Monday, 14 August 2017

Tweedletrump and Tweedlekim

Tweedletrump and Tweedlekim

Fatboy Kim and Trump the Grump
agreed to have a battle.
Naughty Kim gave Trump the hump
with threats to nuke Seattle.

Grump told Kim that he would get
the mother of all hidings,
lest that he called off the bet
and gave us all glad tidings.

Saturday, 18 February 2017

Lost Soul

Lost Soul

We’ve gathered here to say goodbye
to yet another boring guy,
kept on yelling for attention
till it gave him hypertension.
Now in the box beneath the shroud
he’s got the eye of all the crowd,
best leading role he ever had,
but no applause and no one’s sad.

Old mourners sprinkle ancient pews,
ill fitting suits and pee-stained trews,
some glasses, dentures, aching backs
with makeup plastered in the cracks.
They kneel for prayers on creaking limbs
then silent lips mouth unknown hymns.
The dead man’s peers in church are few.
Who pays respects where none seem due?

His painted widow in her weeds
now wonders who will sate her needs
with hubby just about to burn
and end up ashes in an urn.
She never grudged the man his health,
content enough to share the wealth,
but pleased this sudden turn of fate
serves up his helping on a plate.

Poor vicar wonders what to say.
about this stiff that’s come his way.
He’s no great speeches in reserve
just... bless a saint and damn a perv.
He settles for the standard rite
then tells the crowd they’ll be all right,
“beyond the stars lie happy lands,
so love your neighbour all shake hands.”

Corpse’ brother sitting cap in hand,
chief mourner in this dismal band,
now ponders on the decent wait
before a widow has a date.
Just wants to get her into bed
but cash and sex means getting wed,
been dodging that since leaving school
concludes that life is Goddamn cruel.

Sister of the spurned cadaver
cannot stand all this palaver.
She didn't like the man in life,
all flashy cars and tarty wife.
Deep down she’s feeling rather chuffed
for all his din he quietly snuffed.
Same cap fits the other brother,
clone of father, not his mother.

This woman weeping by the door
floats back in time to years of yore,
dreams of a lovely friend at school,
so kind and gentle fun and cool,
who shared a secret both held tight
that seemed to change him overnight.
He truly was a super lad
until abused by evil dad.

Friday, 10 February 2017

Why do I Wait?

Why do I wait?

Why do I wait until my lovely friends are dead
before I trace to ask how well they fare?
Do I delay to reminisce those half-forgotten
plays until the leading players are not there
for fear a line or two reveal I chose to
search the roots while they moved on
to scale the heights of life’s great tree?

Though I dug deep into that well tilled soil
there was no treasure trove hid there for me.

Friday, 3 February 2017

Truthward Steer

Truthward Steer

Who knows the right and wrong of
foreign wars with truth so hid that
none can tell the cause? For
fact and fiction come in strange
disguise. God’s truth for one is
for another lies. Each land should
go its people’s chosen way and
we, till clear, a cautious
distance stay.

The world is now a complex game of
chess. Cack-handed players leave
the board a mess. Each one will
say, “the truth is on our side,” but
that my friend is all too fatal pride.
New fact can turn belief upon its
head and leave you with a hand
that you may dread. Never be
afraid to change your mind,
for oft the track we tread
is false or blind.

Your honour is a precious thing to lose,
check well motives of the leaders you
may choose. When they say, “the
time has come to intervene,” consider
every outcome that can mean. Beware
of those who woo you with their power
for demons rise when ere they sense
the hour. As wind and tide combine
the ship to veer, hold firmly
to your wheel and
truthward steer.

Friday, 27 January 2017

Johnny England

Johnny England

So who allowed the foreign grey
to drive the British red away?
While running freely up our trees
they eat the food and spread disease.

While further north it’s worse than that,
extinction for the dear wild-cat.
Moggies of a different strand
can wander freely on their land...
That kind of thing is never good,
it leads to mixing of the blood.

It’s much the same with woodland too,
trees should be British through and through,
‘cos don’t-y’-know it’s beech and oak
make lovely walks for gentle folk.
Those foresters with foreign firs
are philistines or tasteless curs.

Thank God the matter’s well in hand
with vigilantes round the land
combining their almighty might
to put these dreadful things to right
with battle cries that ring profound
like... “British life on British ground!”

***

There’s many deeds do-gooders do
but, Johnny England, none for you.
You were not asked and not informed
your land would change, your town transformed.

As populace swells uncontrolled,
“It’s good for growth,” so you are told
by boss and banker as they strut
and plan new ways to undercut
your hard fought wage and meagre share
with labour brought from, “over there.”

Traditions too must dampen down
lest they offend and cause a frown
on someone’s face who chose to be
where once you felt relaxed and free.

As services come under strain
it’s you that has to bear the pain,
and not a thing that you can do
for no one gives a damn for you.
For, Johnny... you’re not cute you see
like cat and squirrel – or a tree.

Wednesday, 18 January 2017

Bear and the Birds

The First Nations of the US and Canada have many stories that link the sky and earth.
The following rhyme was inspired by one such tale told by the Micmac people of Newfoundland
relating to Ursa Major.

Bear and the Birds

Vernal equinox comes shining.
Hungry wolves in forest whining.
Mighty bear awakens growling,
time to go on sky’s great prowling.

Chickadee feels night-time falling,
“feed me food” from stomach calling.
Mother bear up sky comes climbing,
fatty flesh with perfect timing.

Sky-bear is big and bird is small
so chickadee puts out a call,
“if all want food then all must hunt.
I’ll bring my pot, who goes in front?”

