Looking for something else, my partner unearthed an old clipboard of mine with an A4 writing pad and several loose sheets of paper clipped to it. It was one of those things that gets used and then one day it's put aside, and it slips out of consciousness and doesn't turn-up again for many years. … Continue reading Spaces.
A simple thing, a piece of cake. When leaden skies pervade the day, And respite's sought from out the grey, A kettle with fresh water filled, The steam expands and whistle trilled. Within the pot the leaf is laid, And piping hot the water spray'd, The brew commences, minutes three, Then more tick by, brew'd … Continue reading Cup of tea and a slice of cake.
I wrote this on the 26th of November 1978, eight days after the Jonestown Mass Suicide/Massacre, an event that I will freely admit I had to look up to refresh my memory about the whole thing. Jonestown or the Peoples Temple Agricultural Project was a religious settlement located in Guyana and founded by one James … Continue reading Who next for god, Jim?
Written in November 1978, I intended this as a sort of tumbling stream of consciousness. When I wrote it I was torn between using and not using punctuation but in the end I conformed and included commas and full stops. This time however, here in the 21st century, I'm going out on a limb and … Continue reading Any excuse.
In Unread Words A sad and lonely poet, comes to the end of his rhyme. The suns and moons, of age, are passing, through the canyons of his mind. "We knew the way," he sadly cries, "we could have shown you life." "Your eyes I see are crying now, they dim your blood-stained knife." And … Continue reading In Unread Words.
Teenage poetry. This one has a date, 13th August 1977 which, the internet reliably informs me was a Saturday. The original title that I'd written down was 'The Ad,itive' but I thought that it looked a bit too, um… you know. I'd obviously been overdosing on telly adverts and thinking about Carol who I'd met … Continue reading The Additive.
Soldiers stare in poets' guise, shout bloody words at careless skies. Faces bowed are steeped in grief, and turn away from warrior and thief. Art ensnared in martial rule, followed by bloodlust thirsty fools. Teachers caught are sold and bought, preach manifestoes to the worth of naught. Mourning not another day, these people force my … Continue reading Out of the Ecliptic.
Paper Flag Can you believe them? Sing their songs then. Understand them? Come to terms then. How can you say, that they know how to please you, can't you see that you are cheated? Every turn you are defeated. They pave your way so narrowly, and strip you of identity. I see a child in … Continue reading Paper Flag.
Some time later, when the street vendors had packed away their plastic crosses and crown of thorn hats, a small group of young people gathered under His cross and began to sing. It was a sad song, but no one looked as if they were sad at all. This continued for some time, then they … Continue reading He is alive.
Sing to me no more. Talk not of love, save me the trouble, of trying again. Just leave me, to my books, my pictures, and my sad, lost lonely looks. No! Please no more. Not your anguish, spare me your trouble, your crying and pain. … Continue reading An escape.