He lies like lagan wrapped in pond fronds,
deep down in the dark
where the naiads keep their treasures.
His buoy a length of woven webbing
for kind, sad men with billhooks
to snag.
And drag him from the lair up to the surface
and the air that he no longer needs.
Rinse the silt from his cold cold sleep.
Wrap him in a warm blue fleece that bears a badge
and take him home.
Hold him close, so close and rock him
for an hour.
Maybe more.
Hold tight, so tight this time.
Bleed savage salty tears to fall and blend
with strings of pretty candyfloss
that leave his lungs.
In the woods
beneath the bridge
the naiads wait
singing their watery songs.
Solway Shores.
Here.
No dramatic peaks to steal your breath.
No mirrored lochs to lure you to their shores.
No great royal stags parade with twelve point tines.
You’ll find no shaggy big horned highland beasts.
Not here.
Here.
No city glamour beckons folk from far.
No mighty castles call the tourist trade.
No plaid or pipers paid from nine til five.
Though trains pass through there is no station now.
Not here.
Here.
No golden eagle swings from eerie heights.
No savage seas crash wild on rocky cliffs.
No lighthouse stands spectacularly alone.
You wouldn’t plan a lengthy stay.
Not here.
But here,
the sea sighs softly to the muddy merse,
while tides slide in and out without a care,
and oystercatchers whistle in the wind,
that haunting call that echoes in your dreams.
All here.
And here,
the galloways graze in rolling fields of green,
and ribboned roads all lined with yellow gorse
may tempt you from your pre-planned route to find
that dappled paths unwind through whispering woods.
Just here.
And here,
the lingering light caresses as she dies.
The skies will weave their silk into your heart.
The air will soak into your skin and stain.
And when you leave you’ll hunger for this place.
Right here.
________________________________________________________________________
From the Family Album.
A sequence of five poems.
The Box Brownie
Boy.
I would guess it's May. Late spring. Early summer.
Maybe later given your wide brimmed hat
and demure dress that
is caught in the sunlight
and the breeze.
Inadvertently showing your knees.
You're flirting, smiling shyly
at the boy behind the old box brownie.
Salad Days.
There you are. Incognito.
Laughing.
An enormous straw hat fends off the fiery Egyptian sun.
Modest cool cotton blouse,
matches the early evening sky
that filters through the porthole
reflecting in pink ripples round the cramped cabin.
Floral skirt and my sunglasses, far too large
for your delicate features.
Ridiculous.
In one hand, a bottle of Ambre Solaire,
factor fifteen,
to filter out the UV rays,
stave off the sunburn
and save your skin from premature ageing.
In the other, a Capstan
sits elegantly between extended fingers.
Smouldering.
Your face is slightly out of focus,
filtered by a curlicue of smoke
snaking upwards from your cigarette.
Nearby, on the table,
alongside the bottled water
that combats the heat
and keeps you hydrated and healthy,
lies an ashtray.
Overflowing.
Filled with filters
folded into concertina'd stubs,
and smothered by
the gritty graininess
of grey ash.
Vestiges.
Like later.
In the urn
I carried from the Crem.
Commissioned.
He showed me your picture.
Against the white electric light
images emerged.
A hue of beautiful dense black blue.
Caught like the infinite expanse
of a crisp winter sky,
when a full moon throws frosted beams
onto brittle branches.
Glowing stark. An ethereal copse
illuminated in the dark.
Reminiscent of those printed woodland plates
in ‘Tales the Wind Told'
or the negatives of old monochrome
portraits by an artist of stature;
‘Fox-Talbot’ and his ‘Pencil of Nature.
A night time winter wonderland.
Like snowy trees
planted to an ordered plan,
except for one.
Snapped as though some violent storm
had passed.
Wreaking wreckage in its wake.
The break unclean.
Each jagged edge jutting
at an awkward angle,
mangled and maimed.
Then framed in your picture.
A title that read;
X-ray AP Pelvis (left).
A pathological fracture
he said.
Prognosis poor.
Silent Night.
The flash illuminates the tinsel on the tree,
and glints from the stem of the glass
you raise to the camera.