Cute moosebird cries, “I choose the rear –
to sweep the mess – it’s not from fear."
Cock robin shouts, “I’m in the lead!
My trusty bow will do the deed.”

“I’ll peck her juicy nose and eye
and you can have a meaty thigh,”
cries chickadee, “a-tee-hee-hee,
and moosebird gets a bony knee.”

All summer long they stalk their prey
who hides behind the sun by day
but when the lid goes on at night
they see her there by lunar light.

“It’s Autumn now, let’s slay the beast
then hide our meat for winter feast.”
But bear stands high to make a fight
with paws that strike and teeth that bite.

Moosebird and chickadee fly low
for fear the beast will land a blow
but robin, with a steady eye,
takes aim and lets an arrow fly.

Sharp barb rips into bear’s great chest.
Her spurting blood stains robin’s breast
then covers maple trees in red.
Leaves fall like tears as bear is bled.

The winter fat seeps from her bones
as cold as death as hard as stones
and all the land is covered white
and plunged into a winter’s night.

Her frame still floats in northern sky
but hush belovèd do not cry,
her spirit fled back to the den
so in the spring she’ll rise again.

Then by the light of crescent moon
like starry handle of a spoon
three birds will follow after bear
as close as any hunter dare.

Wednesday, 11 January 2017

Joe

Joe

Joe’s a multiculturist,
works hard to push the cause.
Gives speeches to the party,
gets rapturous applause.
“Make the land a melting pot
of many tribes,” he says,
“enjoy the diversity
of their exciting ways.
They bring in fancy foodstuff
like curry and kebabs,
exotic hooded ladies,
nice men to drive the cabs.”

Well versed in Marx and Trotsky,
dab hand at union law –
never read a history book
crammed full of tribal war.

Friday, 6 January 2017

Whore

Whore

Whore

Part I

Silence stalks the night-dead docks.
Bollards mushroom cobbled wharves and murky locks.
Primordial beast-like towering jibs
time-frozen in their ten-wheeled cribs.
Sleeping ships rope-cuddle rain-wet walls.
Lifeboats lie uneasy in their falls.

Embowelled within these rusting freighters
she services the fornicators.

Shunt-worn tracks, the path she treads,
by wagons tanks and haunted sheds.
Booms lean out from shadowed decks,
hook-guys slung, “For sinners’ necks!”
A dawn-gull screeches like a tart...
She scurries on with pounding heart.

Watchmen clock a toil-worn slut.
Gate-cops step inside the hut
to miss the trespass in the quest
of weary girl with tender breast.

Whore

Part II

Douched, showered, pampered hair
sleeps fitful in suburban chair.
Horror movie in her brain
reels to an end then plays again.

Battered woman, battered child
fleeing in the midnight wild,
far-off town, stranger’s name,
life in shadows on The Game.

No benefits no prying eyes.
No questions heard no call for lies.
Don’t ask yourself what’s right or wrong,
just learn the tune then sing the song.
Friends abound who cannot cope,
sweet Sue’s depressed, Jill chose the rope.
Trish from The Valleys met The Curse,
beaten, drowned and missing purse...

Whore
Part III

Weary woman, bruised and thin,
wakened now by traffic din
or vicious mother’s drunken snorts –
digs out the facts and then extorts.

Time for Vicky’s morning call,
innocent among it all
though born of incest, drink and rape
in hell without a fire escape.

Now morning-mum runs kid to school
all middle-class in-vogue and cool,
then joins the girlies for a chat...
cost of living – this – and that.

Wednesday, 14 December 2016

Just Went Away

Just Went Away

You didn’t say – just went away
and killed the dream that filled my day.
I really thought I knew you well
but deep inside you planned to flee
and didn’t tell. You gave no hint
about the end, like, ''I don’t need
you for a friend.'' Neither said we
didn’t care but suddenly you
were not there...

I can’t dismiss you
with a sigh. It matters that you
say, ''goodbye…''
So smile, and blow a
kiss before you go. Never run
away and leave your friend to grieve.

Friday, 14 October 2016

Unreality

Unreality

I must be mad that such intrusive
thoughts my mind confound; or be
it spirits and good wine that
rend a man spellbound? For I
fear that nothing here is what
it seems. The universe is
but a mirage full of dreams.

In truth there can be nothing real
about this place when all I see
is photons bouncing off some energy
in space, just images displayed
upon the atoms of a screen,
whilst I am but a phantom
in a shadow-weaver’s dream.

Yon lass with eyes that flash like Venus
on a frosty night is nothing
but a flicker in the ever
passing light. And you my friend are
but a mass of quarks and leptons
spinning crazy in their arcs.

These thoughts are but electrons in
a proton-maze of nerves where
nothing can exist until
a retina observes. When I
depart these sparks will cease to
flash within my brain. Then all I am
and was will ne’er be seen again.

Friday, 30 September 2016

This is my Valley

This is my Valley

This is my valley,
a warm western breeze,
a God-given jungle
of summer-green trees.
Steep hillsides with footways,
a carpet of flowers,
a thousand birds trilling
from canopy bowers.
Down rapid and rock
the river’s deep roar
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

I once saw a girl
bedraggled and wet,
it wasn’t with rain
nor was it with sweat,
stood among trees like
a trick of the light
with shadows behind
as black as the night.
A feeling of awe
like never before
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

She holds out a hand
as if to a friend,
but as I approach
black and white seem to
blend till the girl who
is stood among daylight
and shade seems to melt
in the breeze and like
morning mist fade. The
one who I saw is
before me no more
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

I stand for a while
wondering what I
have seen, a girl or
a nymph or maybe
a dream? Then being
a youth I go on
my way, determined
to make the most of
my day; now feeling
strange, a little unsure
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

Lost in the muse and
the song of the sea
I wander the strand
feeling buoyant and
free. Then I see far
ahead, lying there
on the beach, being
lapped by the waves at
the tide’s highest reach –
an upturned canoe –
and here lies a shoe
beside a boat’s oar
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

Beyond lies a girl,
bedraggled and wet,
it isn’t with rain
nor is it with sweat.
Too late to save and
no-one to cry she
lies on her back and
stares at the sky… I
watch from afar as
they take her away,
a callow young man
with nothing to say.
What can I do more
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore?

