Cross

I will now deny the rich
their pleasured agenda
by switching off the media

by restoring my memories,
to recall how secure
our future once felt

I make these my choices –

I will stand up for the NHS,
I will support state education,
I will seek dignity for the elderly,
I will not let sickness profit,
and I will respect those with less
because I will never be
the one percent, not us,
the freelancers,
the fireman,
the coppers,
the nurses,
the teachers,
the shop-keepers,
the factory
and the office workers
we,
the unelected,
the kept-at-bay,
the once state-maintained,
the f*cking Hard Working
tax payers

will be screwed, lustrum-long,
by policies born of private pickings,
whelped by Bullingdon boys

and when I wake to them, again,
wearing sneers they call smiles,
with drubbings for the losers,

I’ll know that my cross was counted,
piled, not as high as the winner’s cards,
but, briefly, in that mark, my minority won.

The Inheritor

I let my grey hair over-grow,
wear out dead man donated clothes,

I occasionally tap paths with my worn-down stick,
missing the beat of my off-time limp.

I’ve been re-set by a strangle, unseen,
I am less of a man, a reduction in mien,

offended by nature not playing it straight?
I eye the barrel of pain’s aimed complaints.

‘Life’s unfair,’ she spat out the words,
a line which I’ll refuse to rehearse.

But forty years later my recall has grown
of my mother’s bile rising, I swallow my own..

Life is fair, it is in agreement,
until we are held up by our parents,

then their bias, that family axiom:
We make our own lives by not repeating them.

I let my grey hairs over-grow,
wearing out dead man donated clothes.

The End of the World


The men of Darwin don’t dance,
they prop their lagered weights
on arms over beer glossed bars,
as turned-from-Sheilas oscillate,
in girl-twisted-girl disco shapes:

We had them, choreographed,
in moves (swifter than drinks poured
by locals), the lit-girls entranced,
by us, the few English horde,
we rout of travellers took the floor.

I woke late at the end of the world,
with a forced order to bed rest,
the night had left me pain-curled,
in that ghost town, now unimpressed,
the ideal spot for a nuclear test.

Days later, I limped, gingerly,
to Uluru, to her sunken otherness,
but I was floored, by my jiggery-injury:
Propped at the shaded base,
as Aussie men shimmied across her face.


Fermata


For FM / FF

You looked from under
your fermata brow,
there over your right eye,
your cast unbowed

to time’s reduction,
or to time’s recourse,
as seconds stretched,
four senses soft-paused:

I, an Asura, stared
at your slightly dry lips,
eyes to your neck
past pearls, yet kissed;

I trailed down your throat,
I wished to cusp,
but only with sight
could I ever dare touch.

The sixth sense failed me,
that night sophime:
But under time’s arrow
you then became mine.



 

Sayings, Hearings


Sayings, Hearings
You say the things you say,
to protect the ones you love,
but those hardened words
go beyond ‘just enough’.

The person being put down,
a low-targeted heart,
hits him ‘specially hard,
when already blown apart.

Breathe in, before you speak,
breathe out honest lies,
such simple Buddhist tricks
would simplify your life.

 

Pre-digital


 
Pre-digital
 
Thinned hedgerows,
roadside, were alive,
brown-spooled,
with magnetic tape:

Up over Falmer,
every weekend,
another discarded
cassette –

rejected, or chewed,
seen, but not heard:
no download option,
or resurrection.

The public playlist,
discarded, a deletion,
of my-my-my
generation.

Making Hay

Making Hay

I headed down
the High Street,
sloped to the river,
baked, dust-blown,

everything diverted,
almost deserted;
the traders forgiven
for early closing.

My small-change
pet shop purchase,
fed an empty-rung,
receipt-rolled, till,

But,
an exchange of value:
We talked about skydiving,
John Noakes,
and column-climbing.

Those shaded contractors
blasted sand off pavements,
and I headed home,
only hay-weighted.

 

The Wild Atlantic Wanderer, for JV


 

Why walk such distances,
with only the weather
measuring your steps,
over The Downs,
as breaths are taken
in exertion and sights?

Why walk without
a destination,
but the next stride,
on loosened chalk paths,
side-stepping puddles.

Why walk from your fixed place,
packed-up, back-turned,
to be rained-on, blown,
to find loneliness,
to be met by hearth
and hearty places?
 
*Jane Volker’s blog:
http://wildatlanticwanderer.blogspot.co.uk

Capture the Clock

 

Capture the clock,
we’ve this time to lose,
speak with the old,
mute now the news:

Listen to aged-voice,
life-burr, soft-breath;
rhetoric worn-down,
senior voice attests:

Summon hoar-views,
lifted, in grey;
embrace explanation,
off soft-mumbled rage.

Sit in the chair,
in which they tremble,
embrace their time,
do not pass them,
dissembled.

Look in rheum eyes,
read drowned-years passed,
absorb their life,
because this is your last.

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