Chickadees

 

Chickadees

 

Not the most promising of subjects,

but it has to be tackled - I expect

little will come of it; won’t move mountains,

overturn rocks or grind pebbles into sand –

yes, nothing much here, nothing grand.

Chickadees - and you may ask what sound

is made – newlings, who flew using westerlies,

accustomed to sitting back, coattailing,

utilizer to cancer and something of that

and how loud they are, how sweet they sing –

of sealing wax, of silly-string

of rum, red bull and teaching,

of shots, soft pillows, sleeping,

of minted lattes delivered late,

of however did she get in such a state?

A sweet midnight chorus punctuates my night;

tossing sour, turning bitter and overbites

into unfurling dawns that reach surging crescendos

until, one day the silence of nothing at all.

It’s sound and fury of empty kettle

switched on at socket, of filament blown

and circuit breakers that halt the flow

burnt to cinders; let licking flames

fuse the hems, to part the stitching once again,

make merry with meal of candy brain.

The Hollows of Mars

 

The Hollows of Mars

 

I come here to speak not of Asimov.

‘Buy Jupiter!’ He screamed from the covers

of schlock paperbacks –

emblazoned with impossibly delicate constructions

pollocked with nuanced gleam and splashed shade -

and from each block of light a face

might be planted there, hard to see, but

acclimatized interstellar with not a hair

out of place, embracing space;

how tempting and easy to slip

one of these into your blazer pocket?

Or ‘Boys! Grow GIANT mushrooms in your cellars!’

Get this – I recant Bradbury, disavow Clarke –

a fall of moondust, sinking shuttles

beget creeping worlds that evolve and scuttle,

send out for Kimbo Kinnison – triplanetary extraordinary

needed more now than he ever was.

Didn’t they ignite the gases of those giants

to send a message to the stars? Buy Coke?

No. For here, in the Hollows of Mars

there is a lack of substance –

once it was buttered thick, now only shea and palm

such quantities won’t actually do harm

per se – but witness these tacky packages, plastic tat

with which they are pleased to wrap

your futures – not mine. Lo! Fry’s Chocolate Cream

surreptitious beneath your sheets before you dream

of ‘To Your Scattered Bodies Go!’

where Sir Richard Francis Burton’s beyond universal

masked in new flesh; ready for rehearsal.

I Charge Thee Hence

 

I Charge Thee Hence

 

Last night she came to me.

To say I was surprised was an understatement –

you see these Doha pavements,

well – they’ve too many cracks – agreed?

Tread lightly and with care,

you could conjure threads never there.

When she left, some of her last words

were: ‘The spell is broke.’

This, of course, is a private joke

and I screwed with the adverb

for the rhyme. Some of her last words

because there were others she toyed with

in due course - she takes, you give –

fall through cracks, but live,

so I’m pleased to say neither of us

left the battlefield untouched.

Battening down my sight to penetrate black

and see she is naked front and back,

full figured firm – it is 10 years ago, again – clearly

when we said stuff like: ‘I love you dearly,’

but a year and a bit is all

it takes to change that,

just wait a few more; everything sags,

there’s tattoos, creases, pink dyed grey hair -

but I know why she’s here; what she wants.

Those in the room with me, licking lips,

cannot tear their eyes from breasts and hips;

she only has to say it once:

‘Come with me.’ She beckons, opens, reveals

what it is she thinks I should feel:

‘I want you to meet my new partner.’

And if I should choose to go with her,

well, here’s a door opened onto lost life,

with talk of past futures, new wives,

galleons whose sails are billowing full,

offering safe passage to any fool

who takes hold of stray threads and pulls -

so, you know, I charged her hence:

‘And do not haunt me thus with empty boats,

for I am real and you are ghosts.’

McDonald's

 

McDonalds

 

When the coffee arrived – finally –

after a three song wait,

the coda to an uncomposed melody -

I did not complain it was late,

cold or blatantly lacking

in promised milk and sugar.