It’s many a day
I wander alone
by river and hill
over bracken and
stone then into the
wood where the spectre
once stood. There a voice
full of sorrow, a
voice full of scorn, sobs
“you left me to drown
on a soft summer
morn.” Next I find myself
here at the spot on
the beach where she floats
on the tide just out
of my reach. Now she
rises on high while
she beckons me fore
as ocean waves jostle to kiss the white pebbles
that line the long shore.

 

333

Friday, 23 September 2016

Birdman

Birdman

Bold Dewi Jones would leave his home
first thing every morning,
and trot him down to Towy Wood
just as day was dawning,
and there he filled his Tesco bag,
five pence from any store,
with chickweed celandine and seed
and other weeds galore.
Then he fed them to his finches
to peck at in the cage,
while he ate his Kellog Cornflakes
and read the sporting page.

When Dewi was a kid at school
he hadn’t many toys,
and on the farm out in the sticks
there were no other boys,
so the woods became his playground,
a bird his childhood friend,
and he played a game with finches
he prayed would never end.
Their songs were short machinegun bursts
that echoed through the wood,
and Dewi, in green camouflage,
would stalk like Robin Hood.

A grown-up now, he made a frame
that lay beneath a net,
and then with trails of wild bird seed
a crafty trap he set.
That’s how he caught his lovely birds,
cunning if not clever,
and neighbours came along to praise
Dewi-boys endeavour.
Yet we all new that in the wood,
birds sang like heaven’s choir,
while, in the confines of the cage,
finches were much shyer.

Now Dewi’s wife, religious was,
chapel every morning,
in Aberystwyth born and bred,
should have been a warning.
Though pleasant to the roving eye,
pretty as a flower,
like milk upon a summer’s day
she curdled and went sour.
“It’s wings God gave,” his wife would scream,
“so birds can rise and fly;
and nature gave them songs to praise
the wonders of the sky.”

One day while on his morning rounds
bold-Dewi had a stroke.
“An awful thing,” the village said,
“for such a lovely bloke.”
No muscle could the birdman move,
eyelids would not flutter.
The voice that once trilled, “Sosban Fach,”
not a word could utter.
We don’t know why God struck him down,
spite – or was it pleasure?
What e’er the Lord was dishing out,
Dewi got full measure.

Now Dewi’s sitting in a chair,
just staring into space,
and carers who come twice a day,
pour soup into his face.
His wife just up and left him,
no fuss or angry words,
just said, “I hate to see you there,
caged up like your birds.”

Thursday, 15 September 2016

Liaison

Liaison

She waits by the stream as she promised
she would, “If the Big House feels safe and
the going is good.“ She smiles with her
eyes, gives a tilt of the head and we
sink to the ground with the moss for a
bed. She’s the fount of the magic of all
woman kind, music and poetry come
flooding my mind. Her skin is the
breath of the newly mown hay. She
lights up my life as the sun lights the day. With
bodies so tense that we feel they must burst, our
mouths fight to quench an unquenchable thirst.

Limbs all entwined we just lie by the stream
reliving what’s gone in a beautiful dream.
She says, “I must leave with the world wide
awake. You know I can’t linger, there’s too
much at stake.” She floats over the field like
the midsummer breeze, until lost to my
view in the shade of the trees.

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

LIAISON

Liaison

She waits by the stream as she promised
she would, “If the Big House feels safe and
the going is good.“ She smiles with her
eyes, gives a tilt of the head and we
sink to the ground with the moss for a
bed. She’s the fount of the magic of all
woman kind, music and poetry come
flooding my mind. Her skin is the
breath of the newly mown hay. She
lights up my life as the sun lights the day. With
bodies so tense that we feel they must burst, our
mouths fight to quench and unquenchable thirst.

Limbs all entwined we just lie by the stream
reliving what’s gone in a beautiful dream.
She says, “I must leave with the world wide
awake. You know I can’t linger, there’s too
much at stake.” She floats over the field like
the midsummer breeze, until lost to my
view in the shade of the trees.

Thursday, 1 September 2016

Jobber

Jobber

He sits beside me on the pew,
the bell has ceased to toll,
a rugged man with piercing eye,
his hair as black as coal.

He casts a glance then weighs me up.
“There’s things a man should know,”
and then he stares ahead again,
his words are whispered low.

“I am the Resurrection come!”
The vicar starts the dirge.
“Lord Fibba’s cold,” the stranger croaks,
“the dead don’t re-emerge.”

I feel the urge to run away
so sinister the voice,
but blood is duty bound to stay,
I feel there is no choice.

“And even though we die we live,”
the priest is on a roll,
reciting spells from out a book
to save a wicked soul.

“I bet that makes m’Lady wince,”
the stranger shakes his head,
“she doesn’t want no comeback kid.
She wished old Fibba dead.

A shocking way of going, mind,
marauders in the night,
who only came to kill, they say,
a man too old to fight.

They stabbed him in the heart, they did,
an organ full of sin,
then left without a trace of how
and when they’d broken in.

He had it coming to him mind,
his life made work a farce,
three hundred quid a day he got
for sitting on his arse.

