SO MUCH EMPTY SUGAR

I've been writing this poem for some time, jotting down odd lines as they entered my head. I don't know where the idea came from. It was just an image of two men talking, after being made redundant yet again, and one man confessing his secret. 

PRECARIOUS

He served he said

they called him sailor

he’d seen it all when in the navy

and told us so

in response to every turn of human nature

We worked the same gig

nine months on promises

then just before the big buyout

they let all us go

shut up shop and fled

The half hinted at rewards

so much empty sugar

spun of smiles and fine talk

messaged us the news

and that was that

Me and him well

we sat on the platform all that night

hoarding what we had left

waiting for the dawn

new day new chances

He told me he’d lasted six whole weeks

never made it past the harbour

bought himself out of the service

and lived his life on the ripple

a stuttering sequence jobs like this one

Then he asked me

how do you make your way

when the waves rise then topple

how do you stand in a sinking sea

I shook my head

I had no answers

It certainly isn't finished. Too many half set lines. I can't see a way forward at the moment. Like a fine wine, this tale needs time to mature. 

Lola and the Rhinos played their last gig last Saturday. We shall miss them.

Max Romeo died this week. His album War in a Babylon is a classic. So long Max thanks for the amazing music.

Until next time.

SOMEONE ELSE'S NIGHTMARE

I've always liked Carey Grant. He made acting look effortless. His timing was impeccable and he never seemed to take himself that seriously. He was a very skilled actor. The other week I walked into a cinema toilet and there was a huge frieze on one of the walls, a still from North By Northwest. That classic scene when he's been chased by the crop dusting plane through the maize field. The image set me thinking.

CHARADE

In the toilet of a cinema in Warrington

I almost bump into Carey Grant

Frozen as he is in black and white and panic

all over one of the walls

He’s in a bit of a pickle

look at those enlarged eyes

Definitely flight or fight mode

who wouldn’t be

He’s been chased

by a crop dusting aeroplane

And is stuck in the re-enactment

of someone else’s nightmare

As if he didn’t have enough

of his own to be going on with

The title Charade is a reference to another film he starred in, one of my favourites. I saw it when it originally came out in 1963 and many times since. Mr Grant had a terrible upbringing and appeared to only become at peace with himself in the 1950s following LSD therapy. I was wondering how a person with so many issues of their own dealt with being in another person's nightmare.

I was reading a series of articles recently in the Irish Examiner entitled Ireland in 50 Albums. It brought back memories of some bands I'd not thought about for years. The Stars of Heaven being one of them. Here's The Lights of Tetoan.

Until next time.   

WALKING SPELL

Some poems arise from the imagination, an idea, a line, an image that quickly writes itself. Other poems have a basis in fact and the ensuing poem may be an amalgam of many actual experiences. This poem is what it seems, a description of an event.

WALKING SPELL

I am carrying you into your dreams

this is my walking spell

whose power lies in repetition

I walk the same circuit

of the forty two steps

again and again around this room

And as we move all I ask of you

is to close those heavy lidded eyes

then you will cross the border

Don’t worry the whole wide world

will still be here when you awaken

I have not altered it much since the first draft. The focus has been on making it flow. Though it is still very early days, I think it is heading in the right direction.

Brooke Sharkey has a new single out. Frequent readers of this blog will know that I have supported Brooke over the years. It's good to hear her music once more. You can link to her website here.

Until next time.