The balsawood twizzlestick, too,

had gone AWOL

and she arrived with a look comprised

of injured pride, wounds inside,

and a bowlful of spilled cherries, fried

in something not totally unpleasant.

‘Why did the pheasant

cross the road?’ I might have said,

recalling one who had tried,

could not fly and died.

But I didn’t. So, she did not reply

‘Sir, you forgot your number - 6 -

which is why things did not go as planned.’

And, as for me, I therefore did not say,

‘I am not a number, I am a free man!’

while not a soul laughed.

Close Encounters of the 4th Kind

 

Close Encounters of the 4th Kind

 

She cut you off at the aisle’s

entrance with her silk-sheet smile,

satin-stockinged longing boxed in place

by cloister walls, a safe cage -

scans your face and you blush

feel words tumble, rushing

like undammed waters, your plush

tongue pushing against the roof,

stuck between bare teeth,

tasting sugar-salts without tasting,

pursuing defection, hunting relief.

Some liberated small talk forms knots

to disguise a bigger clotting

of ideas just beneath veneers:

‘Where’s Paulo?’ ’At home.’

And you think that’s good, so does she,

not here, not now -

but it’s coming, and when it comes,

violins will smoulder of fused enclosures

that bleed inside each other.

At midnight, perhaps you’re awake,

some distant noise – it shakes

but you’re enfolded by black night

and see another, something older - begrimed

that thumb-pricks and cannot help remind

you of feelings felt these many times.

She bares her breasts, it stirs,

upon her lips – and yours – form words

you both needed to say

before she takes herself away

again. ‘Is that you?’ ’No, me first, is it you?’

Both wondering why it has been so long,

what it is that is wrong

and all those small neglected affections

form strong once more

just before she finds the door –

you agree to meet as you agreed before.

 

If there’s a surface, 

you’ll struggle to reach it,

pulling puff-lunged breaststrokes that bring you

muddling from this one side

to another against flooding tides,

beach then wooly finger labyrinthine aisles.

And when you blink, you’ll find

you were not really close at all –

just caught yourself pushing at the 4^th wall.

Deserts of Vast Eternity

 

Deserts of Vast Eternity

 

Most fighting fish are stupid –

yes, they are stupid.

 

Swimming in deserts of vast eternity,

except, you associate deserts with sand

and fish swimming on land

are, on the whole, scarcely found.

 

But, define stupid and you may conclude

that these are fish holding views

in conflict with you

 

and yours. Frustrating, is it not?

Here comes a steaming great polyglot

of aquatic subrational species

swimming in and amongst the intellectual faeces

that serves as a subsurface pelagic zone

they are pleased to dub home.

 

I speak not to disprove what it is you deem

logical – you may think that to me they seem

unworthy of gills – but this is not ethics

when I caution you they keep having sex.

 

Maybe, like me, you feel pathos pull

at you - a new and inexperienced school

swimming enraptured into our aforesaid pool –

perhaps let’s call it their induction,

for argument’s sake – or preparation –

really, it is all one.

 

But there are some who say: ‘come, come,’

and with oxidised fins beckon,

then pack them all on

a multi-coloured, sub-surface contraption

that will convey them to meeting on meeting

in order to knock out invention

and pack them with stuffing.

 

Why, some become nothing but teddy bears!

I have seen it and I swear

it confounds all rationality. Only yesterday

I was trapped. A flying fish  who stayed

atrophied in thought some 40 years too long

found her way onto the quarterdeck.

 

Her words, such as they were,

belied a life that, to her, was full - so sure

she was. ‘I have seen such worlds

since I retired, and filled my belly

with meat and drink, I slept

in the finest hotels and met

such celebrated fish as turn out on pitches,

and there I took these pictures.’

 

And soon she swooned

for she had stayed out of her pool

so long – no listeners there had heart enough

to throw her back amongst such stuff

as dreams are made of.