Then played away from home he did.
His wife is seething mad.
A beauty queen and young she is,
which makes it twice as bad.


Now all these fogies on the pews
would pull her into bed,
along with those ill-gotten goods
that live though Fibba’s dead.”

I shake my head that such a man,
uncouth to ear and eye,
can know so much about the life
of those who are so high.

“For memories we treasure,”
the vicar’s in a trance
and tries to get the flock involved
but doesn’t stand a chance.

The stranger slides along the pew
and whispers in my ear,
“Comes riding by each Thursday noon,
when no-one else is near.

Astride a big black stallion,
ne’er gelding or a mare,
a midday gallop in the woods,
knowing I’ll be there.

She pokes me with her whip, and then
she orders, ‘Follow me!
I will need you Mr Jobbing Man.
An urgent job you see.

These demanding hours of dressage
are all a girl can take,
play havoc with my back and thighs
and make my body ache.

Now you must massage me
wherever there is need;
but ne’er forget, rough jobbing man,
we’re of a different breed.’

Posh ladies like my jobbing hands
upon their tender flesh.
The broken nails and callouses
tell tales of my caress.

The morning that Lord Fibba died,
I’d scarce got out of bed,
when up she rides and hands to me
a box the weight of lead.

‘Lose this in the bog, my dear,
beneath the moorland sky.
Reward will come tonight, my love,
when I come riding by.’”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,”
the vicar’s song is done.
Then when I look along the pew,
the jobbing man has gone.

Such joy! My love has killed her spouse.
Success is with our plan.
But what a hellish way to find
she has another man.

Wednesday, 24 August 2016

EVENING

Sitting here on the patio in the cool of an evening, sipping whisky.
Lone birds, wending home across the heavens. Fleecy cirrus,
pink-tinted by the setting sun, drifts in from the sou’west
forming exotic fish in my vast aquarium of darkening blue sky.
Bedtime rooks shout from the copse beyond the roofs;
last of the birds chirping in the trees; cool air drifting in with a damp
night-smell of nearby fields where a crow coughs and scours for supper.
Cat slinks by with wicked eyes, on the prowl for a vole or mouse...
Flowers will soon be closing for the night.
I open a beer and thank God that my love is still by my side

Thursday, 18 August 2016

Tones of Time

Tones of Time

In a tavern by the harbour in a western port
a girl is pulling pints for the men who talk of sport.
Memories come flooding like the tidal ebb and flow
of the rolling ocean where the weathered sailors go;
and wistful time is passing.

Visions of a stranger still appearing in the door,
clearer than the river running gushing to the shore.
Tough; as rugged as a rock and yet so full of charm,
eyes brimful of mischief and tattoos upon his arm;
laughter fresh and bracing as the zephyrs of the sea,
a rover embodying the spirit of the free.
His song evokes a nightingale, trilling from the nest,
sweet baritone with tremolo, hand upon his breast.
Then, when the tune is lilting, he leaps into the dance,
quelling thug and bully with a challenge or a glance;
and happy time is passing.

On the misty mountain, when lovers cling together,
breezes and promises are whispers in the heather;
and empty time is passing

Monday, 8 August 2016

Q&A

Q&A

She clambers o’er weed slimy rocks, anguish
on her face, ocean crashing on the shore
where crested breakers race. A silhouette
she stands alone, hair tousled by the gale,
a lonely woman in the storm, eyeing
death’s dark vale. “Why am I here? What is it
for?” the burden of her cry. “Nothing cost
and little lost if such as I should die.”

Far voices of the petrels wail in wind
and rain, then echo round the bluff and cove
the lesson of their pain. “Heed the sea,” the
voices say, ”and wonder at its ways. It
sculpts the rocks and wares the cliffs while carving
out the bays. Fearsome when the west winds blow,
we tremble at its roar. Yet children dance
the golden sand it scatters on the shore.

Now look upon its storm lashed face
where currents spring from tidal race
and billows form a random force
without beginning, end or course.
No ripple knows what be its role
but minus one there is no whole.
All those mighty warrior waves
forever charging at the shore,
are born of countless tidal slaves
that died an unmarked death before.

Like tiny servants of the sea,
not knowing what our fate may be
nor privy to the great discourse,
we must endure and run our course.

Monday, 1 August 2016

UNKNOWN GIRL

Unknown Girl

Busy office mid the traffic roar. My

phone has shrilled a dozen times before. Now

a girl is crying down the line; keeps crying,

crying all the time. “Don't speak, just hear. I've

taken pills but feel no fear. I random-

dialled; need someone there; unseen confessor

for my prayer, a ghost to know the reason

why, at seventeen, I chose to die. When

mother went I was alone – though he was

there, so life and body not my own. I've

run away but no escape. He traces

me and then the rape. He gets a key and

wakes me in the dead of night. He beats me

when I say, I'll tell, or makes to mark me

with a knife. It's living hell, devalued

life. His friends, he says, fill every place, from

law to health and Women's Aid. I see a

spy in every face. I can't seek help, I'm

too afraid. My very soul must bear the

brand of his misuse, and yet I feel I've

no excuse. If God absolves me from all

blame, why do I feel this dreadful shame? It's

so unjust! My life's debased by this man's

lust. He won't have me anymore; just find

me lying on the floor...” Leaves me with an

empty line; crying, crying all the time

Wednesday, 20 April 2016

Night of the George Robb

 

Night of the George Robb

December ’59. Sunday. Night. Rising wind.

Dark wheelhouse. Shadows. Cigarette flares. Face glows red.
Skipper Ryles peers out; black night, black sky, black sea streaked white. “In for a rough night.” Mind flash: wife and kids. “Home for Christmas.”

