It’s more than cold water, for it can’t be Just Ice.

A seed was planted, a child was to be born
The international lottery balls
Ricocheted around the globe.
Coco drew the first ball and said

“Child! You will be a Scottish male!”

Coco drew the second ball and said,

“Child, you will be a Roman Catholic!”

The child, oblivious to this, complied.

*****************************
You need not be from where you’re from,

you could be from where you’re going ?

National pride or the lack thereof

does not negate our cumulative responsibility

to every creed, colour and co-habitant of our planet.

And the invention of a new weapon

doesn’t require a war for field tests.

Wilbur’s gonna get me/you!

My dearest wife, has caused some strife,

For me myself and my daughter.

She’s bought this gnome called Wilbur,

who is made of terracotta.

He’s sitting by my new garden pond,

his feet dangling in the water.

(I wonder if he’s her revenge,

for the last cruddy gift that I bought her.)

He’s sort of like a flower-pot man,

but not cute, like Ben or Bill.

Each time I see his twisted grin,

I keep thinking, “if looks could kill”.

Last night I went indoors early,

to avoid his Chucky-like face,

Imagine my horror this morning,

when he was sitting in a different place.

I ran to my wife, accusingly.

She looked at me, like I was mad.

I said, “It’s your fault for buying it”.

She said, “Hold on. I thought you had?”

Now Wilbur’s under the compost heap,

let’s hope that’s the end of our sorrow.

I hope we get a good night’s sleep,

and hope he’s not back, tomorrow!

p.s.

It’s been two weeks since I wrote this poem.

Ignore everything that I said.

Me and Wilbur are now the bestest of buddies,

though all of the neighbours are …..dead?

Wilbur's gonna get me/you! Part ii

(Note: You may wish to read, “(Wilbur's gonna get me/you!” First.)

Wilbur’s got a little friend

He has a fishing rod

He’s Wilbur’s half-scale clone you see

And he thinks Wilbur’s God.

He doesn’t see his weathered sheen

nor yet his frost cracked legs.

Iced water, gotta terracotta

smashed up, just like eggs.

Thus Wilbur’s hunting nights have passed

He waits there, by the pond

His half-scale clone brings home the prey

This pair, with devilish bond

We fear to give this thing a name

My daughter and I are vexed.

My wife’s obsession with evil gnomes

We don’t know who will be next!

She laughs it off, with a jeer and a scoff

Insisting, it doesn’t matter.

Well why have all next door’s pets disappeared

Whilst Wilbur and co, seem fatter?

Faith in Futility

Another sacred cow has just gone mad

Another failed fanatic waits in line

Another mother guards the tears she had

Another river bleeds in triple time

So long as the naïve are taught by fear

Traditions which turn fiction into fact

How long before humanity appears

To show, God and the Devil have a pact

A pact that only splits us, and divides

Gives cause to kill, for glory be to….what?

If dogmas sway, like fashions on man’s tides

While each believe, they’re something they are not.

Perhaps the gods of war will one day tire

when every bullet’s programmed to backfire?

The rodent, less travelled?

I’m Harry, the Hippy Hamster, man.
And I ain’t no Guinea Pig.
But I still fled Peru, for Amsterdam.
(Because of the sorta food they dig!)

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/travel/article-1210197/Britons-abroad-happy-eat-local-delicacies-fried-grasshoppers-guinea-pigs.html

Rabbie’s Eye ©

Rabbie’s Eye ©


(Robert Burns 1759-1796)

The twenty-fifth of January
A day when aw Scots smile
Remembering the greatest bard
Tay ever grace the “Royal Mile”

This son of Ayr, of toil an moil
whose pen and wit, when put tay test
was courted by baith high and low
Tay this day, still deemed, Scotia’s best

Fur who c’d haud a candle
Tay his banter, lush and loose
Tay string sic words o wisdom fay
A chance encoontur wi a moose

Immortalised the humble haggis
Hauf the world now know its fame
An tho' he loved the lassies o’
Above them aw came Jeannie’s name.

Tho' only therty-seven years passed
Afore his wick had burnt right oot
His spirit, words an songs live still
In those who choose tay follow suit.
Tay lift his mantle, brave an braw
Humanitarians, first, above aw.

As Venus fades in a Winter sky
I just see the winking, of Rabbie’s eye

The Straits of Cerebronica

Has destiny deprived us of our right

to surf the happy breaker for a while?

Must dips and hollows shade us from such light

as, oh so temporary, courts the smile?

The doldrums seem to idly pass in time

whilst wild elation rushes to the shore.

Must happiness be frowned on as a crime?

The odd crash to the cliff, then nothing more.

In truth, the timing of the tide eludes

the shipping forecast of the wayward soul.

The sirens sing the lost Chopin etudes

The Loreleis will lure us to their goal

The power of the surge creates the peak.

Without that, could we ever be unique?

