Our stop-go drive across London’s blocked sprawls,
Was a late night re-circling of ‘my round’:
A pumped-pint history of spilt-bitter fools,
I reviewed that compendium, new-found*.

My tale: a tatty, once-thumbed A to Z,
Of bars, en-route, where I sipped-up my youth.
I dozed, again, asleep in strangers’ beds:
Drunk kisses, sour love, then alarm-sobered truth.

Vest-men lay white lines, on jigsaw tarmac:
Their no-go queue, our no sat-nav rat-run,
Past my re-let home, no more doubling-back:
Suburbia’s last road map of all undone.

*amend advised by @Lloyd_Cole 15-12-15