Thursday, 20 July 2017

forever and a day



the gloaming o'er the bay,
    turning on the tide exhales,
and slowly dries on salted skins,
    of a summer day in Wales.


where such enchantments lay,
    the evening slowly pales,
and the coolness of dusk begins,
    on this summer day in Wales.

dream of heat, let's say,
    mutes the alpha males,
tunes them to the child within,
    on a summer day in Wales.


long in castled spades at play
    has subdued the emotional gales,
and sleep seeps deep there,
    in their summer day in Wales.

Wednesday, 19 July 2017

stampede in springtime


nostrils for newts 
fistfuls of frogspawn 
bog mint mud redolent 
of lamb on the bone
a boy running springwards 
with wings on his heels 
spawn-eyed with jam jar
and glistening in flight
insect a hunting 
down on his knees
caddis fly larvae 
the waters slide
adventures budding 
across the fields 
or over the hill 
let the river decide 
on the ricochet day
this way or that 
with so much urging 
let's go let's go
further and further 
a giant moon cheese
on a dusky horizon
the War of the Worlds
halt lads in mid-breath 
standing star-eyed
dark calling homeward 
where stories glide
together in lore 
and tolled down to bed
in this Eros village
snuggling in thrumming 
and wrapped in the clouds 
to dream of tomorrow 
where shotgun will ride 
to his galloping childhood 
hi oh silver away

so terrier bite 
on this feral age
on this time of your life
and never let go

Monday, 17 July 2017




So young, walking out on summer hand in hand.
Our newness overcome as our fingers entwine,
in a besideness pinked in dress and eyes,
we float beneath the dappled surface.

How you shine.

Floating oblivious we see, in a sky
rising thin and clear, in a sense sublime,
that with each light squeeze around your waist,
we knew that we were merging.

A first kiss turning in stopped time,
and I am yours and you are mine.

Was it really fifty years ago?

Sunday, 16 July 2017



The poetry flows in the Venice of my mind.
     Bells on backwaters of memory ring
        down the years, down the years.
                  And down the years
                         the tears
                         the tears,
                   that down the years,
         down and down upon the years,
    memories are backwatered on the bells,
canaliculated my Venice mind flows in poetry.


  Inspired by a text from Andrew in Venice

Saturday, 15 July 2017

Gone and forgotten

When the human race is extinct,
my poetry, along with the dead, 
will really be dead. 
there will be no one to remember. 
Don't forget that, will you?

Hello?   Hello? 

New lines in old bottles

Don't stop the flow
of the vintage lines,
or worry the sediment.
The bottle is crazed
and will surely blow,
ere all that’s meant is said.

Wednesday, 12 July 2017



Your words inflect the corpuscles of my womb,
and lilt my tongue across the old Braille town.
Swallowing your windfall light upon my throated apple,
I gag in crying for the child's night spun down.

Leaning against your corduroy trousered tree,
bark black hair and stare, impudent in the cravat
that smoked around this pouting town of ours,
that my eyes, through your eyes see.

Your short-trousered lines go where
the people stained their walled-in times,
when Jesus wept, and the parable of the pub
sought truth beyond your death mask,
and not our lime washed rhymes.

No lie of the land to say we walked today,
where the chimney cats and skulk Sunday dogs
paused to pee into your reservoir of words.
Or the salt rimed jewels of the hunchback sea,
shining on the salt encrusted streets,
as the mist slew back into your grave,
and the lid on your sunlight closed.
Park-wise by owl light, the altar of your night.
Glorious to have been there with you today,
Swansea boys and running.
Lovely like, in it?

