Saturday, 24 June 2017

New poem "All Wrapped Up"


All Wrapped Up

An untold number of toes
into the water in a daring dos.
An untold number of hands,
upon the plastic detritus lands,
on sand's turning tide a-strewn.
In God's own strewth - I swear,
pebbles throttled, bottled there,
with nets and rope garroted,
blame allotted,
throttled, mottled world,
that discarded and hurled,
this message afloat,
that will stick in your throat,
in an in-elasticated demise,
take your choice - any size,
any colour, don't bother to holler
as you drown, 
down to Davey Jone's locker,
now made of plastic - and this will shock ya,
is filled with golden nano particles,
the grounds of percolation,
the anchor of our food chain,
in this the heaving ocean main,
will plasticise our insides out upon
our rotting demise, this plastic coffin,
that was not an option ever foreseen 
in all our worst Armageddon dream.

With plastic eyes
go proselytise,
and of this anaplasia
ask why?

Friday, 23 June 2017

Lighthouse Rock


A lighthouse fast in an icy fastness,
middle finger to a storm at sea,
boils a tantrum engorged
and stirred and stamping
and fisting upon the rock.
Howling, screaming retribution,
just you wait and see!

Must hewn wet in sea,
in pewter tankards clashing,
spilling raucous evil foam, sss
slavering upon the prey. Yet
recoiling in the searing light,
flashed in the mist and spume.
Out from the dark they clash
to recoil and crash,
and recoil to crash,
again and again
and again.

Foiled in flash, regained in balance,
flashing taught, eyeball to eyeball,
crackling blue and green.
An electric alley,
split in a valley,
way down upon the main.

See them seething at calm's behest,
in beauty bequest upon the sea.
A brass sun in longing,
in doubloons thronging,
has charmed this snake,
this hissing thing, this
biting mongoose arched in stone.
And humped away out there,
pounding in arteries, flaring in
nostrils, the beast is loose again.

The rock of the man who built
his magnificence, this rock upon
the sea. Defiant of reason,
standing tall enthrall.
Until one day, one stormy day,
we know that it will fall.

This light in the wrath at the light.

always ~~~ shinning ~~~ always ~~~ shinning


Monday, 19 June 2017

Hazy daisy days


Hazy daisy days

Remember the days when the doors were opened and the fresh air flooded in?

When the coal fire lay exhausted, and the thin curtains barely stirred.

When the privet flowers walked right in, and lay upon the bed,

and the conversation moths swarmed across the hedge,

as we slid down along the waiting, wanting thoughts, 

that were cooling in the air. 

The night has returned home,

setting golden childhoods aspic in a medication rare,

waiting o'er the long years, now melting for we are there,

throwing back the comfort blanket from the old man in his chair.

Away he flows back down the times with aspic tiered eyes,

falling, and falling, falling, into a long embrace,

where the privet moths are bow tie dancing in the air,

to pick up on the conversation, with a small boy playing there.

Sunday, 18 June 2017

What? Another disaster?


Another disaster?
Not another one?
I can't stand this!

What am I allowed to feel?
When all suffering is televised,
and sanitised, and thus inoculated,
we are anaesthetised 1, 2, 3 ...
What am I told to feel?

What is permitted?
That will not denigrate your
religion, or class, or race, or gender,
or colour, or orientation or ...
Stop! Stop!
Permit me please.

But what can I say?
That has not been said,
and around and around my head
it hammers the tears to steam
at my sadness misaligned.
What do you say?

What politics, in contrast,
can I believe to behave and
in all truth say it was me,
I did it, or didn't do it.
For, if it was me, I would.
Simple in contrast.

So where can I find myself?
Where in all the truth of it all?
So that we can truly fix "it"
for us, for once and for all.
Where? Shout it. Where!!?

What is real wealth?
That does not dislocate
the rich from the poor,
in evaluation, in elevation,
or in depression, bipolar
in the richness of cheapness.
Is that wealth?

Dear politician answer this:
do you represent me?
Or must I conform to
your representation of me?
Whose dialectic dictates?
What are we at all, if far apart?
Answer me that!

Are we dead sure it is true?
That there is truth?
That the pain is real?
Really taken away
in the deaths revealed
as we relieve ourselves
believing the die is cast.

When I turn inward
and still see outward,
who can I turn to
to take away the pain,
or put it back again?
You? All of you?
Or just me?
Or me and you?

