REAL TIME PROWLS

 

A couple of poems I started on a recent trip to London. 

the room offered two time zones

10:04 and 08:32

he stands in the centre

an hour rests on each open palm

outside

relentless

non-negotiable

real time prowls

waits to skewer you 

Yes, the room did have two digital clocks, each showing a different time.

There was a heat wave going on that week and it sort of contributed to this.

whatever, the furnaces are fed

it is only nine o’clock

and already the room is too warm

unbidden the hot wind from the sahara

brings the words of his mother

days like this there’s no talking to him

too much in his head for him to ever hear you

the sun shall brick bake the air

his voices will yell the louder

Pretty bleak eh? 

It was one of those poems that wrote itself, coming from somewhere deep inside. 

Here's an accurate poster. I am glad I am not the only one upset by the antics of the shameless and apparently Teflon coated advisor to what is laughingly referred to as the prime minister...

Here's someone of quality, which is more than can be said of the poltroons in the cabinet, the majestic Ben Webster from 1964.

Until next time.

THIS IS GROWING OLD

I wrote a poem about Tinnitus a long time ago, twelve years in fact, you can read it here.

I have revisited the topic recently and this is the result.

Tinnitus 2

This is growing old:

in my left ear three notes

played on a piano accordion,

stuck on repeat, plenty of sustain.

The right as in the last poem

carries the sound of the sea,

an older tune than human time.

In the night, when I awake

the street lamp patterns

leaf shadows on the blinds,

ancient music in my ears.

I think it is self explanatory. I wrote it one morning after lying in bed catalouguing the sounds in my head.

Here is a rewrite, courtesy once again, of The Secret Poets. You can read the original here. 

scintilla

as the buses turn the corner

they catch the sun and bounce the light

straight into our sitting room

as the driver turns the wheel

patterns of leaves stroke the walls

move and then are gone

in silence this morning

I await the next illumination

Only two words have been removed from the middle stanza. Sometimes that is all it takes.

Here's Cosmo Sheldrake.

Until next time.

THE WATER CYCLE

I opened another of the stash of prompts I have from #iamallstories yesterday. It consisted of five words: And the rain fell up. 

My initial idea was to run the sentence on to the next line [that's enjambment in technical poetry talk] something along the lines of "on to the heads of the people..." Not very good, or I felt, in the spirit of the prompt. Having no clear idea I let the sentence roll around my mind for a time.

In the evening I wrote this:

the water cycle

on his drawing the rain fell up

he did not give a fuck

for the teacher’s laboured explanation

or his laborious chalked illustration

they were forced copy

he simply had a need to see

the world as a place of wonder

where water could soar skywards

It is based on a couple of memories of junior school, though to be honest I was far too dull to have wanted the rain to fall upwards.

This next poem was written on a bus as the drivers changed over and it is what it is.

oh the bus drives sense of relief

as he hands the keys over to the next driver

all those souls no longer his responsibility

two free days before him

the night is warm, heavy with promise

adventure beckons

Here's Procol Harum with A Salty Dog from 1970.

Until next time.

SOME LIVE THEIR WHOLE LIVES LIKE THIS

Some short poems that have been around for a while waiting.

The first is about Brexit and how those that voted for it still do not realise the true cost.

Brexit

how easily we gave up our birth right

we were not even truly hungry

but we swallowed what we were told

only later did we come to regret it

when the true cost caused us

to look at what we had bought

with clear eyes

I am not sure where this next poem came from. I found it nearly fully formed in a notebook. I have no recollection of writing it.

this morning I discover

I am missing a layer of skin

clothing itches

every step informs me

my shoes are just that bit too loose

to the mirror I present the same image as yesterday

unflayed but sensitive

some people you tell me

spend their whole lives like this

I am silent waiting for tomorrow

Lastly a poem about forgetting your lunch.

halfway down the motorway

the image of his lunch

immobile

on the kitchen top

popped into his head

the distance between it

and his stomach widening

it was going to be one of those days

Here's Boo Hewerdine.

Until next time.