Diolch Dylan

Tuesday, 11 July 2017

Prose acre


What are the edges, where there are no edges?
That restrain the boy, "no further!" Shall I go? No.
The hillside heather, stepped so many times before
in a mind's adventure, on a boy's bouncing shoes,
from rock to warm rock, or in the deep grass world to lie.
But on this cusp, above a small holding, the easy path
around the fenced fields; so why not step forward?
What invisible glare, there, holds me back?
Why not down the south side as I do the homeward north?
Or down along the river tread the scrapyard's tricky path,
before "no further's" creeping flesh turns back.
Or up to the 600 weir, where every dereliction's frown
turns down the drizzle collars damp enough, turn back.
The river boundary plain to see, and then the sea of course.
But what minds a boy to "stand back!" from the inner, 
of the inner, of every rusty, smoke-bricked factory, 
or works long dead, has said, in a bit more? But "no!" 
Falls down upon a frown, I wish, I wish to go. But no.
Oh boy, your boundaries grow with you in height and depth,
but the phantom "do not cross!" so rankles the lust
for just a bit further, then further. See how I cannot see it?
How far and wide can my home range be stretched before
it is home no more? But a bubble universe set to break away.
Beat the boundaries good and hard, and take a quick look
over there, and down there, and across there. Then turn
back home and beat a slow retreat, back along my beat.
The "Why?" Of  "no further" seems to be, quite simple see,
that the boundary is too fragile. Deep down I knew it all along.
Tactile the feeling that to push too hard would bring the edifice
of childhood tumbling down, and all my pals, the boys and girls 
would flood out. Melancholy, as the days pour in stinging in tears,
blurring out who we were, in a "do you remember when?"
But I am not yet ready to relinquish this story-minded childhood.
So I do not cross. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after?
The threadbare shawl still wraps warm around the days,
and all the whispered ways, that lead to the edge, of ...

Saturday, 8 July 2017

A patchwork quilt of Swansea built


A snake street of little shops,
tabernacled in stone.
A church on an island,
an eye on a herring bone.


Aircraft carrier, on its deck lined up,
fleets of new cars all glossy in garage,
hands off, for takeoff, prices and prices.
While stingy terraces strike down the mirage.


Bridged by trains and dark arched through,
monumental black just simply is.
"Bee Brrrp" the diesels comment,
on queue, for cars that just as simply are.

The Hafod 

Tighter knit these matrix streets,
these lodestone houses of industry and more.
Measled by pubs and tiny, tiny shops.
Poor in the richness of its history lore.


Racecourse crossroads, traffic lights abridged.
High rise, city-like, birthing and borne.
Fags seething red on public house steps,
grouped by stringy men of deep eyes forlorn.

Upper High Street 

Last station of the cross,
"All Change! All Change!"
Tower offices nudge the glory buildings, 
surely this crime must be duly arraigned.

High Street 

Artily varnished fingernails pander too dry
under apocryphal wrinkly and fading facades.
Will it ever decide?
This threadbare tapestry of hanging brocades.

City Centre

Where is it centred?
Laying the ghosts that went before.
Now bored in smoke and obesity.
Re-planning? Oh! No more!


All flotsam and rattling lanyard masts,
and upwardly winding and windy mobiles.
Waiting (again) for the lock gate to open,
"Would you live here?" Brings wry smiles.


Tall door steps and coal holes black,
all roads lead to Joe's.
On most corners a little shop 
or a pub, and the next round is yours.

Walter Road

They lived here before the lawyers,
before the business hues,
like the grandees of Fynonne,
they are all gone, to where? Who knows?


Look at the view, the best in town,
and the community spirit is swell.
The number 12 chugs up and down
past the municipal university - well, oh well?


Student-land bustling and dormitory down
to the knot of tight Brynmill.
They walk the paths in the greening parks
yet fail to feel the thrill ...


... that the dead, remembered on the cenotaph,
had felt in their last days on this earth.
Walk along the shadows of the colonnade,
and ask why, oh why? Of the modern in mirth?


Another crossroads for cars not people,
beep, beep, scurry up, hurry up!
Chipshops and takeaways,
for school kids on the hop.

Derwen Fawr

Neater, wider roads,
but can you see any one at all?
All commuted away in their cars,
bought from the garages of Plasmarl


Bathe in the pill and you'll need a pill.
To bathe in pool you must find a space,
while parents a coffee or ice-creams a kid
until you burn in the sun, all red in the face.


Clyne gardens in a Rupert Bear mystery,
of ornamental bridge and follies bizarre.
Below it the sea, above it the common.
The people of Mayals are lucky by far.

West Cross

Council houses and the grand detached,
and West Cross Lane away to the stars.
The dear little green (with a sign in wood),
and Dick Barton's chips "tweet now and vinegars?"


Infusions of visitors in their bleeding queues,
which ever way you travel in your hot little cars,
the lighthouse and pier have seen it all before,
the tenders and yachts, and the jolly Jack tars.

The piers

Mumbles pier all silver and wood,
looks to the West pier all concrete and baits.
But the West pier guards the entrance to docks,
while the Mumbles pier is rotting and waits and waits.