Saborowski, legs splayed; dipping deck. Eases into sea. Compass tilts, swings. Mind sees Teddy, pet spaniel, smiles.
Duffy, deckhand, pauses; false-leg firmed on pitching deck – accident when five. Flash: mother. “Week on Faroe Bank... Presents for sisters.” Duthie, sea-cook, nods. Secures pans. Tends stove.
Mackay, chief, grips bar, checks dials. Engine purrs. Flash: shore job... wife and bairns.
Mess-room men talk. Brace against motion. Sip cocoa. Engine throbs. “To a fair catch.”

Satan rides the eastern wind,
night as black as hell.
Menace in the powerful surge,
lumps leap from the swell.
Combers charge with snarling tops,
all in a chasing sea.
Ships pooped by waves the like of these
can’t rise or shake them free.

Storm roars. Rollers charge, break, race... spray, spume.
Ship rises; plunges. Seas thump!
Deck buried; millrace; deadweight.
Ship labours, shakes, rises; rolls... over... shudders... creaks...
Harbours closed. Seas pound; leap walls.
Skipper pensive. Radar cluttered. Beacons swamped.
Navigation gone. Boltholes lost.
Steel-bound coast. Caithness... Duncansby!
Corkscrew motion, “Undertow!”
Saborowski, instinct, wheel hard over.
Ship lifted, driven.
Raven black... “Cliffs!”
Breakers explode; surf, spume, fangs... “Rocks!”
Impact – crash! Men hurled; ship flung.
Combers thunder; seas rage...
Crunch! Blood. Cries! Broken bones.
Decks leap, buck, yaw. Metal screams; grates; crunches; grinds...
“Mayday!” Airwaves fill... Urgent voices...
Blast-bang! Sky flares red. Men leap from bed...

Saborowski fought the Germans in the wicked Nazi war.
Blood, death, fires of hell, seen it all before.
Faced with overwhelming odds, bitter lessons learned.
Plots writ in fate’s grim sacred-book are never overturned.
No shame, when faced with certain death, for men to run away.
Retreat, regroup, regain your strength to fight another day.
Into the roaring frenzied surf, the fisherman must leap.
Cold... Cold... So bitter cold... Saborowski longs for sleep.

Torchlight. Rocky slippery path. Wind-lashed crags.
Villagers: knowers of coves, rocks, reefs.
All aid each; storm-driven rain.
Siren pleads; wind-snatches...
Coastguard: weight-laden; breeches buoy, shackles, ropes, posts.
Struggle, stagger...
Moorland, bracken, bog, walls, fences, swollen-streams...
Cold, numb, breathless, drenched, blinded, ache, pain.
Cliff; searchlight...
Ship... there... far below – smashed!
Seas crash, swamp, batter. No life seen.
Rope-rocket fired. Wind flings back.
Once, twice... Five times they fail.
Lifeboats: Wick, trapped in port –
Longhope: rocks, reefs, death-hungry seas...
“Campbell’s down!”
“Campbell’s dead! Yomp exhaustion!”

“No more lives! Stand down!”

Saborowski...
Dying now on cliff bound beach,
so close to help, yet out of reach.
At home a dog pines through the night,
aware maybe, of master’s plight.
Grey dawns the morn on many lives;
fatherless bairns and widowed wives.

George Robb, lost with all hands, 6th December 1959

Tuesday, 22 March 2016

Brexit

Sweet Dream of Brexit.
Fly with Boris, Dunc and Gove.
Cameron wrecks it.

Wednesday, 2 March 2016

Monday, 1 February 2016

Taj Mahal

Taj Mahal

Taj Mahal is silent, blushing at the dawn,
thin veneer of beauty heralding the morn.

Scorned and mutilated, living with the hounds,
chattel of the bad men by the palace grounds…
Never ending evil meets them off a train,
buys them in a village, then inflicts the pain.
“Amputate! Infect them! Smash an arm or leg!
Make them our possession, only fit to beg.”

Taj Mahal is mystic, love song of a shah,
music of a river echoing afar.

Gentle men and women viewing Mogul’s stones,
fountains of compassion: “Show them broken bones;”
get the ragged army limping on parade,
begging bowls a-banging, injuries displayed.

Symbol of submission, baby at her feet
hasn’t got a pillow, sacking for a sheet;
screaming and hysterics, battle for the prize,
quelling ranting mother, blinding baby’s eyes.

Taj Mahal is awesome, shimmering at night.
Agra folk are sleeping, Milky Way glows bright.
Glorifying heaven, planets rove the skies.
Satan roams the shadows, mid the cripples’ cries.

Saturday, 23 January 2016

Empires

Empires

Triremes of Claudius go speeding out of Gaul,
charged with taming Albion, fiery Celtic queen,
then civilise and modernise
with unity and roads,
to leave a lasting legacy where Rome has been.

Bold privateers of Devon, harnessing the wind.
Buccaneers with cutlasses plunder Spanish pelf
then bequeath the world a language,
democracy and law,
bonding scattered people in a vast Commonwealth.

Bureaucrats of Brussels, inept scions of Rome,
with bloated pay and pension cosseting a life
of bumbledom and jargon,
in quangos that cascade
unedifying orders, sowing seeds of strife.

Monday, 4 January 2016

If you read this poem, why not send a donation to Operation Safe Haven at the Barnabasfund.com
 
Lord Weidenfield, a Jew, formed Operation Safe Haven as a lifeline to save Christians from their Islamic killers in Syria.
 
If you don’t read the poem, why not send two donations?
 
The Rubaiyat of Zarah
 
Only peace and no recrimination
in the garden of my destination.
Immortal youths will serve and comfort me
in my fiery final incarnation.
 