Allergy

My Doctor told me to stop visiting poetry sites. I told him, every time I read someone’s poem, I have to tag another stanza onto them. He told me I was allergic to poetry, as I was having an add verse reaction.

Un-ticking the box with the originals in.

The honesty a child can never hide
That essence, missing, since he was a boy
Now drove him on his quest to delve inside
In hope he could regain that long lost joy.


Simplicity, true innocence and greed
Had co-existed once, with no regret
Till countless Fathers carved in him, their seed.
Their legacy was his eternal debt.


Now, light-housing the classroom of his son
Walls adorned with hope, naively painted
Awoke the source from whence he had begun
Another, institutionally tainted.


How twisted, to be almost pure in heart,

Bar that one sin they gave you, for a start.

The legend of Ebbynfloe.

The Harbour Lights no longer guard my dreams.

They spend more time beneath “the briny’s” reach

As rising tides come close to Luna’s beams,

three miles of cliff tops now lay on the beach.

The old man and the sea-front point is mute

but for comparisons with Hemmingway.

So rows of terraced cottages uproot

and march towards the shore, the lemming way.

The crumbling coastal barriers succumb

to government indifference to our plight,

while Davey Jones knocks back another rum

and claws another acre, every night.

Though struggling sea defences fail to keep…

another island rises from the deep.

Morning has Croaken.

The light had barely broken,

When his flutter caught my ear.

Through bleary, sleep-stained, sticky eyes

Upon my sill he did appear.

He’d been bathing in my water course,

And flew up to preen and dry.

His sharp beak raking beneath his wings,

Then arching back, to gaze up high.

A myriad of hues burst out

Of his ever glistening coat,

The morning chorus erupted from

His ever efficient throat.

Twas then, I remembered my training.

(With some small degree of sorrow)

Squeeze, don’t pull. Bang Bang, job done.

The little shit won’t

Waken me up tomorrow!

September Sunset

Vessel of dreamscape.

A sailboat’s silhouette lies in my mind

caressing the horizon’s orange hue.

She carries all my treasures, still to find.

She carries all the dawns I’ve yet to view

And lo, she warms the waters as she breaks

the shimmer of the lull between the tides.

meandering, her rudder gently shakes

then harnessing the breeze, with ease she glides.

The sun has perched upon her fading mast

and falls into the sea to douse the flame.

Another night’s arrival comes so fast,

the afterglow before the starlight came.

To wish upon a sailboat at sunset,

the Ocean voyeuse gladly pays her debt.

Half moon waves to a setting sun

Half moon waves to a setting sun

Does the moon ever tire

Ever wake up feeling….over-gazed

Ever fail to inspire

A chastened smile from the stony-faced

and do you wonder.. does she care,

how many lovers watch and bet

on whether she’d prefer to share

The sky with sunrise

or sunset?

Smiling at the absurdity of Deluded's in Denial.

There is a word I’ve never used
(Perhaps abridged, but never entire.)
Your fiction-fed memory, shows you’re confused.
you STILL have to prove, that you’re not a LIAR.


So if my insistence on outing your bull
is something you feel is derived from “psychosIs”?
You must talk from your ass, but I fear it is full,
which explains my abhorrence. Is that halitosis?


It’s funny how blame shifting just makes things worse,
and I’m sure your frustration with me is a curse,
but we all know the truth, it’s not me who’s the pest.
It’s the dough-ball who lied, that’s the one who’s obsessed.


Obsessed with their ego, and loathe to admit
an unqualified plaeb has shown, you’re full of shit.
Oh I bet when you look back at that dumb mistake,
it grieves you with each vain denial you make.


Rest assured, you can’t win, I’ll protest every day.
Just own up to your sin, it can all go away…..?

Pushing through

This was once
a very grand grave,
Very, very, old,
but still standing.

Surrounded
by carved stone fencing,
headed off
by an ornate Gothic cross.

But now unattended
for scores of years,
there is a new mourner.

Inside the rectangle,
a tree has sprouted,
and been allowed to grow.

The main stem, erupting
from where the head would lay.
The roots drawing
from the nutrients below.

When I look at this scene,
I feel pity and joy in equal parts,
as I sense both neglect
...and resurrection.

So.
Do graveyards need a license
for their poet-magnets

Just when you thought it was safe...to go back in the garden

Winning the Alms Race

Fragility is not our only trait
Although at times the evidence surmounts
to show our real resistance is innate.
To crumble or to stand firm when it counts?

Tsunamis of support will flow as well
to offer more than petty grains of hope
So those who walk amidst this earthbound hell
may draw our strength, in their fight, just to cope.

And yet, there may be doubters at the side
The cynical would have you think the worst.
Lest all our good intentions be denied,
The reservoirs of sympathy, be burst.

While Gods and Nature preach insanity
We can’t lose sight of true humanity.

Reflection on a ripple.

Reflection on a ripple.

Break the surface carefully.

Initially just one toe.

Dib or dab then pop it out

follow by eye, the prime ripple’s flow

Resist the urge to plunge straight in.