Behind us Santa Claus, baubles and choir boys
are strung along the wall,
declaring Good Cheer, Season’s Greetings
and Happy New Year.
The calendar doors are open at day twenty-four
and the room is strewn with presents
wrapped in pretty paper.
I can almost smell that warm cinnamon scent
of brandy baked mince pies
cooling in trays on the kitchen worktop.
Jostling with the festive food
and the freshly iced snow-scene cake
we baked together, back in the autumn
when we didn’t know.
In this old favourite family portrait
we four are gathered, grinning
with jaws that ache
almost as much as our hearts.
Nestled on the mantle, among the candles
and the frosted pine cones;
the morphine.
While at the front door carollers sing
of kings, missing out the lines about
the myrrh,
the bitterness of perfume,
and the gathering gloom.
They leave us to the sorrowing
and the sighing.
Your once lovely, cadaverous face
looks into the lens
and we are caught, all together,
fixed evermore in this six by four inch frame.
I see now that your eyes,
so sunken,
were really saying something else.
Silent words we didn’t want to hear.
Now I understand
Only now do I see that the glass
in your skeletal hand is raised
in final farewell.
I can hear your silent cry.
How hard you tried to stay.
How hard it is to die.
So very, very hard
to say
goodbye.
Trinity.
Behind him the stairs curve up and away
laid with plush red carpet over marble treads.
The intricate architecture includes balustrades
and elaborate carved stone columns
as befits The Palace.
For this official portrait he is placed
on the spot and the photographer demands
that he stands to one side,
observing the rule of thirds
and making the composition almost perfect.
He is told to hold the small box open
to display the dove grey velvet lining
that contrasts well against the crimson ribbon.
The ornate silver cross is inscribed
'For God and The Empire'.
Immaculately groomed in his morning suit
he composes his face,
so there is hardly a trace of the past year.
Unaware that the ring on his finger glints gold,
caught in the camera's flash.
To either side his family stand in proud support.
His daughter and his son have come
dressed in Sunday best for the occasion.
Smiling for the camera,
with their mother's eyes.
His son is fine and handsome in his new Jeff Banks
design, bought specially for the day,
while his daughter wears her mother's watch
and the only suit she owns.
Fitted, black and well cut.
Last worn for the funeral.
_________________________________________________________________________
A pair of sonnets.
Shakespearean Sonnet- subverted form.
In the Beginning.
The Eden twinkles as she
trips and twirls
and swirls, tempting down
the moon
to wallow roundly in
waters, where
flitting fish are veiled in
silver shimmers.
Ropes creak and groan in
monochrome midnight air
and we don't care that the
rough hewn seat is splintered.
As sharp night settles to
our skin I wear your warmth
and the steady sound of
your heart fills me.
And your gentle breath on
my hair binds me,
confines me, tighter than
any ties as
together we slowly sway on
the old rope swing.
Our future lies before us
and
the ancient sycamore
spreads her confetti
of wasted winged wishes,
to pirouette around us.
Shakespearean Sonnet
Premonitions.
In the Eden's waters he
wins his war
and flitting fish feast on
the spaniel eyes
of Little Boy Blue who can
blow no more.
Stinking and slack, full
fathom five he lies.
The sycamore cries as he
makes his mark,
confetti tears that
spiral as he sways,
all noosed and knotted in
the dappled dark.
The Twelfth card's lethal augury portrayed.
These images are etched
into her brain.
She was the guardian of his
tortured soul,
but couldn't find a way to
take his pain
and couldn't stop him
reaching for his goal.
Bath-time. Slitting and
slicing skin apart,
Her Crimson King opened more than his heart
__________________________________________________________
A Sestina.
In a traditional Sestina the lines are grouped into six sestets and a concluding tercet. Thus a Sestina has 39 lines.
- Lines may be of any length but are usually consistent.
- The six words that end each of the lines of the first stanza are repeated in a different order at the end of lines in each of the subsequent five stanzas. So there are only six different line endings throughout the 39 lines of the poem.
- The repeated words are un-rhymed.
- The first line of each sestet ends with the same word as the one that ended the last line of the preceding sestet.
