Night Lights

For Jo & Glen

I need,
This short-lifted
Escape from
Cold derision:

In darkened sky,
Remind me that,
We’re not designed
To fly.

Glen and Jo,
As all those coupled,
Ensure my landing
Is flat,

Taxi, terminal-ease,
Through Ashdown Forest,
We return to Uckfield,

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Saturday Shopping

I dreaded when young,
Dragged, another lashing
Off mother’s tongue!

Then into my teens,
And shopping alone,
Woking by bus,
Woolies, Smiths,
(slow route home).

I always bought enough
Note books to be,
Responsible for one
Rain forest tree.

Back then, in web-less
Nineteen eighty-five,
The Amazon, green,
Was hugely alive:

But ‘Amazon’ now
Is a rack of shelves:
Redundancy due
for Santa’s elves.

A Black Friday,
discounted, marathon;
Queue up now,
Cheaper trees @Amazon.

Consent: no expectation

mariette grandfather
The story behind this poem – link here

For Mariette Robijn, and her family.

Mariette stated:
‘No one wills
A favourable reception
Of any illness,’

By Oma, her Grandmother,
Over a century, under God,
Recalling, her husband,
Landelijke Knokploeg.

Hilbert ‘Arie’ van Dijk,
Executed, too cruel,
Helped leading the few,
Their Resistance,

Her youngest son died,
A few years later:
Her great-grandchild died,
in grief’s labour.

Despite these tragedies
Oma carried, ill-eased,
She’d always say:
“Be brave.
You have to agree,

To embark upon the journey..
with an unknown destination.
Without knowing why, or .. how..”
no expectation.

Stone Cutting, Cure Parkinson’s Trust

We were gathered,
To Stonecutter Court,
Each labelled,
Unique in comport.

The presentations,
Learned discourse;
mindful of our
Stem-buried thoughts.

Us, enquiring people,
Sat stiff,
As London’s pile-drivers
Hammered next door.

Our driven excitement,
Talk, some of a cure:

St. George’s Day

Saint George
born high in Syria,
now lies low
from our media:
Caught in Calais,
no marching on,
he lost his horse,
along with Ascalon.
God-battled lands
flattened his hope,
so George put his faith
in a leaking boat.

Now wrapped, red crossed,
in a rug,
his sight is on England,
but his heart is not:
Seven hundred years
we held him high,
waved him at enemies
and in football cries,
adored him for securing
a maiden’s life,
but now we ignore
his French-field cries.

If George can sleep
through winter’s maul,
and wake to breathe-in
Europe’s thaw,
to hear the death-rattle
of the Euro-dream,
quietly loosened
from treaty-schemes:
Shipped over the Channel,
no law to halt,
He could attend
asylum’s full court.

Hounslow, beneath
a wide flight path,
bedded in rooms,
three to a berth;
George can rest
his travel-tattered wings,
attempting to battle
our parochial sins:
Instead he’ll put
his head to his chest,
And wish to return
to the people he left.

I Struggle

I struggle with our
Reaction inside:

Bile-rise, a gut-rush,
Then, in quiet times,

We strafe children,
Keeping no score;
Youth sacrificed
By both sides.

Piling more souls,
Under morte-mercy,
Of a higher command.

Here masked men
Plot death on our streets,
And europe mouths
A mute caveat;

A former leader’s
Guilt we seek,
But Blair bombs
Chilcott, flat.

I do not suggest
We never learn,
As facts pile,

But, do remember:
oil will burn,
Thus, we’re obliged
To piss on the rich.

Thee, Thou, Thine

Four hundred (plus) years,
Shakespeare’s sooo old,
His poesy and plays
Leave me nipped, cold:

His texts are buried
In England’s lost-past,
Along with Chaucer,
He’s a pain in the parse.

Kids shouldn’t have to
Read dead-dotards’ words,
Give them this English,
Our language, now heard:

‘Thee, thou, thine’,
Those impersonal pronouns,
Return to the Greeks,
Word permits turned down.

Embrace our language,
This happening-voice,
File the bard’s folio,
Under ‘Mild Annoyance’.

When I Die, Don’t Tweet Me.

When I die,
I don’t want to be famous,
Too many people,
may then bestow greatness,

On my stiff corpse,
laid, coffin-graced;
Too late for me,

I don’t want my glasses
perched on a wreath,
Nor outward pouring
of hysterical grief:

I would rather die loved,
by people I knew,
Than adored-dead
In an on-line spew:

Give me a tweet,
Like me, and friend me,
I would rather live now,
Knowing my enemies;

Don’t leave it too late,
When I’m boxed, without choice,
Love me today,
Whilst I still have my voice.

Poetry Advice

One piece of advice,
to the younger writer,
Maybe two more,
‘cos I’m a rhyme-fighter:

Poetry is easy,
but it doesn’t make verse,
Doggerel should DIG up
all those IN-BETWEEN words:

It’s about THE subject,
Examining THE thought;
And here’s an example
Of a verse with no rhyme.