Just a single-minded slave of Allah,
never destined for the field of valour
till fate decreed for me a path unplanned
into the Hall of Martyrs, Inshallah!
 
Wise twitter-sirens of the Caliphate
send thoughts that pierce my mind – then detonate!
“Think! Will our next Saladin be your son?
Which humble bride will Allah nominate?”
 
All cyberspace is full of such bold thought.
“Heads full of maths and science come to nought.
What good is there in studying the earth
when Allah’s word is all that should be sought?
 
The West, beguiled by Satan, lost its way.
When fashion dazzles girls they go astray.
Forgetting God they lose their pride in self,
but Paradise is just for those who pray.
 
It’s woman’s blessed realm to operate
behind a veil where men will venerate
and pay them due respect. When sexes switch
their roles, societies disintegrate.
 
Your place is here in our Islamic State
to be a bride and brave jihadi’s mate.
Past seventeen a girl is deemed too old
so flee your bonds before it is too late.
 
Sister, for you we have a simple plan,
haste to your wedding day as fast you can.
Be chaste! Then fast and pray your daily five.
Breed many Muslim martyrs with your man.”
 
So to Mosul, in answer to the call
I came in niqab, covered over all,
to be settled in the house where future
brides are, by imams, taught and held in thrall.
 
“All disbelievers carry Allah’s curse.”
It says so in the Qur’an’s holy verse.
Then, “Slay them where you find them,” says the book.
“They are the fiends of Satan and perverse.”
 
Their armies now are at our very gate
and raining bombs down on our Holy State,
but we don’t fear the wicked infidel,
for Allah’s sons will smite them down in hate.
 
Then, suddenly, a fatwa is proclaimed.
A missile into London will be aimed.
Disguised, a girl will travel as a bomb.
At morning call our martyr will be named.
 
All day we sisters panic sweat and quake.
At night we cry and pray and lie awake.
Which girl, a would be bride, will have to die?
The imam says, “Be brave for Islam’s sake.”
 
At dawn the imam points a hand at me
and shakes his head in answer to my plea.
“You’re Allah’s choice, stand tall and show your pride.”
But all I feel is terror’s urge to flee.
 
Then I am led away and told my youth
is lacking in the facts of holy truth.
I must absorb the lessons of the book
and then go forth as Islam’s sabre-tooth.
 
“Fighting is obligatory for you.”
It tells you so in Surah number two.
“On disbelievers, Allah puts a curse,
so kill the Christian and wicked Jew.
 
Make war on them till Islam is supreme.”
These facts are not a foolish imam’s dream.
You’ll read them all in Surahs two to nine.
We lovers of the book work as a team.
 
Now off to Turkey where you melt away
as loving brothers speed you on your way
and teach how best to detonate the bomb
when you appear in London on the day.
 
Convinced that this is where my future lies
I hug my friends in tearful fond goodbyes  
because the imam’s lessons taught me that
Islam’s success must feed on Kafir’s cries.
 
At last I saunter through the vast arcade
where filth and Satan’s spawn are on parade.
“Kill and be killed for Islam and it’s cause.”
And my reward? “A gown of golden braid!”
 
“Make war on infidels,” true Muslims yell.
“Be harsh; for they are vile and come from hell.”
The girl who ran away is now a bomb.
Fearless! Inspired by Islam’s mighty spell.
 
I pray and feel the bomb-belt hug my flesh,
a child asleep in mother’s niqab crèche.
One flick will blast these Kafirs back to hell
while I, in paradise, start life afresh.
 


Tuesday, 22 December 2015

A Christmas Remembered

A Christmas Remembered


A winter’s morn; the earth is
still. Leaves and grass gleam virgin
white as vapours shroud the distant
hill. Birds forage in field and
wood where the pond is steel. The
sharpened air, a whetted knife,
reveals to me my lover’s
breath. God – I see her very
life! We spread our pence beneath
the tree, but love is all the
gift we need, and love is free.

Wednesday, 21 October 2015

She Haunts Me

She Haunts Me

She haunts me in the dead of night
when all the world is sleeping,
the girl I found in Adder Wood –
sat on a tree-stump, weeping.
Why do you cry my lovely one?
Who so deserves your pining,
when all the birds are on the wing
and summer sun is shining?

But oh the wars, the bloody wars
to end all wars, keep coming.
And still the blood, the precious blood,
the peoples’ blood is running.

I cry for my young soldier boy
who fell in foreign mountains,
and yet the war-torn peoples’ tears
would fill the Roman fountains.
The wicked human failure is
what fills my heart with sorrow
for my soldier and the people
who will never see tomorrow.


But oh the wars, the bloody wars
to end all wars, keep coming.
And still the blood, the precious blood,
the peoples’ blood is running.

Beware the Shadows

Beware the Shadows

Do they frighten you like they frighten me?
these downcast sons of low-caste mobs.
As you lock them away and lose the key
their parents sweat in low-paid jobs.

These downcast sons of low-caste mobs
fuel rebellious-dreams with drugs and beer.
Their parents sweat in low-paid jobs.
They chant coded-prayers in a football-jeer.

Fuel rebellious-dreams with drugs and beer
to ease the day-long searing-pain;
they chant coded-prayers in a football-jeer
in the gloom of a dark-slum-lane.

To ease the day-long searing-pain
as you claim the dues for their squalid-lets
in the gloom of a dark-slum-lane,
pale parents wail and rail against the debts.

As you claim the dues for their squalid-lets,
children scream of cruel-oppression.
Pale parents wail and rail against the debts
as they spiral through depression.