Risk not, even one hand.

But kneel, reveal and understand

the limitless scope, from where you stand

No matter how far the other side,

that shoreline will be breached in true.

The atoms which your foot touched first

have hardly moved an inch or two

But their effect on those nearby

has domino’d them from your view.

Have you time to wait till they return

and see what effect they’ve had on you?

All the British talk about, is the weather.

There is a strange sadness in the cold rains that wash away, the snow that stayed too long. For the wind that brings them, forgets to raise the temperature. As sick as we were of the compacted ice, the transformation is unbearably slow. It doesn’t yet bring, the promise of a Spring rush. That inverse avalanche of snow-drops, still suppressed by a concrete sub-soil, trapped below iced-air and gelatinous mud. And in some solemn corner of a dull grey schoolyard, another unwelcome filling of slush, is drenching the socks in another victims' Wellingtons. The red ringed badges of unwanted memory, come back to haunt on days like these. I hear the bell that says “Play-time’s” over, and long for the hug of a cast iron radiator.....

Reinforcing the fell-top footpaths

I saw the state the paths were in
well trodden, sodden and pleading for rest.
Rest from the stampedes of locals and tourists
wearing them down to a river of mud.
Breaking the topsoil
opening scars
this flurry of feet
may as well have been cars.

But there, left and right
to the edges they trod
A new breed of traveller
tracing light steps.
Finding a new way to travel the same
shunning the well worn
to search for ….who knows?

When I listen to Camel’s song, “For today”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7POF19JqzA

I tethered my thoughts to a mournful tune
which held them above the abyss.
It cradled and comforted, succour, so soon
I was kept from the edge of the dark precipice.

That place where the faces of phantoms collide
with the snap-shots of summers locked deep in our soul.
The dreams mix with memories, rocking the tide
so the ebb and the flow can but coax or cajole.

All the pain that was instant, instead of prolonged
may have stolen the beat from those thousands of hearts
May this tune guide them home, back where they once belonged.
When the anger subsides and the healing then starts.

Yes I tether my thoughts on a mournful tune,
with a pause for a breath at the break in the score.
May it carry my hopes in its silken cocoon
till the screams of the lost, need be heard here no more.


Note: This is my attempt to describe the power of a piece of music, inspired by the images of the divers from the Twin Towers. The track is above.

Spuria

Spuria

Blue-veined Iris
Yellow-tongued
Drooping wings
No strength to fly
Posing, crane-like
By the pond
Envying
The fish tease by
Dragonflies
Strafe from above
Wing-hum
Drowning
out the bees
The passing cloud
reveals the sun..
Once more you bring them
to their knees.

/Filament glowing through the gas\
/.….drizzling droplets of lazy light…..\
/…...finding pores to pierce the glass…..\
/......toast my toes, this winter’s night…..…\
!......Fetch the warmth from deep inside..….!
\...............release the relish I recall…..……./
\.......unclad the secrets that we hide.……/
!_____not youth’s lost dreams,_____!
!_ just Youth. __!
!___ That’s all.__!

Furness Abbey...what light through.....

Lakeland dawns in February, the icing on the Kendal mint cake

We welcome in, the burning cold of dawn.
with tablecloth of lace, sans permanence.
This brittle bridal blanket, o’er the lawn,
though unexpected, cannot cause offence.

Else-wise, why did the spider spin that web
which stands out like the strings upon a harp?
Till sunlight flow and frosty tide will ebb
Till then, each breath’s intake is biting sharp

No cloud, nor breeze to break this magic spell
As Black Cwm, capped and aproned, seems to smile
In smugness of a job she deems, done well
surveys her Lakeland’s many silver miles.

More focussed through the crisp air, views are lighter
I wake to dawns like these, and all is brighter.

Sleep not by the squire’s beck

Sleep not by the squire’s beck

Dally too long in the vale of nightshade
And the dreams of the mad will take root
The visions swirl below sight, unsuspecting
In wait for a host, a new dwelling to suit
For their only desire, to spread discontentment
Enhancing the festering of weak-willed resentment
Till any who dare to resist their hypnosis
Will succumb to the unseen onslaught by osmosis
And rising from foot in a marbled mosaic
The demons feel warmth, as control they take
Till one by one, the pixels go out
And it’s there you’ll be focussed
Though on what, there is doubt.

Step 1

I decided to initiate my own Blog, as a vehicle for “Testing the waters” with my views and poems. Other poetry sites tend to get infested with libelous imposters, and almost all get sidetracked by political infighting. (Often due to the imbalance between the posters’ self-confidence, and their actual skill and talent?) The emperor’s wardrobe spans every continent, and as usual, there’s very little in it. The consummate waste of space, that fills so many poetry sites, needs a new and more open playing field. Where opinions are not hidden away when the author does not agree, but primarily where truth is valued as the currency of choice. I will be posting poems here, for the honest perusal and advice of all who pass by.
Watch this Space……