- In the closing tercet, each of the six words are used, with one in the middle of each line and one at the end. (http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/sestina.htm)
Crash
The car that crashed was
speeding, so they say,
the trailer axle stressed
with rough hewn rocks
of sandstone, formed in aeons
long since gone.
Watching and waiting
without conscious thought
as great machines lifted
and loaded them,
did you think of the mess
they’d make of you?
We tried every last
technique to save you
and now we have to choose
the words to say
to your loved ones. How it
hurts to tell them
such shattering
information, that rocks
their world awry and rapes
all reasoned thought.
Our futile labour fails. You’ll
soon be gone.
The golden hour of grace
has long since gone
and left these pulped
remains, this wreck of you.
Throughout that frantic time
those poor souls thought
that hope survived in
things we didn’t say.
They saw the scarlet
trolley sway and rock
beneath bloody efforts that
misled them.
This sight is not what you
would want for them;
Your dear beloved face now
gory, gone
and mangled beyond form by
rolling rocks.
We ached for them and
while we fought for you
they were distraught and I
heard someone say
‘give them diazepam,’
small help I thought.
So elbow deep in death we
ban our thoughts,
hearing it is hopeless
will not help them.
Such sorrow when I heard
your mother say
‘she’ll be alright?’ when
all real chance was gone
and pointlessly we pumped
your heart for you,
despite your life-force
lying with those rocks.
You are not here, you
stayed there with those rocks,
and ceasing crawls
unwelcome to our thoughts
we’ve failed to staunch the
blood that pours from you
and steals away the
prayers of each of them.
They see the vital spark
of life has gone.
That savage silence. Who
knows what to say?
We fought to save you,
crushed beneath those rocks.
The platitudes we say, that mask our thoughts.
The pain starts now for them, but yours has
gone.
_________________________________________________________
A Pantoum.
In a traditional Pantoum:
In a traditional Pantoum:
- For all quatrains except the first, the first line of the current quatrain repeats the second line in the preceeding quatrain; and the third line of the current quatrain repeats the fourth line of the preceeding quatrain.
- In addition, for the final quatrain, its second line repeats the (so-far unrepeated) third line in the first quatrain; and its last line repeats the (so-far unrepeated) first line of the first quatrain.
Mummies and Daddies.
My mummy’s face was cherry
red
the day that Daddy found
her in his car.
He says he wasn’t sure
that she was dead
and he really never meant
to break her heart.
The day that Daddy pulled
her from his car
the air was thin and fumes
smelled really strong;
he says he never meant to
break her heart,
he says he never guessed
at what was wrong.
The air was thin and fumes
were really strong
and all the air holes
plugged with paper bungs.
He says he never guessed
that what he’d done
would end with toxic gases in her lungs.
She’d plugged the air
holes up with paper bungs.
She wanted to be sure
she'd soon be dead.
As toxic gases seeped into
her lungs,
they made my mummy’s face
go cherry red.
___________________________________________________________
A villanelle.
In a traditional Villanelle:
In a traditional Villanelle:
- The first line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the second and the fourth stanzas, and as the second-to-last line in the concluding quatrain.
- The third line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the third and the fifth stanzas, and as the last line in the concluding quatrain.
Valentine Flowers
The lies you find entwined
in a bouquet.
Each severed stem will
wither up and die.
A Judas kiss said all you
didn’t say.
A player’s one who’ll
always want to play,
when questioned you will
certainly deny
the lies I found all bound
in a bouquet.
I’m not the kind of person
you betray;
A level playing field is
more my style.
That Judas kiss said all you
didn’t say.
You want to try again, you
rue the day.
You want me to forget
about the pile
of lies I found all bound
in a bouquet.
Forgiveness is for fools,
it’s not my way,
so knowingly I take my
turn to lie.
A Judas kiss says all I didn’t
say.
I sometimes wonder why you
chose to stay,
I wonder why I smile to
see you cry.
My lies you’ll find
entwined in a bouquet.
My Judas kiss says all that
I don’t say.
_____________________________________________________________
Shells on the shore
When I hold you to my ear
there is no shush of the sea,
the wind and the waves.
