67

PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE TV

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            PUT ANOTHER LOG ON THE TV

            Talking gets harder each day:

            Smokeless zones and telephones

            Have killed the conversation

            Now our lies, laughs, truth and tears

            Have all been swallowed whole

            By another monster

            In another shiny console

 

            Rocking-horse to rocking-chair

            And somewhere in between

            The fireplace has become a flickering screen

            Glowering at the world

            Insisting on silence as it reward

 

            Granddad spat in the fire;

            I spit in your face;

            Old lies die hard.

from my new collection of poetry ’67’.  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

 

HISTORY LESSONS

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HISTORY LESSONS

 See the walking dead

And the carcasses piled high

Like wood on bonfire night;

Clothes, shoes, hair and jewellery

Neatly stacked in separate heaps

 

Gaunt history staring us in the face

 

Confetti droning overhead

Gently napalming young bodies

Flesh peeling

Delta-Mekong dots on the map

 

Where’s Daddy?

Gone to fight the yellow man

 

Burning deserts erupting

Below technology-laden skies

Push-button warfare

Timed for peak viewing.

 

Blind killing-fields

 

Scorched earth, scorched body;

What’s the difference?

taken from my new collection of poetry ’67’  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

 

WIMBLEDON

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WIMBLEDON

 I could write a poem about you

It might even say

‘I love you’

 

There would be hate;

A modicum of debate

About whether you were you

 

Or was it your dead-ringer I saw

Slurping in the arms of granite-jaw

When the forty-love shot was hailed

And you and lover-boy got nailed

 

TV doesn’t lie my dear;

Only one thing now is missing;

Who was that bastard you were kissing?

taken from;  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

A DIFFERENT RACE

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A DIFFERENT RACE

 The lighted first-floor windows illuminate them

Their good sides always facing outwards

Like so many beautiful birds they perch;

Silently caged,

Mouthing ‘For Sale’ pleasantries

 

Outside

Others less beautiful ply the darkness

Stalked by vermin

And the ghosts of their childhood

 

There is a rage

Unfurling flags of despair;

‘Look at what you have done’

Some are shouting

‘Don’t you care?’

 

These articulate ones are the ugliest

The least loved

And the loneliest

from my new book of poetry ’67’  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

 

 

NO THANKS

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Image

 

NO THANKS

 If I left you now, what would you miss?

Grumpy mornings, silent evenings

And taken-for-granted pause between the emptiness;

And hidden behind the tall tales, adultery;

Mental maybe, but real nevertheless

 

You dazed me in the park one Sunday’s summer afternoon.

 Your smile was electric.

Later, you hid your patience well

When freedom was dragged from under my feet.

You ticked of the (waiting) time

And I repaid you with monologues of deceit

 

There are those more deserving of your kindness;

Less selfish, less angry,

And less possessed of my bloody-mindedness.

You bore your cross to the edge and beyond.

Always hauling me back to the fold.

Snatches of love were your only compensation,

Were I a better man I would cloak you in gold

Image

                              The two scenes were photographed  at Rye Harbour, East Sussex

poem taken for my new book of poetry, available @  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

 

PLAY ON

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PLAY ON

 Ensconced here in contemplation

Your presence overwhelms me

Arms outstretched, yet never chiding

Even knowing my ways were wrong

 

Burning both ends speeds up damnation

I can see that now;

Lust living in the wings

While the songs sang themselves

And courage dredged from the bottle

While the melody lingered on

 

 Music was my life

But you changed it all;

Your song will still be nectar, Lord

When all this is gone…

from my new collection; http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

SAYING IT IS THE HARD PART

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Image

SAYING IT IS THE HARD PART

 The secret is to be casual;

Matter-of-fact words can

Sometimes inflame the senses;

Not straight away, perhaps,

But later, when the hurly-burly

Of conversation has had time to sink in

 

Maybe the trick is not to be seen saying it;

‘I love you’ is such a difficult phrase

To force between clenched teeth

see more poems in my new book of poetry ’67’.
 http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

SKATING ON THIN ICE

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SKATING ON THIN ICE

Now there’s a pastime for you;

Young enough not to know better

We taught ourselves how to,

And sometimes paid the price

 

We carved figures of eight

Figures of three and five too

While Hopper McGrath kicked a hole in the shallow end

With thumps from the heel of his shoe

 

But nature had the last laugh

And slid him into a clump of nettles

And the breath laughed from the rest of us

Like steam from the spouts of kettles

 

Cracked ice, grass-crunching like apple-munching

Shiver-me-timber dancing

The old farmer prancing

And helter-skelter

For the school-yard shelter

 

Nowadays skating on thin ice comes easy

 

my new book of poems ’67’ is now available as an ebook, and in paperback soon. http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

67 – A COLLECTION OF POEMS

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67

67, my first collection of poems is now available as an ebook by Tin Hut Tales, and will be available as a paperback in about two weeks time

http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

 

JUST WALKING

 Walking…just walking

Away from the hum and drum

Away from the hub and bub

Away from the whine and grind of this rusty city

Couldn’t take it, they will say

Well, let them

This place isn’t all it’s cracked up to be

 

I saw a man today selling boxes to homeless people

Business was brisk

Did you know that the stone from the Pyramids

Would build a wall round England ten feet tall?

They say John the Baptist was gay

Funny the thoughts that come into your head when you’re walking

 

There was an old woman who lived in a hovel

She didn’t have any shoes but no one cared

She fell down one day

The hospital put her in a trolley for a few weeks

Then sent her away

Back to her hovel, her piss-stained bed, her broken radio

Her clock that didn’t tick, her bare cupboards, her solitary chair

Carried her up three flights, stood her in front of a walking frame

Said ‘take care of yourself, dear’

 

The whole fucking world anaesthetised by indifference