the chair
opposite mine
at the kitchen table--
my dog
opposite mine
at the kitchen table--
my dog
|
I remember struggling up Welsh hillsides
pretending to be Lance Armstrong high up in the mighty Alps then descending as if flying, wind caressing youthful hair, oh, that was long ago. The Tour de France captivated me but now the magic has turned to dust like a dry leaf crushed by fingers. How I used to admire that man recovering from cancer to rule the world yet it was all just a drug-induced sham. He fell from the stars and forever shame will be associated with his name. I sit in the autumn of my years,
watching him struggle through the winter of his. Memories of the past, now long erased, leave a void of confusion echoing within once such vivid inspiration. His magnificent baritone silenced, given way to shallow whispers, mumbled in a dialect unknown. As my hero, he once stood tall and proud, taking me by strong hands, he taught me this great adventure they call life. His withered frame, now left so frail, makes blurred contrast against such splendid memories, I remain holding on to. Two things
you should never let the devil do and that is see you winning or see you down He knows exactly how to walk in your shoes And if you follow his instructions to the letter somehow you will still get it wrong By the pricking
of my gums something wicked this way comes Open Glocks Hip Hop knocks with a crooked million dollar smile When 2Pac delivered Shakespeare's lines my eardrum exploded and the stage flatlined covid night
a lone star disappears into the clouds covid second wave the boy counts his parents and sister in the sky Tainted things of old.
Fake and faded flowers Reminiscent of the time You danced with Navy chaps Before they left to die and drown. Moth-chewed Chinese silk Dull pink rose mouldering On its stem, your nodding head A storm-grey vault of names Of men to whom you waved good-bye. Son, husband, brothers Devoured by the mad And hungry monster that is War. Amongst the screams and broken dreams
a doll lies on the bloody ground to the sound of screeching sirens at this terrible bombing scene. Minutes ago the crowd was talking as they waited in an endless queue but now there's terror in survivors' eyes yet for me the most poignant sight is of the doll and I wonder what has become of the little girl who must have treasured it and if she's alive will never leave this day who clutched this doll only a short time before, a reminder...of the horrors of war. Beneath Yggdrasil’s broad bows
green ash tree branches extend rooting into nine eternal realms, life affirming rhizomes disturb soil teething on golden doubloons long buried…now siphoning air like sea squirts collecting plankton as marine snow falls from shallows sinking into the deep-water chill. Earth below its gnarled trunks drops from a sheer cliff, creates a shoreline cavern peppered with mussels, cockles, clam shells, & sand dollars—natural treasures boxed in by a giant redwood log tuber shadows blocking sunrays. I hope Jesus knew.
I hope he knew when he was staring at that cross Ready to sacrifice himself, Facing pain alone after being betrayed by one friend And abandoned by others. I hope he knew as he staggered under the weight of responsibility And fought fear with Faith, Crying to his Father in his time of need. I hope he knew that almost two thousand years later, We who love him Would stand together To thank him for his sacrifice, To share the joy of his resurrection. I hope he knew that in his darkest hour Those who love him today Were standing beside him. Intimidating letters
dance on the page black blurry lines that make no sense - out of place misspelt words reading a book a play a poet's lines is like quicksand to me... becoming a lion-tamer kissing a king cobra or driving backwards blindfolded down the M6 at rush hour would be a much easier task than reading a few words on the page How much gold do I have to dig
just to make them smile? How deep do I need to dig until my black lung bleed, just to feed my family and pay the bills? I daymare all night long slaving and fouling, while the siren is howling hour by hour, until I break... the dawn. Until the dawn breaks me... my last words to a friend:
“hope your treatment goes well” next text unsent It's sublime to suck the bracing spring air
as I stand on the cliff top at Tenby where in a soft breeze daffodils sway. The calm sea far below is a most glorious turquoise sun creating the illusion of stars as a cloud shaped like an old man's face with a beard drifts harmlessly by and children laugh without a care. How I wish I were that innocent but for now I'll relish the view of Goscar Rock and St Catherine's island and the daffodils which in the soft breeze sway, I soon have to leave...yet I yearn to stay. I saw him once, came down our local club;
He turned up late from some or other pub. He didn’t smell too good if truth be told, And sniffed so much I thought he had a cold. Strange how small they seem, folks from off the box; Right frail he was, with something of the fox. He bobbed around, calculating angles; Slammed the balls, put several blokes in tangles. He gave us 50-starts and beat us all, Save one called ‘Ivor Biggun’, I recall. Ivor Biggun, that made us laugh a bit, And so did Alex with his slurry wit. Then he was gone, a minimum of fuss; More drink inside, few hundred nicker plus. A legend with a cue; a joy, a pain. No Hurricane like this shall strike again! I watch the children play.
And they watch their phones- glance at their watches. I see them grow and learn. They see tomorrow’s to-do list- missing today’s glory. I referee the games. They sit in the stands- not involved, not present. I hear the kids laughing. They’re deaf to those giggles- that will soon be outgrown. I know these moments are fleeting. They know schedules and playdates- forgetting childhood ends quickly. His strip says he belongs,
says he blends in like a zebra on the high veldt striped by long shadows. His smile says we have won, beating the odds; His raised fist signals joy simple, heartfelt. Belonging holds its opposite as the clenched fist includes its threat. But he beams out over leagues of busy air, without a cloud to dim his sunshine, proud of his team, which has done him proud. That smile,
satisfaction showing from ear to ear. Take leave from me, the game you loved, take leave. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
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