Instead I hear the haunting call
of wild geese in flight,
delight shivers over my skin
and the clamour echoes,
discordant.
Shells on the shore
telling tales.
Some are beautiful and bright.
___________________________________________________________
Beachcombing
You were jetsam too heavy to hold.
Flotsam for a while,
in a salt water world.
Lagan, lost in the years
while you waited for me.
Now derelict, an aged dream,
I see you my bonny buoy.
Relic of a wreck,
reminder of a hope.
Washed up.
Washed out.
Washed away.
The sea shushes
my sadness
to the sand.
_____________________________________________________________
The Race.
Last night I was running,
racing fast
down on the flat hard sand,
chasing the turning tide,
my head thrown back
my hair blown back in the breeze
and my lungs deep and clear,
drawing in the in clean cold air,
as loose limbs reached, stretching and pounding,
lengthening stride swallowing the miles,
the steady thump of my heart
beating out the rhythm of my run,
exhilarating, exciting, intense.
Speeding.
Speeding.
Speeding.
Speeding.
Strong, solid bones and sinews,
joints and muscles,
working in practised unison.
Flexing, extending, contracting.
Running.
Running free.
Overwhelmed with joy
I felt
sea mist on my face
and the taste of salt
woke me
and turned into the truth of my tears.
__________________________________________________________________________
Aftermath
The wrought iron gate
swings slowly.
At its furthest point the
hinges moan,
a quiet cry before silence.
All down the path the
poppies stand
with drooping heads
holding the world’s weary weight,
casting their petals like
palm leaves.
Lining the way
from the red door.
Just outside the shelter
of the porch,
where the rain–water pools,
lies a tiny woollen sock.
A pink ribbon laced around
the top.
Dropped in the panic and
the haste.
Sodden in the rain.
Such a tiny sock.
__________________________________________________________________________
Basil Gray
Is it time old
fella
Won't you wait
with me a while
and dream
of your glory days?
When loud crowds
roared,
and the punters
paid,
as you flew over
fences,
thundering
triumphant to the tape.
Is it time old lad?
Your noble head
hangs low,
and your flesh
has faded,
and only your
aged bones stand proud.
See, the
beauty of your dark eye
sits sunken now,
and spring is
still
a long time
coming.
Is it time my
friend?
To send you off
alone
and see
the summer pasture
grow
ungrazed,long and lush.
My gentle giant,
your honest
heart is weary.
I think it’s
time,
my sweet old boy.
________________________________________________________________________
Cleaner Sheets Today
When I found out I fled to my bed,
and gathered my broken bits about me.
Hugging them tightly and trying to contain the pain.
A curled chrysalis in the soft, warm, armour
of the heavy winter duvet
that smelled of tropical flowers and you.
Buried alive deep
in the bedding,
the sharpness of the truth stabbing me
with spiteful spikes each time I came to consciousness.
Seeking solace in the soft, warm, armour
of the heavy winter duvet,
that echoed with the distant scent of you.
Eventually emerging out.
Cuts now scars and cracks that calcified.
Arthritic aches are mine and they remind me
that I have my own soft, warm, armour.
My heavy winter duvet is
unwanted in the scent of spring, like you.
__________________________________________________________
Downsizing
I can’t follow your footsteps any more.
Well I can, but I don’t want to.
Well I do, but not there.
Surrounded.
Suffocated.
People on all sides,
hemmed in by houses,
straight-laced by streets,
semi-detached suburbia Mrs Jones.
Yes, I see the benefits.
Dial-a-delivery’s delightful,
and the uncomfortable commute
is not known at that address,
and your friends are so available for fun,
like the shops. To hand.
And the café bars and restaurants
are just a taxi ride or walk away.
Walk away.
And your heart is shining,
and that’s what matters.
And I would never, ever, show how mine has dulled.
I know I will visit you there,
amidst the shimmering street lamps
and your vibrant, living excitement.
Only because.
And then I’ll come home
to the centering silence,
save for the shouting of the smog-free stars
and the briny fee of freedom,
and the easy, gentle joy of each new day
in this place.
