Gang oft agley

The denizens had died weeks earlier

curiosity-killed in the jaws

of traps that snapped vertebrae

like twigs,

they lay with eyes like blackberry grains,

mild revulsion overriding the soft fur’s

invitation to pet.

 

A mini tragedy, but fair doos:

serves yous right for poaching potatoes

and shitting in the grocery basket,

bag them up and bin them,

us 2 : mice nil.

 

But opening the drawer was sadder,

the mess of paper, leaves, string,

shredded cotton in patched-blanket squares;,

like a primary school art project,

in pathos.

 

A nest bereaved of its owners

the body-warmed, soft work

of quiet, secret, darkness hours.

A simple safe haven,

the best laid plan

of nightime scurriers,

and nibblers of potatoes,

 

“Poor things. Look, they’ve used all sorts.

It seems a shame, you know;

I’ve had worse housemates.”

Late Summer

I saw a thousand butterflies
White above a field
Clumsily they fluttered by
Tacking against the breeze

I saw a standing pony there
Lonely in that field
Wind ruffling its tail and hair
To and fro with the trees

I saw the berries on the thorn
Red against the green
Humming tractors mowing corn
Signalled the season’s end.

I saw the clouds scud up above
As clouds are wont to do
Underneath them kites and doves
Flew in silhouette.

.

.
I just moved back to the village I grew up in, after several years living in metropolises. It is a lot quieter and there’s less energy around, but there is certainly a lot of natural beauty to enjoy. The countryside in north Buckinghamshire isn’t spectacular, and it doesn’t take your breath away, but it has an understated, soft, gentle beauty to it, which I was really feeling on this warm, end of summer evening.

The poem is unfinished – I’m still trying to figure out a reasonable final stanza to tie it together and invoke some feelings.

The Beech Tree

Scar-broken smoothness, bark like whaleskin

steeply high rising, tall trunk casting

shadows, as delicate mauve grey branches

cradle the coalsmoke sky.

Green moss-gilded in parts of the bole

horseshoe fungus, woodpecker’s hole

disturb smooth lines of bark; like buttresses

of a silvan cathedral.

Erotic Love Poem

I am hung

Bow-strung taut for you

Parched with the thirst for you

Come my fountain give me water

And I’ll drink

 

Deeply, madly, truly

Refresh me,

And I’ll undress you again

And again, all morning

As we break our fast

At last, sated.

 

But still hungry

For more, come closer, that’s not enough

Still closer, still not enough

Lock your arms on me

You fit perfectly

In my arms, against my chest, hold

Tightly, hold hard, hold me til it hurts

Hold me with your soul

And together we are whole.

 

 

 

 

Marital Abuse – Heroin Addict Poem

Quick-step shuffle march,

a walk that marks her

from a mile off,

a daylight ghoul goes foraging.

Open-palmed

she pounds grey streets for silver coins

– “I just need 50p for the bus!”

to brown and oblivion.

Eyes dead but urgent

she hunts endlessly,

gaunt face scowling at rejection,

yet she isn’t deterred.



She can’t be, her spouse

–  she loves him and hates him –

is waiting back at the flat.

Sharp-tipped, he’s always

needling her, never leaves her alone.

He plays her like a fiddle

plucks her strings

and pulls them, so she dances

lifeless

like his puppet.

But she’s Hungry for him.

Always.

All she needs is his touch

his warm caress

his coming inside of her.

H can make her whole again.

But he’s a cruel partner

– she knows he’ll be the death of her.

I wrote this today, and may still edit it quite a lot. It isn’t very thought-through in terms of rhythm, metre, and possible rhymes, but it has the idea and the imagery.
I’ve always noticed the very urgent, hurried walk of many drug addicts when they are out on the street. Sometimes they do it while begging for money, racing to get the amount needed for a hit. Other times it seems like they are off somewhere, presumably to their dealer, so with even more reason to step quickly. It’s a walk that seems to even outpace that of the typical London commuter, and yet it isn’t exactly the same as the commuter’s. The commuter walks with a distant, withdrawn but hard purpose – long strides and arms pumping. The junkie walks with more of a rapid shuffle, almost looking like they are fighting the urge to jog.

November Poem

The sky ages and greys, thinking back on her

half remembered days of blue and gold beauty.

The damp sodden ground dreams of long distant dryness

while beads of rainfall gleam on its shivering green blanket.

The magpie doesn’t care, hopping white and black,

his plumes like ingredients of the day’s greyness.

On a disused city church

Victorian brick, stained-black red

bell tower looming, an empty head

eyes plucked out by pigeon-rats

that nest now under roofing slats.

 

Scuttle below: the dusty church mice

squeaking in the heavy holy silence

that hangs in empty church chest cavity

under Gothic ribs, grey stone-wrought canopy.

 

Back in the tower under thief-sought lead

the heavy bells dangle in the head

they sit there beshitten, never knell

and peer out across the urban hell,

 

and see there, massing in Sunday best

hoodies, the people, traipsing towards the west

Tesco-wards they throng and tread

in search of their discount weekly bread.