Night Lights

For Jo & Glen

Shades,
I need,
This short-lifted
Mission:
Escape from
Winter’s
Cold derision:

Flickered
Flight-lights,
In darkened sky,
Remind me that,
We’re not designed
To fly.

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

Taxi, terminal-ease,
Through Ashdown Forest,
We return to Uckfield,
Sun-loved,
Refurnished.

Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/us/

Saturday Shopping

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,’
instilled

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

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

Her youngest son died,
A few years later:
Her great-grandchild died,
Lost,
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..”
Consent:
no expectation.

Stone Cutting, Cure Parkinson’s Trust

We were gathered,
invited,
To Stonecutter Court,
Each labelled,
breast-badged,
Unique in comport.

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

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

Our driven excitement,
Talk, some of a cure:
Futures,
fixable?
Onwards,
Assured.

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
Newspapered-hate,
Word-wounded
Reaction inside:

Bile-rise, a gut-rush,
Overweight,
Then, in quiet times,
Modified.

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

Bloodied-hands
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,
Unabridged:

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,
finally-erased:

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.