Jessie

Black and sleek and quick as fire,
Lively as electric wire;
Sparking in the sun.
Leaps and walks the towering fence;
Imperious, in every sense
Queen of her garden.

Creatures cower, become her game;
Lazily she earns the name:
Dispassionate killer.
Yet time escapes her wicked claws,
Never feigns death in her jaws -
And slowly takes her.

Angular bones in a moulting sack,
Matted fur on her bent, ridged back -
Frightened eyes plead to me.
Slowly struggles to her feet,
Anytime is time to eat -
Always, always hungry.

Today she’s too tired to be fed,
Stumbles back into her bed
Pleads again, fights to breathe.
Weeping flesh and sores that run,
Time to sleep, my darling one -
Goodbye, Jess. Forgive me, please.

Who will send the spinning stones
Across the chaos of the road
To tumble through the slotted jaws of hell?
And who, with perfect measured stride,
Will step upon the other side
Before the killer crow can pass the post
And cast his dread satanic spell?
 
Who'll enumerate the railings' bars,
Approximate the speed of cars
By counting seconds till they disappear?
Whose finger-snap will always coincide
With kettle switch and - if they've tried -
Old Big Ben's chimes? Who'll conjure rhymes
That split her face from ear to ear?
 
Who'll tally bricks and estimate
A buildings volume and its weight
And time a rock's descent into the sea?
And who will check the altitude of birds and planes,
The height of trees and weather-vanes
If not me? There's a vacancy...
Oh, and they'll need
 
A needle eye to unpick the random tapestry
And sew her silhouette into their memory -
A stitch in time saves one -
And a pearly shell to catch her observations,
Gleaming drops of conversation,
Fresh as dew, transparent, true...
Who'll do these things when I am gone?

I did my bit to oil the tongue

And make it an informal one,

But if I’d known what I’d begun

I never would have started.

The ‘wi’ from I’ll, the ‘o’ from aren’t

Are AWOL with the ‘no’ from can’t

And e’er again I know I sha’n’t

See letters that departed.

,

The ‘v’ from ne’er gesticulates

And ‘ha’ from they’ve laughs in my face,

While I - that’s me - hang in their place,

A stitch between incisions.

The b’s’n on the fo’c’s’le stands,

A pile of letters in his hands,

Perplexing lubbers on the land

With five extreme omissions.

,

The Hilton houses ‘i’ from it’s

While ‘i’ from he’s hides in the Ritz;

I pull together all the bits

They readily deserted.

A crescent moon in lettered sky,

A prick in alphabetty pie,

I turn away, a winking eye

And chaos is averted.

,

I scratch then scribe the sheet to show

Where absent letters used to go

And thus let everybody know

That something’s missing for my pains.

Contractions brought about my birth,

‘twixt font and grave I’ve shown my worth:

To scatter symbols o’er the Earth

And free them from their paper chains.

... well ...the diminishing cyclical nature of everything: from washing-up, to the creation and dissemination of sound; from Newton's balls, to the journey of an atom of water... actually, it started with a drop of water, and quickly expanded its horizons to the final running-down of the universe, when all energy is (is it? I'm no physicist) equally dispersed. It flowed through me so it’s mine, but it's flawed too, so I keep cutting, grafting and pruning: still needs a bit of work here and there; stutters a bit too, but so do I, so what would you expect; a work in progress, much like everything else around here.

Uni-verse

This

came from the washing-up -

wrote it down before the bubble burst.

It created its dripping self and ticked

in time with the unfolding universe,

then referenced my mundane task,

cycled forwards and in reverse;

wrestling with energy -

like Newton's balls:

equilibrium-cursed -

till gravity and the

cords that hang

us to the frame

of reality

showed

them

-selves

to

me

I

Wonder where

Dead underwear

Goes

When it’s cast asunder, dare

I risk a social blunder in

Assuming Satan’s plundering

Our nether garments for his

Underworld?

In Hades,

Maybe,

Ladies’ negligees he saves

From lacy graves

Of course!

It’s corsets

That he hoards, it’s

Y fronts, boxers,

Thongs and socks – are

Socks a

Fiendish

Fetish in his

Underweary world?

So,

Old Nick nicks our

Knickers,

Steals the

Kinky drawers of vicars,

While the

Fallen angels frolic -

A black mass of diabolic

L y c r a, leather, latex lingerie

For his Satanic Majesty.

Amongst the fire and

Brimstoned halls - where

Canny souls wear  Camisoles, some-

-times Rosemary’s baby-dolls -

The thief of briefs torments our smalls,

Bras, s h i f t s and vests and

Chemisettes.

The

King of Darkness

Always gets

Our

Dear  departed

Under garments

For his

This is a work in progress. I keep adding stuff. There are a few red herrings and the rhythm is all over the place in parts, but I'll sort it.

If you Percy verevolf you might make some sense of it

Pet names

Mable
Is a marten, sorry, sable,
Whereas Martin is a swallow,
Not a martin at the gable.
Do you follow?
Am I able
To entitle a gorilla
With the prenomen of Cilla?

Blackbird Thora heard
About Brook trout -
She spouted
Rainbow words…
I doubt a
Camouflaged young zebra
Ever deigned to be dubbed Debra.
And is Bill a ‘bomination
For a penguin’s appellation
As he looks so like a waiter?
Paula polar bear
Will surely know
And so
I’ll ask her –
Later…

Yes, I
Think only a
Finicky
Long-necked
Giraffe
Could cynically
Say ‘Heck,
Gustaf’s
Too short for me!’
Let’s see
What names we
Think of now:
Jake snake, Zak yak -
What rhymes with sow?