_______________________________________________________________________
A themed sequence of three poems.
Diagnosis.
Bared, prepared, basking in blue.
Masked men wear gloves
that leave no trace,
of the journey, to that electric place.
Face down, bite in the scream.
No-one hears,
it sears along afferent tracks.
Acid attacks as spiked steel sinks home,
bouncing off bone, positioned prone.
Alone and wet, the icy sweat of fear.
Nausea waiting near,
for its turn, after the burn.
And at last it ends,
the balm descends.
Convulsing neurons calm.
And that living hell
lingers
in the memory
of each assaulted cell.
Self pity
I thought one day I’d ride,
bareback over the endless plains,
while the Wyoming wind
sped alongside me.
I thought one day I’d wait,
deep in lush green leaves,
and watch the Old Man of The Forest
go about his orange business.
I thought one day I’d feel,
the secret flutter of another life,
and learn the lessons of
unselfish love.
I thought one day I’d moan
of arthritic aches and isolation.
Perhaps when I was eighty.
Not now.
I never thought one day I’d grieve,
for dreams left as dreams,
and hope shattered,
and the amazing, astounding freedom
that I never knew I had.
Perspective.
In the prison of my mind I wallowed, swallowed whole by
laughing gods.
Slavering dark shapes stalked my unsteady gait and waited
for my fall.
Instead I heard the call of dripping words; clamouring
for escape.
Until the trickle of potential gathered pace, and raced
from that cage, tripping and tumbling onto each fresh new
page.
These little keys unlocked the dungeon’s doors.
This pencil traced a different point of view.
This mind released the manacles that bind,
And found freedom,
Of a kind.
_____________________________________________________
Caveat emptor.
I found it in the charity shop
on top of the glass gewgaws,
by the sticky fingered fiction.
Something made me stop.
Was it refraction or reflection
attracting my attention.
an amazing artefact,
enticingly atypical,
its voice reverberated,
supplicated,
manipulated.
Touch me, taste me, take me.
My distrust spelled
its downfall,
but compelled I took a
closer look
and saw the hook below
the lure,
still soiled with fleshy fragments.
Tissue, torn and twisted.
Some poor Soul’s
pain for sure.
Tormented torture
and mangled memories.
I resisted.
It seemed so sinister yet smiling,
beckoning and beguiling,
just lying there.
just waiting to ensnare.
just lying there.
just waiting to ensnare.
I left it in the charity shop
on top of the glass gewgaws,
by the sticky fingered fiction.
Something made me stop
and ponder on the cause-
perhaps a loss,
perhaps betrayal,
perhaps a tragedy of devastating scale,
I don't know what
resulted in
this broken Faith for sale.
and ponder on the cause-
perhaps a loss,
perhaps betrayal,
perhaps a tragedy of devastating scale,
I don't know what
resulted in
this broken Faith for sale.
_________________________________________________________________________
Happy Hour
Vodka is my ally
We need an
anaesthetist
I’ll stop if I
want to
Get the
haematologist
No-one can smell
it
Frank
haematemasis
I can control it
Oesophageal
varices
I’ll stop if I
want to
No IV access
Maybe tomorrow
Can’t get a
venflon in
None of your
business
She’s going to
exsanguinate
Hidden in the
shopping
Can’t get a
blood pressure
Hidden in the
laundry
Cardiac
Arrest
I’ll stop when I
want to
Hasn’t got an
output
Can’t live
without it
Gonna have to
tube her
Helps me to cope
each day
OK Bag her
I like it
Compressions
I want it
No output
I want it
No output
I want it
No output
Vodka is my ally
Call it
Time of death
2347hrs.
__________________________________________________________________________
Thoughts from a wood-burning stove on a cold November
night.
I offer you warmth in an old, cold life,
while the thin wind hurries through the trees.
And the moon’s up there in the icy air
wallowing roundly without a care,
watching the wilderness freeze.
I offer you peace for your worn, torn heart,
while the torment trips its every beat.
And you cast your blame while I cast my flame
Sinking completely you drown in your pain,
Come, succour yourself with my heat.
I offer you light for your darkest night,
while the love now gone leaves you yearning.