Children scream of cruel-oppression,
trapped on a treadmill-track from womb to grave
as they spiral through depression,
training for the life of a low-wage slave.

Trapped on a treadmill-track from womb to grave,
youth stolen by forsaken-school,
training for the life of a low-wage slave
in lawless-class where bullies rule;

youth stolen by forsaken-school,
dull-eyed masters screaming at sullen-mobs
in lawless-class where bullies rule,
churning-out fodder for the low-grade jobs.

Dull-eyed masters screaming at sullen-mobs
whose minds are brutalised by stress,
churning-out fodder for the low-grade jobs.
Dream-escape is a drug's caress.

Whose minds are brutalised by stress
seek false-pity from none nor spare a friend.
Dream-escape is a drug's caress,
for there is no prize at this journey's end.

Seek false-pity from none nor spare a friend
where honest-labour will not pay;
for there is no prize at this journey's end
and brute-frustration rules the day.

Where honest-labour will not pay
the deprived will study the plumper-breeds;
and brute-frustration rules the day
when the fat-one flaunts what the lean-one needs.

The deprived will study the plumper-breeds.
The game is called accumulate.
When the fat-one flaunts what the lean-one needs,
cruel-rules are there to contemplate.

The game is called accumulate
where they dirty-deal for the master-share.
Cruel-rules are there to contemplate;
when the winner takes-all, none will play fair.

Where they dirty-deal for the master-share,
beware the shadows of the night.
When the winner takes-all, none will play fair,
paupers leap-out to snatch their right.

Beware the shadows of the night
as you lock them away and lose the key.
Paupers leap-out to snatch their right.
Do they frighten you like they frighten me?

Wednesday, 14 October 2015

Fashionistas - Haiku

Fashionistas

Hijabs storm catwalks.
Beards takeover trendy chins.
Fashion worships faith.

Friday, 9 October 2015

Mirror World

Mirror-world

A life ago my father said, “I saw
your plane pass overhead; stood alone in
wind and rain and watched you go.” I shrugged and
went upon my way, “Choose the way you waste
your day. I've hay to make and seed to sow.”

Then, amid the hours of feeding pets and
tending flowers, I saw the vapour-trail
bisect the sky, a tear spilt by the bluest
eye as you went out to set-about a
world I'd left undone – to sing the songs I
couldn't hum; and all my love was on the
wing in tender, wistful thoughts of you that
day. My father must have felt this too, but
couldn't say; and I, the one with life to
find, wouldn't pause to read his mind. I know
it's much the same for you, just doing what
you have to do, but if we never say
or show, how can the other ever know?

The one is always unaware as at
the other's heart they tear. My sorrow as
you speed away is full of what we did
not say. Maybe, one-day you'll feel this yearning
too... in the mirror-world of me and you.

The Singer

I once lived in a small town. I was shocked to find that, after 16 years, I wasn’t fully accepted.
I left and vowed never to return.

The Singer

Where black rocks bare their fangs and roar
and sea shouts angry at the shore;
when rain comes sweeping wet-walled night
and lamps are pools of yellow light,
the singer stirs from out the deep
where phantoms of his memory sleep.
He trudges by the lighted inn
as jest and laughter ring within.

“Blood is the bond of brother-love.
Deep roots fit others for the glove.
But solo is a finite role,
no mirror for the choirs deep soul.
My lonely strain was not a theme
that bound the past to future dream.
I played my part. I sang it strong
but feel no call for further song.”

He wanders on along his way
where seas shed tears of spume and spray.
Now cries the wind as rain comes down
to draw a curtain o’er the town.

To My Friend

To
My Friend.
Such numbing
news is all my grief.
For at the height of that
God given day, grim death,
yon callous thief, broke in my
heart and stole your life away. All
my thoughts are disbelief. So short
ago I felt you pulse within my hands;
saw passion flaring in your flashing eye.
I rave and rage against disease and rant
at all who failed to save the focal point of
all you meant. And what of me, who reassured
you to the end? Your really very fickle friend, who
shied away from stretching hand and frightened
child you hid within. Emotions well and choke
remorseful in my throat as
bitter
tears
come
scald~my eye.
Your ashes now enrich the ground; your soul, in smoke, floats heaven-bound; but still you pulse in this – my heart. A part of me it was that died.

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

The Barmaid

Manchester – in the final days of the smoky old town. Listed buildings, monoliths, stand amid the rubble of demolition, tower-block flats and new estates…

The Barmaid

The bar lights define her; a pale girl,
and thin; puppet playing in a booth.
Alert for the long shift, she watches
the shadows hunched at the dark tables,
selectors, tacticians, experts reliving irrelevant
games. ‘Do these people ever get real?’

Her mind flees through the window,
where, in twilight, rubbish filled sites are gestating.
Her young eyes, unaware, see rain come sweeping
the long empty yards, and weeping on derelict firms,
glistening the brick of the devil-dreamed towers
in hell-seeing streets of steel-shuttered shops,
where a base-born baby cries in grandmother's arms.

The bar-bum accountant, aged beyond years
with worries of fees, scrapes the price of a pint
from his pocket and shuffles towards her.
She finds herself pulling a pump
in a monolith pub, spared bomb blasting
balls and bulldozing jaws, in a mad-architect's
dream of a traffic‑choked scheme – pavements
of vomit and pampered-pets’ shit, ochred
by lamps on designer-frame posts.

(Around her, forgotten, the ghosts play the
game‑with‑no‑rules, in the dream where the
strikers who ran for the reds were beaten
and blooded by penalties forced by the blues,
but dreamt of the goal they would mould,
and then leave for descendants to score).

