26 January 2017

29 December 2016

Apologies - I had no shots with spume but this one does show the correct locale.

                                                     snail mail

                                                       a tactile tendril
                                      letting someone touch my words
                                maybe getting a little ink on my fingers
                                      as i share the day on paper

                                              ceremony over
                                   i head for the post office
                        a three mile drive on a windswept wintry day
                         blown like a leaf along the lip of the loch
                            glancing down at ribbons of spume
               while my head fills with the fact and feel of the blues

                                        pull up in the village
                                   wait for the end of the track
                      then exchange pleasantries and buy a stamp
                                  it is both right and rite
                                        posting a letter
                                    just posting a letter…


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12 December 2016

20 November 2016

                                   cold november day

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24 October 2016


Of all the flow’rs which nestle in the hedge
It is the rose that I hold closest to my heart;
That bloom so delicate and yet so strong
Has long contrived to hold my soul in thrall.
Once, fighting men emblematised the rose,
Condensed the world to simple red and white,
And always it has served the lover well  -
The closest thing to spilling his own blood.
I love them all, whate’er their hue and type:
The humble dog-rose reaching for the sun’s
A match for any cultivated bloom.
Even now, its subtle perfume takes me
To  “Tea Rose” which I found upon your skin.

And thus the thorn is hidden in this posy:
Absence  -  and the scent of distant roses.


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15 October 2016

                                peeling skin  (a pith take)

                                        what should i do

                              when manuscript is not enough


                                   the tapping of a keyboard
                                        trepans my skull

                                         i need a change

                                   more thinking less inking

                                i had the above conversation with myself
                         in the few grey hours between july dusk and dawn
                                                not a good move
                                   smacks of onanism or ventriloquism
                                             something like that
                               ‘cept i can’t sit on my own knee
                                        with my hand up my ass
                                 making one of my mouths say gottle o’ geer

                                            i sat there in the limbolight
                                        watching a re-run of karen sisco
                                (and you thought prometheus had it bad)

                                                      the idea hit
                                       so simple  -  so all encompassing

                                         i would continue to write
                                                     eschew paper
                                        ( no it’s not the same as tissue paper
                             pay attention will ya  -  i’m pouring my heart out here)

                                             i decide to write only on
                                                 fruit and vegetables
                                                   man what a gas
                                          i hadn’t been so excited since
                                                    that night when …..

                      hey  -  let’s just say i’ve not been that excited for a while ok

                                      i went out to the kitchen and found a lemon
                                        (leftover supplies from a g & t evening)
                                   dipped a cocktail stick in some colouring
                                                         i was away
                                                     a pointillist haiku

                                                          got the modelling knife
                                             etched an ode in the skin of a potato

                                                             beamed myself around the world
                                                                       lit a beach fire
                                                                heating up a metal rod
                                                       burned my words on a coconut shell

                                      travelled on

                               used my thumb nail
                                          to write
                                   i am what i am
                                      (on a yam)

                                                             sat in the hot sun
                                                               with the help of my specs
                                                             focused my mind
                                                   seared a sonnet on a satsuma

                                                         never been so happy

                                                         each one different

                                                      a lifetime to find ‘em all

              (sure there was a little melon cauli in there but let that stay silent)

                                                   a poem on a pomegranate
                                                         (so many seeds)

                                              a little lyric love  -  some sweet corn

                                     the plums the dates the firm courgettes
                                                       cucumbers bananas
                        (ok plantains if you’re reading-in autobiographical symbolism)

                                           how many vegetables are there
                                                  (leaving aside politicians)

                                              the world was full of juicy promise
                                                   ways to write upon it
                                                natural colours of course

                                  i stole a micro-laser from a mad scientist in alaska
                                                      used it to write an epic ballad
                                                               on a soybean

                                               sliced up a turnip
                                         fingerbrushed turmeric losslines
                                             across the damp pages
                           watched only by the silhouette of a bemused scarecrow

                                                              it went on for years
                                                      kick-starting hardtail hogs
                                     keeping ahead of my own dustcloud in tired pickups

                                                                scribing words
                                       everywhere from rain-forests to airport lounges

                                                             i was so high
                                                 i scratched my ass on everest
                                                       life would last forever


                                                               of course

                                                   the far-off barking of a dog
                                                     some intrusive sadness
                                                           brought me back
                                                            sorry twilight

                                                   i had made the journey

                                          just one more poem left to write

                                                     i took a rusty flooring nail
                                                 in the crisp and pungent flesh
                                                          a spanish onion
                                                     i carved my final work

                                                  read it and weep



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09 October 2016


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