And I'll draw you near while drying your tears,
my flickering fingers will calm your fears.
My embers gently burning.
My embers gently burning.
My embers gently burning.
_________________________________________________________________________
Nature’s Nocturne
The
souls of the children are screaming,
like
banshees under the starbright skies,
raising
hairs with their agonised cries.
The
jewel encrusted ground is gleaming,
creatures
of the night are keening
songs
of the Siren with starving eyes.
Vulpes
vulpes wantonly slinks
by.
The
souls of the women are flying,
like
silent spectres of snowy white,
stealthily
sailing the cold cruel night.
Talons
of torture trap the dying,
creatures
of the night are crying,
prey
in the arc of the moon’s dim light.
Tyto
alba takes to
soundless flight.
The
souls of the old men are meeting,
out
on the fells by the drystane walls.
Strange
silhouettes with sorrowfull calls.
Cloven
hoofed clans,coughing and bleating,
creatures
of the night entreating,
begging
for safety and straw filled stalls.
Bovidae stand as the
raw snow falls.
Respite.
And over by the naked woods,
in the rubbled walls and memories of old McCusker,
the roosting barn owl, fluffed with folded wings,
sits sleepily, and muses of the mice
she will seek as she coasts the crystal copse.
Respite.
Half way down
last year’s corn field,
on the bank,
beneath the wrangled hawthorn’s roots,
the last embers
of the day’s short light
linger on a
resting form.
A flame of russet
copper amongst the barren browns,
stirred by the
whispered warning of snow,
the she-fox
ponders on the song
she will sing in
the diamond dark.
And over by the naked woods,
the roosting barn owl, fluffed with folded wings,
sits sleepily, and muses of the mice
she will seek as she coasts the crystal copse.
And up on the
fells as the respite fades,
gimmers and galloways leave their grazing,
and they gather
together to shelter,
in the lea of the
drystone walls,
ruminating
sonorously as they stand
in the last light
of the gloaming.
____________________________________________________________________________
Cardinal Vices.
Let us prey;
Lead us not into temptation...
As shadow spirits dance to silent songs,
an acolyte in simple white prepares.
Sweet curlicues of smoke in shafts of light
wrap sensuously around the sacred stage.
The scene is set, the hero’s hour is near,
and unaware his audience awaits.
The colours of the Kingfisher flash bright;
the vital cock amid the drab brown hens,
adorned, adored, he proudly strides past pews
his flock fall at his feet in humble awe.
Once more he calls out to The Deity,
wrung earlier from deep within his core.
His surplice shimmers in the subdued light,
as in this hallowed place he gives out God.
His face reflects the stains of more than glass,
the lace around his wrists is white and crisp,
unlike that which he tore an hour before,
the sin of satin black was in his hands.
His tongue is dipped in wine as warm as blood.
He tastes the vine, its ripeness rich and wet.
A certain scent still lingers on his lips,
a different chalice slaked his earthly thirst.
The kneeling people share his silver cup,
not knowing what he supped as daybreak stirred.
His Way of Grief is mapped upon the walls,
and Hell fire’s tongues tug hungry at his hem.
The cross he bears, he wears his crown of thorns.
Rich vestments hide the violence of the night,
the scratches on his back, the marks,
the fall of man etched scarlet on his skin.
The apple that he ate has soured now.
His anguished greed will pay a bitter price.
Each fix of fornication feeds his need.
Soiled sheets of shame lie crumpled, creased and cold.
Who is the light that draws the weak willed moth?
Too idle to resist the call to prayer.
__________________________________________________________________________
Winding down
More than just gold.
I remember the velvet box
so opulent then,
and how the gift
with its gilded face
lit hers.
It counted her
for seventeen years,
leaning into the rhythm.
Systole. Diastole.
I didn’t know it was
marking the minutes
to asystole.
Now it marks mine.
Erratically.
Systole.Diastole.
Its face is dull
and its value,
is immeasurable.
More than just gold.
Now it marks mine.
Erratically.
Systole.Diastole.
Its face is dull
and its value,
is immeasurable.
More than just gold.
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