Is it too late to escape
a fate effete?
Has every shade of empathy
been tuned to white noise?
Oh, boys mun,
such wretchedness is fetid.

Are we lost? Have we lost?
Do you see what I mean?
What dies, what lives,
what emotions in the end
scream at the dark
drowning in mouthfuls

"Oh, I don't know" you say.

I see; so you don't know!
What a crying shame
that no one is to blame,
that no one did it.
I didn't ... did I?
Did you?
Come on.
Own up.

I can't stand this hypocrisy!

Friday, 16 June 2017




a minded of the land and byways
this earthen mould in mind reversed
inside out and introspected in
footfalls guided down time's eyes
the way it's always been

the sky afire

crag's jagged reticence scarred in grass
and in burnish of the stream's avarice
turned aside for eons the valleys made
that cleave the sky for the moonshine
scalding alone

the sky frozen

gnarled the first trees stake a hold
eyebrows in the fringe glistening with
tears of the wind that crag-ward wind
down the times where we wended thus
sheep-sure footed the cloven ways

the sky in finis thin

petrified in wood and wire rust
stone walled fields the view
that we must not stray
then disavowed that way - no
the copse in coppice oversteps

the sky is larking

the big trees mark the land
as far as the shaded eye on
the bucolic pastures below
scene in the palm of the hand
a land aglow and gentrified

the sky is heavy

the gold and fields call down
come soar and buzz and stir
and sway the breeze grasses full
on the midge meadow stream
my casket mind in embrace

the sky is hazy

abridge the scene the hamlets
snooze and in stone intone
the always thoroughfare
of thoughts that roam
pour home

the sky can see

the factory fire of empire
squire me in a vice tightening
in smoke and grime this time
our time is running out to sea
see see

the sky is stormy

assuredly the root of soot in
minds moulded by this moulding
can scream escape at the nape
of necks to nothing on a block plan
dry and geometrically minded

the sky sinks

thoughts stream away undulating in
adoration of the horizon line
that cleaves the man that can
see the sea and once seen the scene
will wash away the landscapes of the mind

the sky darkens

the desert dunes of stars and
hush blue cooling a dying day
black as the landscape melds
and dying the mind exhales
lay me here in this landscape
alone together in perpetuity

the sky weeps

Monday, 12 June 2017

Solar Wind

Solar Wind
(upon a garden seat)


Swooning, oh the octopus sun,
blanched thoughts go heavenwards,
faced in sun-threads so cocooned.
Summer solstice thoughts
long upon on the solar wind,
under the history of eyelids.
Birdsong heightened in a singular way.
Disembodied, breeze-embraced,
a déjà vu of every beast and man,
since time began, and don't we know it.
A crinkling sun-kiss upon my lips,
ever so slightly sinister,
trusted this day to lie,
soft for bed.
Cat climbs the sunbeam,
trapdoor scratching red,
as the time-clouds pop the dam,
and the dusk tide in full spate
springs from the champagne stars,
o'er the meandering moon,
o'er the 'morrowing sun,
to reclaim night from day.

Saturday, 10 June 2017

A Mirage Image

A Mirage Image


Fraught in tended
my flock of words,
pastures of memory
grazed at the knees.
Around every oasis
the gazelle words
leap over
tiger words,
read in tooth and clause,
stanzas in stampede,
your emotions fall
prey brought down,
bitten in breath,
One lives.
One dies.
Memories dissected,
from the entrails,
the glistening tears,
congealing in the dust.

Tuesday, 6 June 2017

Barra Lament


Barra Lament 

Heart-rending across the beach 
a tartan piper crying in lament,
drawing tears from the wind,
is heading this chain of sadness,
so tiny under the orb of blue,
so tiny across the sand to sea,
their lineage across this bay,
their way amidst the hills,
sadness in a people so aligned.

A lone stone castle cannot believe
this black pain winding cortège 
wrapped in an island far away,
ache linked to a city far away.
Resting on the sun-stone church,
voices of their love for her,
of her, their child, so full of zest
taken - don't ask of evil "why?"
for by God she has returned 
to rest forever,
here at home.

Bowed they
sobbed into the church.
Smiling they
soared out shinning love.

Eilidh you have touched me so,
oh, so, so much more,
than you will ever know.

All is changed forever.

