Purple flowers

 Purple  flowers

Why, when try to think of him

 Is my head full of purple flowers?

Here in a city grey and and mainly monochrome.

But in my head are still 

Those purple flowers.

And more than that, 

In my head is texture too.

These purple flowers have velvet petals

And a strange a sickly scent.

A slightly musky smell

Of old work baskets, sweat and stale perfume.

 Purple flowers on a dress

Much worn a long time ago

 

Boys in shiny suits

Heavy lidded boys in shiny suits,

Fags fastened to top lips,
Slide through a greasy town.
A desolate landscape
Damp with peeling paint.
Lights from the solitary arcade
Draw them as they talk of London.
But this seaside town in winter
Holds them like a mother
As Mr Big drives by,
And they shiver
With anxious possibilities.

Bitter flowers of Autumn

Life does not seem long enough.
Here come the bitter flowers of Autumn,
Dry, brittle, brown.
They are relentless, inescapable.
Still, I long to throw them in the air
So the thin sunlight can
Bring them to brighter colours
And let them dance with the October breeze.

Shall I be Queen of the May

Shall I wear the white dress

One more time?
Shall I be Queen of the May
With flowers in my hair?

Will these withered fingers
Touch those lovely ribbons,
And the crooked legs dance the
Magic one last time?

Shall I wax and wane
Until the summer child
Emerges squirming
Into the morning light?

I think not.
Time and experience, my dear
Have taken all my dancing skills.
The dress has lost its gleam.

I'll toast the dancers,
Wish them well.
And then, being grateful for solitude,
Go back to my dream.

Looking for the chimera

The supernaturals,
Shaman or chicanery?

We look for signs,
Outside ourselves, or within.
Isn't there enough,
More than enough, mystery?
Questions within questions,
Until we lose ourselves.
Lost in a haze of doubt,
We are left
Looking for the chimera,
With a wish to be awestruck.
Faith wins over uncertainty,
And heart wins over mind.
But, oh, those worrying contradictions.
Then, we long for reassurance,
Miracles and confirmation
Of values long held.
All coated perhaps
With a sense of wonder.

Anger in Pall Mall

We're in a public space.

It's a large, ornate, room,
Shared with other "business people."
Groups sit round small tables
Talking in moderate, measured, tones.
We are talking, low over a spreadsheet;
Planning the next job, probably.
My mobile rings and I go outside to answer it,
Standing in a cubby hole that smells of furniture polish.
The voice at the other end's cajoling.
It almost begs and I feel flattered.
Do I think of you?
Perhaps, but briefly, and I say yes.
As I say it, I know you will be furious.
And you are, very angry,
More angry than I knew you could be.
Your voice is loud.
People stop their conversations
To listen to you rant.
Then you stop, look round and glare.
Up you stand; for one moment still as a statue
Just staring at me.
Then you're gone.
In a few seconds, you pass the window
Storming down Pall Mall to the tube.
Later, I realise the nature of the problem!
I know why it caused so much noise.
I'd got what you believed you had already.
And you'd have happily excused yourself;
Too good to miss…just had to take it!
Leaving me betrayed instead of "the betrayer."

It's just business you say.

Cotswold stone on a wet afternoon.

The light is on at three.
But, it isn't cosy.
We've avoided arguments all day
Here, in your fourth-bedroom office.
"This isn't working" you say.
No, it isn't;
It wasn't going to, was it?
Perhaps, if you'd told the truth?
I was naive you say,
This is business after all
And you needed an insurance.
How did you know you could trust me?
The trouble is, I did trust you.
The rain stops.
So, we go for a walk.
The dog comes with us.
She leads the way,
An enthusiastic,
Straight forward kind of dog!
We stop to look over a gate;
Sheep in the failing light.
The dog is tempted but knows better.
We're kind of friends again, for now.
It's just business you say.
But, I don't like it much.

So, dear Mary

So, dear Mary,
What shall we make of this?

Old as time you stand
In a cool, green, silent, place.
Suffering though time,
You're bearing the forever wound.
A womb torn for the world by
Something of fate and history.
So many stories around you,
Like little children
Tugging at your skirts.
Tales of myth and magic;
All tinged with rosy mystery.
And still,
Regardless of divinity,
Your pain goes through the years.
Bringing us, perhaps,
As close to infinity
As we shall dare to contemplate.

Will Power

If I knew for sure
Would I concur
In the erosion
Of my will?
I think not.
Only suspecting,
I dismiss resisting.
Give in!
Submit!
Luxuriating
In your concept
Of a freedom.