St Thomas

The seamen home from the sea sit to eat
at the tables that look out in distance to sea.
Over stevedore docks that craned all the oceans
for what they have scent - you see?


The end of the houses at the east side of town,
down to Crymlin bog and out to the marsh.
Was bombed in the war, or so dad said.
But today there is nothing nearly so harsh.


Kilvey terrace church shut down.
Oh God forgive us, but do not disown
all the souls who walk this narrow old road,
asleep under Kilvey hill's heather and crown.


The jewel of slag in the city's crown,
where metallurgy blazed and chimneys smoked,
to make the money for the foundation stone,
that now is Swansea, and to that history yoked. 


"Up the Bony" the policemen patrolled in twos,
now more refined, on the green valley side,
with views across this grand poem of ours,
this tasty Swansea where we all abide.

Then ...

Penlan, between the devil and the deep blue sea,
or Fforestfach in tradesmen's entrance,
or Cwmfelin way down to belie,
secret Greenhill cocooned in a trance. 

But what of (and more) ....

Birchgrove, Clydach, and Pontardawe?
Or Gorseinon, and Pontardulais?
Or Penclawdd, Penllygaer?
Well they all warm Swansea, in tears and mirth,
wrapped in this quilt, this heaven on earth.

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

Fancy looking up at a summer sky


Whimsy clouds, shorn from a peeling sky,
winsome shred the blue across this dome,
and in mischief call the lost souls home,
borne of distance longing, soaring high.

Blood of the sea roars in our temples,
inner ears of being where we are,
under this freckled, feckless far.
Wherein the winter eye trembles.

Bright sky tears well up in my eyes,
a spate of clear water, a platted spring,
bleeding minds unfettered o'er the skies,
thus superimposed do dreams take wing.

Soaring through the eagled canyons,
around an erupting cauliflower brain,
raucous run our childhood companions,
who in every dream a minded reign.

Why not sit every day like this?
Under my sky, in my way,
never to rush by, but to stay,
for forever, in this flight of fancy is.

Monday, 3 July 2017

Audio links to a large number of my poems

Out of the wood

Bury me at high tide

Privy thoughts

Tips of the tongue

Time to go

All Wrapped Up

Lighthouse Rock

Hazy daisy days

What? Another disaster?


Solar Wind

A Mirage Image

Barra Lament


Old Factories and Smelters

The Sea Beach

Paul Llewellyn - Antiques, Art and Badgers

Ominous on the Omnibus

A Cake Stand of Nostalgia

Oil Change


A Child's Chapel Hall 

Good Morning?

Good Boys

Dream Upon a Village Childhood

The Word Is

Immortality in Words

The Charity Shopper

Kinks in Time

The Midnight Mantle Clock

I am not a diabetic

Just a Book of Poems?



A Poem is

Spring Tide

Blue Pool


Golden Days

Fly Tipping

Pennard to Three Cliffs Bay

Grammar School - Beta minus

Remember Rock and Roll

A Void

The Allotments of Spring

Wet Day

Beside Myself

A Colouring Book


Love Letter

The Year's End

On Death I Have No Opinion


Village Home

Naughty Boys


Village and Villagers


Spreading wings

The Transit of Venus


Bait the Night

Red Door No More!

Mistress Sea

The Call of the Sea


Langland Lifeguards

Back Passage


Sounds of the Sixties

Descent Dissent


Last Night of the Young Fox


Third Party

Autumn Fine and Dandy

Love Is

Bricks and Stones

A Snow Boy's Christmas

Pentrechwyth Village in the 1950s


What Right Have I?

The Swansea Vale Lab




Kara's Kiss

Bohemia where for art thou


The Metronome of Silence



Beside Myself

Night Nurse


Swansea, bloody Swansea

First Book

Me Cat

In Glorious Mud

Cefn Bryn to Three Cliffs Bay

The History Book

Thinking of the Days

TRB Landore - Iron Men in an Iron Works

Auto more bile

The Atheist

It Was Your Call


The Marching of February

Dawn on Kilvey Hill

Ricky Ticky Tabbi Woo

Red Door No More

Bait the Night

Our Beach Hut

Mistress Sea - Autumn

Mistress Sea - Summer

Mistress Sea - Spring

Mistress Sea

Call of the Sea


The Years End