Please tell me how
While delving deep,
The maggot Margot
Seems to know
Where every body goes.
Suppose
That Molly mole
Could dig the soul
Of Nat King Cole?
Ex-factory farm stock
Simon cow ’ll
Milk her dry –
As Angela tarantula
Fine-dines with
Fi, the fly.

Georgina the hyena’s
Getting meaner -
Even Rog the blind dog’s seen her
Hurling evil epithets
At Margaret the marmoset –
‘Though Leo leopard is her pal!

Here’s Sal,
The animal
Of unknown species,
Rolling faeces.
John-Paul beetle’s feet’ll
Roll some too -
Perhaps someday their names
‘ll be the same when they proclaim,
‘I do’.

Says Barney barn owl,
‘T’wit t’whom
It may concern:
Poor Bernie tern’s
Sojourning in a zoo…’
My perfect pet,
Mia sparrow’s vetting
Rock the rook while
Not forgetting
Stone the crow.

Hey, did you know
That
Turtle Myrtle races
Gail the snail,
While Phil, the killer whale
Puts Dolph the dolphin through his paces,
Snapping at his tail?

I pale
If
Antelope Penelope
Can't be found where she should be -
Quick!
Look for Brian,
The lion!

Hi again

I started work last September as a 'Learning Support Assistant' in a local high school. Yesterday, as the title suggests, I sat in on an English Literature mock exam, to check that the cheeky buggers didn't cheat and to help with any problems that might crop up. It was the first time I'd been asked to fill this role. The dreaded words were spoken: 'You have one hour and 45 minutes to complete the paper. Pick up your pens. You may begin!'

Most of the room of 13 boys and one girl did nothing, just sat twiddling, tapping, slouching, sneering, grinning inanely. The girl wrote manically and eventually four or five of the lads had a go... the rest did barely anything. It affected me. I could have cried. Not at them, for them.

I've been in class with some of them over the last five months and, shame on me, thought they were mainly a pain in the arse: disruptive, uncooperative, sometimes even violent. But yesterday I felt sorry for them. I could always see their behaviour was a front, a cover for their insecurity, but as they sat silently, uncomfortably alone, they looked painfully lost. It was very poignant. They are 16 years old and English is their first language, though they can barely read The Beano or write a note for the milkman. There is little doubt that, in their ignorance, their parents have failed them. The school has failed them too despite the wonderful staff's best efforts. And so has the system.

As I walked between the desks I picked up a redundant 'Anthology' and began to read Ben Johnson's 'On my first sonne'. It's a fantastic poem and, being the father of a seven year-old boy, it has touched me deeply. An idea spontaneously sprung into my mind and I wrote this when I got home, using some of the original's language and form. I compared the pause before the exam to the one before the Battle of the Somme. The ages of many of the boys in both scenarios would be similar. Their immediate fates would be different - no-one normally faces death in an exam room - but the hopelessness of the two situations was what tied them together. Both are a tragic waste of young life.

On my first Somme

Fare well my boys, but how did we prepare thee

Without hope or sense to grasp the gravity?

Five years you were lent to us, the chance was brief

To engage you; now we daily share the bell’s relief.

Reluctant recruits! Soon the dreaded call will come:

‘Pick up your swords, the hour is marked – it has begun’.

Death’s face grins and sneers among the ordered rows,

Armed with feigned indifference to fend the blows

This day will rain. Now, truly, here doth lie

Ben Johnson’s best piece of poetry.

The greatest shame as I see them fall?

What I love they will never like at all.

... well ...the diminishing cyclical nature of everything: from washing-up, to the creation and dissemination of sound; from Newton's balls, to the journey of an atom of water... actually, it started with a drop of water, and quickly expanded its horizons to the final running-down of the universe, when all energy is (is it? I'm no physicist) equally dispersed. It flowed through me so its mine, but it's flawed too, so I keep cutting, grafting and pruning: still needs a bit of work here and there; stutters a bit too, but so do I, so what would you expect; a work in progress, much like everything else around here.

Uni-verse

This came from the washing-up -
Wrote it down before the bubble burst.
It created its dripping self
In time with the unfolding universe,
Then referenced my task -
Cycled back to the top,  forward and reverse;
Wrestling with energy,
like Newton's appendages: equilibrium-cursed,
Till gravity and
The cords that hang
Us to the frame of reality
Showed themselves to me.

I wrote this just after my 50th birthday. It was a quiet do. What bells and whistles there were had stopped working ages ago.

50 n.o.

Bat held high I salute then bow
To the mere handful in attendance now;
Not quite as I imagined the occasion or ovation
(Guard down, eyes down, I tamp down another imperfection).

So far: no evidence of Fiery Freddie's flare
Or Geoffrey's jaw-jutting indomitable air;
I scrape each apologetic singleton
My way: one by one by sorry one.

Unadventurous strokes begat not a chance,
Not a lofty six, nor even a third-man-wise glance;
So a forest grew by the boundary
'Til you couldn't see the ashen me for trees.

OK. Celebration over, bat back to the crease
To await the next pounding charge, the ball's release:
Slash! Whack! A chance! Do I stand still, amazed
By the umpire's index finger(s) raised?
Or duck! Pray! Leave it! Hope it's wide?
You (who know me best), you decide.