Jelly Fish

I dream of jelly fish,
Floating softly
In a blue-grey, humid, mist.
A vast array.
A bloom of jelly on the tide.

I dream of jelly fish.

And each one has
A single eye.

An eye
Like that of an old man,
Red-rimmed,
Yellowing,
Cataract-dulled
And chill

I dream of jelly fish.
And each one has an eye,
Half-focused somewhere distant
Like the sky.

Do jelly fish dream?
Perhaps they dream
Of jelly fish Cockayne,
Lost land of watery content.
Or maybe darker places,
Painful to remember,
Like their stings.

The writer telling tales

I do not like
That you will blend the truth.

You see, I remember
What you said before.

That had the scent of truth.
This doesn't.

I do not like
You misrepresent a view
You were too quick to hold.

You said you did not like my kind.
You said it clearly.

 But now, teller of tales…

Oh now, you've changed
Oh now, you love us dearly.

We are so precious when it suits.

 Such pragmatism
 Has me squirming in my chair.

And a sickly scent of rotting fruit
Is in the air as you go global
With a lie.

Fog in the Ear

My ear was blocked.
A constant buzz,
Felt like a fly
Trapped in a drab net curtain.
Demoralizing;
Like damp, dirty, fog
Touching the face.
Deafness was the least of it.
But I couldn't hear,
Not even in my dreams.
A fuzzy head constrains.
Choice becomes impossible.
My ear was blocked.
It's better now.
The sun's not shining yet.
But, I live in hope!

Journeying

Drums beat!
I'm running,
You beside me.
I strain to breathe.
You are still cool;
Contained.
Not lost,
I'm losing it.
I hate the tunnel.
Then we're out,
As always, into trees.
The dark sky's above.
Somewhere ahead,
Another dawn!
We keep running.

In Awe of Ted Hughes

I'm not a white goddess.

And for a long time

I wondered if,

Not being Northern,

Nor working class.

Nor Cambridge educated,

I had any place in "Poetry."

Still, I'm not sure.

Does age give license?

I suspect not.

It's just another barrier.

So, I guess I'll stay

An outsider.

And not follow you into the darkness.

I'll remain a poet out of season.

I’ll keep my songs

The house of green leaves
Is tumbling now.
The breeze
And time
Turn all to dust.
Then comes the broom
To sweep away
Even a whispered memory.

But, I am hollow
Like the oak.
My murmured echoes
Deep inside.
No besom touches
Such a spot.

I’ll keep my songs
For my remembering.

Hear Wendy read the poem; Link to the MP3 file 

Bird on a cliff

On the ledge, a small bird totters
Then steadies itself with newly feathered wings.

Will it know when it's ready for flight?

Somewhere in my brain, a word forms
Slips out between half opened lips, not fully fledged.

Down drops the bird into an echoing silence.

Will you be there to catch us, that bird and me?

You asked me what makes a relationship?

I said I didn't know.
A peck of time perhaps, mixed with a little liking
And a very large pinch of salt.

And what of love?

How should I know?
I'm plunging down this cliff and hoping you'll be there to catch me.

The Wind Moans

The wind moans
And the dragon flies.
His breath is all consuming.
It sears the throat
And her soft flesh.
Till she is lost.
Forged into something else.
Fused by the heat.
Not old, not new,
Not here, not there.
Suspended.
Till time and the dragon
Put her down.
Leaving her chilled,
All ashes and alone;
Long to remember.

On reading the papers

 “There is a primal appeal in seeing your foe kneel before you and die for those with ethnic or sectarian inferiority complexes.”

I read the words

And burn with fury.

I despair.

Those piercing, patronising, carefully chosen, words,

They devastate,

They numb.

So there we are then,

You, the tyrant, rapist, bully,

Crying out in exaltation;

“I hurt you. Now, I feel OK!”

That’s alright,

We have the words.

Those terrible words.

Those damned and damning words,

So easily read.

Exploration

The gentle sounding out
And self exposure!
I am this!
I am that!
Two people,
Of mature years
And not beautiful,
Gently exploring
Possibilities.
Who are you?
Where do you live?
What do you do
In the evenings?
Lunch time perhaps?
But we both have a life
And others in it.
And we know
That there will be a limit.
No real possibilities then!
Oh perhaps a few!
No, not really.

Dream Maker

"I will write to you tonite"
But you never do!
What do you mean?
"Write to you tonite"
Not pen and ink,
Nor words I think.
Touching my dreams perhaps.
Weaving a spell in my ears
With your music.
There's the clue!
And all these weeks
I thought it was
Coincidence!