So though I carry poetry

So though I carry poetry

I've mostly been a fan of words, a dialect devotee
smiled at nuances in accent, syntax subtlety 
an apostrophe well-placed
I've put my faith in language, believed in le mot juste
conjured like a waiter with a click, and apt
to cheer or comfort, soothe or clarify,
but lately I'm not so sure
for more and more they fail me, don't answer at my call
and even marshalled artfully, their power appears to wane.

So though I carry poetry and crossword-solving's my delight
I see that there are times, non-stop rolling catastrophic, on the news
or quiet whispered down the line
when grief's abyss is opened up
to Lear's appalling howl,
never never never never never
no words
just nothing to be said. 

July 30th 2015, Brighton and Hounoux 
   

May 8th 2015

May 8th 2015

This time, like news of grief
about to hit, tsunami on its way
and all of us but bobbing flotsam
going under
the tolling bell, doom in the knell
dread in the exit polls.

So, sick at heart and sicker
we wordless took to bed
enough said
opting for oblivion
news blackout, curtains drawn
and lovely the nightingale sang. 

June 14th 2015, Hounoux.

Rounded like an egg

Rounded like an egg

Bold unbowed
her curve and camber lovely
as an S
arc and bow and bend
swells and folds, rolled
rounded like an egg
and all the world within

5th May 2015, Hounoux

Anzac Day 2015

Anzac Day 2015

Charlie Chaplin, mother sang

didn't rush to war

not for him the Dardanelles

stayed instead to entertain

black and white on silent screen

brightly shone the moon

How much of love and light and joy

is buried with our darling boy

carved in stone, Gallipoli

forty thousand men and more

didn't live to make their mark

slaughtered all too soon

Countless stories never lived

all that might have been

gallant Anzacs donned their hats

fell in step and waved goodbye

Matilda waltzing with the band

jolly swagman tune

Tommy Atkins with his pals

whistling, marched away

Picadilly, Leicester Square

grieving Dolly left behind

siren songs, adventure's lure

heedless to their doom

One hundred years, what lessons learned?

Still the marching bands

red and gold the regiments

clean white graves and monuments

poppies, anthems, poetry

plaintive wailing bugle call

we may shroud it all in beauty

talk of sacrifice and duty

but the truth remains obscene

dulce et decorum, dying

such a bloody, ugly, lie

27th April, 2015, for Sue, whose grandfather, Lieutenant John Lionel Calvert Booth, was mortally wounded on April 25th 1915 at Gallipoli. He died of wounds on H M Hospital Ship Itonus on April 28th 1915 aged 38, and was buried at sea.

I think of Susan

I think of Susan

I think of Susan in the bathroom 
where her Galliano shoes swagger
and swank, still life
or by the conte crayon curvy nude
on the bedroom wall,
the oriental shirt and mannequin, juxtaposed
first-ever flowers, tulips, seriously askew
and tentative
but bolder daffodils

For Susan taught us week by week
called us artists, said Be brave
and try the right side, where the soul
creative, can breathe and stretch
and grow

and so I think of Susan
light and lovely
her precious legacy


April 16th 2015, Hounoux, for Susan and for Gill, with love and thanks

As rainbows shimmer

As rainbows shimmer

Even the sodden farms
their fields winter dun or darker,
sparkle, shine under luminous sky
muddy tracks now waterlogged
are silver strips
there's lime and light, spring promise
green patchworked with the browns
and all the spectrum red to violet
in garlands strung
as rainbows shimmer, shameful
on spiders' ancient webs

28th February 2015, Hounoux

Preserved like plums

Preserved like plums

I see my feet
brown like an egg and small
warm from the sun, in sandals
last year's Start-Rite
my short toes free, the toe-cap cut
by mother with a razor blade
was the leather red? 

I see my arms
also bare beneath the sleeves, puffed
pale blue and knees
summer-coloured, with a scab
soon ready for the picking
always war-wounds then
when life was all outdoors
with dirt in finger nails

and time was not yet learned
from the checkered china clock
or the Victory jigsaw, seasons in each corner
but told instead by the cress seeds
wet on cotton wool
egg-box sprouting, ready yet for tea?
Sandwiches with crusts removed
or the bean on blotting paper
jam jar on window sill.

Long days then from dawn till dusk
when I was near the ground
so noticed worms, wasps, stones
(collected those with holes for luck)
knew the smell of pineapple on mayweed
threaded on a stalk
flicked plantain heads for catapults
joined daisies in a chain

I see my feet
on the garden gate, perhaps my brother's too
where we have climbed for lookouts
mother must have said
to watch and wait for dad's return
six day week routine
another country then unreachable 
but technicolour clear
preserved like plums in a bottle
sweet in memory

25th February 2015, Hounoux, for my friend Wendy, some sunshine for your day