Monday, 19 March 2018

the matter of a dark question

i am an atheist


what if
like dark matter
god is sensed by
the movement of
bodies close by

they are moved
even if
we are not

to say we are not
is not to deny 
moves them

an atheist 
a rock in a
moving sea?

second hand prose

the husk pages of a book 
in seance with the summer wind,
restless across the corn field; 
the harvest of memory
that poets in memoriam be,
in their twilight days,
they have laid down the years. 
smell the must of their words
that they say “must be”,
they simply must be. 
wake up!

the storm approaches. 

Saturday, 17 March 2018

the newts of spring

the newts of spring

spring of the newted boys,
infatuated the many mile,
up the cefn, 
to the clay pits, and
turning the mud bricks,
and taken with a smile,
pot the newts with magic.
the safari floats home
back down the memory mile.

Friday, 16 March 2018

the tea is drunk

the tea is drunk
the log fire dawdles
the music wanes
the seance begins 
the words cross over 
onto the page
you are reading them


the beholden poet’s clatter
is spilled in word’s that clatter
it doesn’t matter 
          it doesn’t matter 
let the seance resume

let the abscess that gathers
all the puerile aged pus 
yield to my sinus pen
be lanced the boil
drain the mind marinade
of the all the anthologies
and all the libraries of noise


can I sear this tattoo 
of the past and
brand the page anew
or water mark it
as my own

  exorcised of the poets 
the vacuoles still remain
to permeate my poems
  is there no icy pool 
into which I can dive
and emerge pristine

let me think
      let me think

Thursday, 15 March 2018

failing to reach escape velocity

my childhood; a stone in my shoe,
a wallpapered memory, peeling;
trimming the lamps, and dimming
grandpa’s gas-mantled dusk.

rejecting today’s vermillion carpet,
unwelcome by the zinc bath boy;
the iced windows are, thoughtlessly,
not listening. they never did.

the hard slag tips’ strong foundation,
is ill-designed for building today;
they will not house my childhood.
false, they call back; false, false!

eyelid heavy, the village days wrap
up my today and throw it away.
the village ball and chain drag,
and i fall back as i always do.

said the four o’clock abed

westminster dolefully downs the cold fired night
where the black pads scurry crumbs 
homeless on the grit coal carpet grate.
then chimes the hour balanced moment 
between the days down either side,
and thoughts suspended simply are,
and we? where are we halted then?

between a dry tear and a lemon smile,
a rising laugh and a choked off frown.
the scant breath off the lake of night
lays a black cracked window feather,
to stir the stardust ashes
around the point of no return.
with no signpost forward,
sleep comes to kiss;
there, there; hush now,
my cariad,
nos da,
night you night,
for everything’s alright.