ANOTHER SLICE OF THE CAKE

I  was talking with a poet this week who was telling me that he keeps his poems in the drawer for years once he's written them, that way he know they are good or not when he finally takes them out to reread. I take my hat off to him. I usually allow a couple of months for that.
This post's poem sequence was written in December.

a convenient

[translate that as cheap]

weekend rental flat

step over the threshold

it is not the wealth generator

anonymous ikea space

you had imagined

no

it is not that simple

you are in a vacated home

with too many personal touches to register

and where are the occupants

while you sleep in their bed

and use their cups to brew your tea?

on the second day curiosity to the fore

I look at the photographs that claim the walls

most are of their marriage

a grand affair in some wiltshire country house

and a jolly admiral with his mrs

this is another slice of the cake

loaded perhaps with more than most

It is basically a slice of life. As I have said on my occasions, it is good to put yourself in a different environment and write what you see.
Not sure this one is finished. I think I need the Secret Poets input.

Here's Ketama.

Until next time.

A SOBER SUIT BUT NO TIE

Poems should be unique works of art and expresses the ineffable in a manner that speaks to every human. No mean feat, a tall order for anyone to contemplate. But we do more than mere contemplation. I have no idea how many poems are produced each day, each hour, or every minute around the globe. I suspect that more poetry is produced than there are people to read it.
Here's another one to add to that morass.

the butcher

Today he wears his salesman face,
a sober suit but no tie,
relaxed, casual, all smiles.
Each word is emphasised
Help us to help you.
A reasonable transaction
We can all benefit from this.

Then my shirt pocket vibrates,
it's the redundant past calling.
Normally I welcome the overlays,
reality shifted a few degrees.
Then I look up catch his other face,
the razor's edge, the copper taste
and each word rings hollow.

This poem follows on from an earlier one. It is set one year later. The killing is over, for now, it is negotiation time, and no one wants to hear ghosts.

Here's Ryley Walker looking very well.

Until next time.

THREE STORIES HIGH

Still at a loss to work out what went wrong with the last post. 
Here's the poem.

FORGOTTEN SCAFFOLDING

Three stories high.
You would get a good view from the top,
up two aluminium ladders, that bend in the middle.

This outline in poles and boards
has decorated the house across the way
for nine weeks or more.

I notice it this morning.
see it fresh, as if with new eyes.
It stands like a sketch 
of someone's late night, great idea
that having been slept on
is never spoken of again.

Strangely enough work has commenced today on the roof. 
Perhaps the act of writing has prompted action. The power of words.
Here's Art Pepper. The video may be poor quality but the music isn't.

Until next time.

A GOOD VIEW FROM THE TOP

A poem that [hopefully] shows as it tells.

Forgotten Scaffolding

Three stories high.

You would get a good view from the top,

up two thin aluminium ladders, that bend.

This outline in poles and boards

has decorated the house across the way

for nine weeks or more.

I notice it this morning,

see it fresh, as if with new eyes,

it stands like the sketch

of someone’s late night, great idea,

that having been slept on

is never spoken of again.

I have no idea what this is.

Forgotten Scaffolding

Three stories high.

You would get a good view from the top,

up two thin aluminium ladders, that bend.

This outline in poles and boards

has decorated the house across the way

for nine weeks or more.

I notice it this morning,

see it fresh, as if with new eyes,

it stands like the sketch

of someone’s late night, great idea,

that having been slept on

is never spoken of again.

I am half tempted to leave this post as it is.

Let us hope normal service is resumed soon...

HIT MAN

Another revised poem. Thanks again to The Secret Poets for their invaluable assistance. You can read the last version here.

Hit Man

He sleeps inside your memory until

someone mentions labyrinth or Minotaur

and asks what was the name of that bloke

The one with the thread and sword?

We tend to forget how keen was the edge,

his primary problem solving strategy.

I wonder if he’d not been better off staying in that cave,

missed out on the mixed reviews

that followed from him ditching the woman

who’d given him the string and sword.

Pimped her out to Apollo

and high tailed it back to Athens,

those black sails prompting his father’s suicide

and his son’s swift ascension to the top.

Yes, he’d rather we forgot the messy details

and just remember him for that first hit.

When I showed the poem to the Secrets there was some confusion over what a wet job was [Mafia jargon for a murder]. As I always want a poem to be accessible all the abstruse slang had to go. 

Here's Horslips. They were a great live band though I only saw them once.

And here they are from 1976.

Until next time.