Sunday, 4 June 2017



every diving board day
finger tipping the butterflies
spinning the fields and sky
eyes zest wide in conversation
around every subject under the sun
of the mornings of tomorrow
body-diving onto thoughts
deep same soils of childhood
angst and bravado unquestioned
leaping to float
until the until decides
which music in the veins of youth
in the genetic seams of
all generations turning
the pepper mill and sugar sifter
that lace the ricochets around
the infinite salad spinner of youth
to stampede the horses in
harness and rearing
emotions higher and higher
into the dawn of childhood and
the sun's elemental peaks
breathless in abandon
iridescent in the orbits
across the light years
and back again that
hormonal fountain-hood
blind in love’s pupils wide
and tides of heart pushing
over the sea walls running before
tempestuous propellant thoughts
of everything and naught that aught
to be considered but
is thrown to the four winds
the seven seas of wherever
we will be we will
run spin
dance hug
and kiss
as the sun settles
hot upon the days
hand in hand
settling low
me and you
and them
to kiss
and cuddle
the muddle
adolescent zing
hammock dozing
on the sea
of the being
of the here and now
and how
you and me  
will be
   in all ways

Saturday, 3 June 2017


When old age ...

... takes my sight
I can still hold you 

... blocks my ears
I can smell you

... takes my teeth 
smile for me

... gnarls my hands
squeeze me

... freezes my joints
arm me

... stoops to conquer 
stick with me

... pulls my hair
kiss me

... dulls my taste and smell
glow for me

... wrinkles
reflect on me

... cantankerous 
tutt tutt me

... lose my memory 
remind me

... where is it?
in our salad days 

... I'll just sit here a while
join me

... take a nap
gaze at me

... what's your name

... who are you
I am you

... who am I
you are me

... goodnight
goodnight my love

... and remember
don't be long 

... shssss now


Wednesday, 31 May 2017

Old Factories and Smelters


Dead down a cracked window's dusty cataract,
streaming cold a long wind cobweb shroud,
dry as the crusts that bite the stone blue floor
in mildew strewn of whence they are no more.

Men’s gnarled lives screaming from the days
long oiled by their touchstones of meaning,
flowing in the metal gleaming upon their grime,
their time gone sadly missing.

Dare to elect but just one thing,
to point and say "there see it",
would never be the “it” of it,
the it that stains these walls.

The machines, frozen in rust,
must, when you look away so chatter. 
Eh? Where? Stares blank - nowhere.
But those men did live, did matter.

It seems the machines have bound them,
even time, on parole, has yoked them.
To what?
Dust to dust answers the floor

as we shuffle through, and nudge
the bits and bobs, and strange
things incandescent, do you feel it?
Dead as dead dodos, 

or were, for inside each other, in times
and banter, of hard men shadow boxed
and chinned with left and right the
pain of be gone! 
Must carry on. We have to.

The brassed off tap in an ageless drip,
sobs for lives that were leached away.
For wife and child the poorest hay,
harvest of an even poorer day.

Then doors unhinged beckon 
into rooms that devour rooms
marbled by the labour pains 
of birth and death confined.

Furnaces cold, metal tapped no more,
and fire hearths in rest rooms eaten away
by time and again we see them chewing
on their bread and dripping lost in thoughts

so weary in one’s own world of thoughts
of naught, or of everything that tattooed
their minds and blue pumped their arms and
fire fisted eyes stinging in the dust. We must

turn away and spin around to scan the scene
of what had been the factory floor, or a works
spitting fire and brimstone (or so it looks to us),
and listen to them call, all souls darkly.

The derelictions of our recollections perforced
by bated breath in trespass alighting on
this sarcophagus made precious by
the death of men, who by other men 
were so enforced to dwell.

Never again?

It would be wise for you to reflect
in the cracked metal-case window panes,
on what you, outside of this dereliction, do
to earn your crust as you turn away and drop
another crust in another day of dust.

Must you?

Monday, 29 May 2017

Compose yourself

Infinite stands the permutations of the words ... STOP!
Take it.
Here it is .....

Check out this Welsh Government tweet

The Sea Beach


The Sea Beach

Jazzed upon some summer bathers' tide,
that glides in reflections running gloss,
across the sand and star-fish prone,
under the bluest of blue skies.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kaleidoscope of children waves,
shriek in dash, spittle snarls and roar,
explosive, their electric oscillating scares,
annihilate every chasing footprint in a flash.

The Beach Sea