The sages, oblivious, in red and blue blindfolds,
watch her sway at the pump. Without knowing,
she sees them as losers who funked the one match
that was fixed in their favour; and she
has a baby that cries through the night.

Death Spell

   Death Spell

Icy mists of shame enshroud my blackened-soul.
Harsh klaxons, blaring from my heart, proclaim all
squalid thoughts. Flares, illuminating caverns
full of nightmare-fiends, reveal a frightened child
lying sobbing in the dark. Metamorphose
walls flash me naked at the world. Pride deserts
as gutting-scalpels fling self-loathing-roots and
innards to the judging, scornful mocking mob.

Flee this terror of exposure; flee your dear
though unearned-love; bolt rabbit-scared through black-night
woods on menace-ridden hills. Run, forever-
banished in misery's driving-rain; stumble
bleeding on the flint-hard nettled-fields of pain.

Reality dissolving, sombre-brooding
roots. Zombie-float through mirage-days of chilling
vapour-dreams; curled up tight in flimsy-veil of
shielding-shell; tried; condemned; exiled within a
self-made cell; impotent to melt the fangs that
freeze the bonds that bind the death-wish in the spell.

Poison-seeds rain soft on fertile gardens of
a troubled-mind. Flowers bloom, in whats? and whys?
and awful rows of fearful hows? Answers ring –
crystal bells – from secret-lakes of tear-blood dew.

Help-cries garble; sane outside... death-mad within.
Talk ‘morrow-talk with me ten-million-miles
from you, engrossed, obsessed, cocooned within a
dreadful plan. In here, there is no coming-dawn;
no more, no us, no anything. Who loves you
so; would go, and leave you with this mist of shame.

You found my shame, and beamed into my soul with
rays of healing-truth; dispelling mist and vile
veiling-shell, while thawing out the frigid-spell.

Caithness

CAITHNESS GLOSSARY
broch … = Pictish Towers (Ancient Monuments)
sepulchral weals … = Ancient burial mounds
ghostly druid-stones … = Druidical Standing Stones and Stone Circles
Clearance … = Highland Clearances
flimsy boxes …. = Pretentious new housing, staggered higgledy piggledy
to peep between neighbouring houses for a piece the view.

fresh and eager crop … = Youth
peaty-flows … = Flow Country. The world’s largest blanket bog, with a
delicate eco-system.

foreign firs … = (a) Non-native trees, planted by speculators, which
upset the balance of nature. (b) Incomers.

 

image

CAITHNESS

He falls and snuggles like a lover to the floor;
dreams spilling from the bottle in the weathered hand.
Beyond the door, dead brochs lie buried on the moor.
Forebears are but sepulchral weals upon the land.

Dreams spilling from the bottle in the weathered hand,
where ghostly druid-stones gather for the moon-dance.
Forebears are but sepulchral weals upon the land,
grey-tombs, blending with the plunder of the Clearance.

Where ghostly druid-stones gather for the moon-dance,
frail farmer huddles in the shelter of the dell;
grey-tombs, blending with the plunder of the Clearance,
as flimsy-boxes march in fashion on the swell.

Frail farmer huddles in the shelter of the dell.
The peasant wearies of the burden of the toil,
as flimsy boxes march in fashion on the swell,
to shoulder for the view they one-day will despoil.

The peasant wearies of the burden of the toil,
just as a fresh and eager-crop spring from the seed
to shoulder for the view they one-day will despoil,
aware the time has come to take the misty-lead.

Just as a fresh and eager-crop spring from the seed,
out on the peaty-flows the foreign-firs take hold,
aware the time has come to take the misty-lead,
with roots deep-nourished by the corpses in the mould.

Out on the peaty-flows the foreign-firs take hold.
Beyond the door, dead-brochs lie buried on the moor.
With roots deep-nourished by the corpses in the mould,
he falls and snuggles like a lover to the floor.

image

Charlie Gregory
Caithness

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Gifts for Elizabeth

Gifts for Elizabeth

Look into the sky tonight and travel
back in time, where diamonds light forever-
up beyond the Milky Way; and if you
know the stars by name you'll never be alone.

See Lunar, queen of all the nights, a-glide
with silver smiles; lingers while the morning
mist shimmers-all with dew, then hides among
the vapour-screens to watch her lover rise.

How mighty rides the Sun King, Midas of
the dawn, transforming leaden-sea and sky
to sheets of dazzling gold; red-carpets lie
on cloud-scapes of plains and mountain-passes.

Purple-anvils, forging hailstorms; thunder
clapping; lightning flashing; Buddhas billow
then dissolve in peaceful islands floating
high... Now yellow skies of driven rain-squalls.

Flooding fields send swollen rivers rushing
to the sea, where they boil and steam in the
tropic-tides, then leap on the wind and flee -
to return in tears to their native hills.

Such glory is the earthly-engine – where
sylph-rainbows float on fields-of-flowers that
mirror back their subtle hues; while starry-
fish flash in inky-seas of ever-night.

Deep forests whisper secrets to the fields
and jungle-hedgerows where busy insects
drone. Fisher-folk of spiders spin beauty
into webs that find jewels in the frost.

Savours of the planet are bound into
a whole by the pulsing of the hours in
the rhythm of the days, that circle in
the seasons of the spiral of the years.

There's a presence and a theme in the beat
of the never-ending dancing of the
ocean on the shore - where a gypsy-wind
croons love-songs to the birds that pipe and soar.

To melt into this music is to blend
into the motion, and form again the
beauty of our truth; where minds are laughing
ripples on a stream that runs for ever.

Find succour in the knowledge that all of
us are one, and the substance of all things
is the universal essence of the
stars... and see strife as but a passing phase.