 

But yet – who is to say that such piscation

does not bring the shoals elation?

There is validity in the common view

and safety in the cluster -

any ideas to the contrary will not pass muster

and can safely be dismissed –

 

Afterall, most fighting fish

are stupid. Yes, they are stupid to swim 

just deserts there

and find nothing

but the opportunistic predator.

All The Way Down

 

All The Way Down

 

I first flew with the butterflies,

taking to the skies

with trepidation – there were flowers below,

the names of which I did not know,

never would, could not taste them

or leave wing-prints behind.

Nor did I have an inkling

of anything approaching destination.

She gives me a sultry wink and sighs:

‘All the way down there?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, uncertain inside,

as she stabs at an imaginary map,

stamps the passport, all hijab and official cap.

Stewardess shepherdess, I think,

but she will not be taking the flight.

Ten years have passed since that

happened – Emirates, and how it was,

closing the door on one life,

opening onto another chance - because,

well, that old story had ended in tragedy.

I did not know it then,

and thought you could revisit books,

return to the library for another look,

once you’d paid the fine.

But it’s not the case – they rip up pages,

rewrite chapters, only remember haphazards,

or come travellers, come blizzards -

and the title is buried.

So here, on this 11^th time around,

I’m different now, familiar sights and sounds.

The capped attendants have changed,

the wink and stamp the same

but they can spot shook pepper pots of seasoning –

some depression and foreboding, too,

but at the same time know that you

are part of the furniture

that completes the room –

all the butterflies have long since flown.

Those? My prints after thumbing down corners

but what chapter this is or in what order

I cannot say. They say I will be seeing

the final chapter as it comes into being –

I did not flit, look, leave - but left imprints on it,

all this, I did – today en route, I saw a car flip:

it hit the hedgerow, A392,

cut across the bus and pancake tossed.

I prayed they were safe, no life lost,

but, at the same time,

clutched my flight ticket and left it behind,

prepared to do - and be

my little bit of feng shui.

It Brings You Together

 

It Brings You Together

 

There once was a donkey

who guarded a thistle – it’s true –

nurtured purple, bruised blue,

clopping daily from her barn

to the Sky Glass widescreen –

rating all crime dramas ever seen,

‘I feel depressed, distressed;

there ain’t one of these I’ve missed.’

He nods; clears away the mess.

 

In another place not far away

which abutted, they had a power-out.

Is that actually a thing? No doubt.

Anyway, they’re watching

when, suddenly - Pif, Paf, Poof –

the cathode ray tube pops;

fades to grey, hits black.

 

Huddled around a candle,

casting jittery shadows,

with a sweet smell of waxy wick

he’s hurdling steps, double quick,

finds a couple of torches, kept

for such occasions as this,

rare as they may be –

 

She considers, and declaims: ‘funny how

it always brings you all together.’

There’s a hole while

they consider empty spaces –

then the light comes back

and he’s off upstairs to pack.

Only the Strong

 

Only the Strong

 

Take weeds – no, take mosquitos,

nipping at your heels;

your ankles – how often you feel them

kissing hairs just above –

ah, it must have been love

but it’s over now

and even though you dealt her a death blow

there’s snowdrifts more coming through.

 

Once a flea thought he was not a flea

at all, and jumped, maybe

150 times his relative size

but, alas, he was not king all he surveyed.

His was a schoolboy error, made

landing, as he did, on sticky tape.

You folded him inside

like amber, but on contraction he popped

and what a lot of blood he’s got –

yours, probably.

 

Back to weeds, this summer’s heat,

relentless, the burning sun scalded the lawn

crispy brown until grasses being born

gave it up as a bad job. Still, patches of green

are dotted hereabouts, like bacteria

thriving in a Petri dish that time you warmed

your coughs and sneezes -

thistles, docks, dandelion clocks, riding breezes

and thriving.

 

Why? And the brambles

abseiling your fences, downward spears

tooled up with thorn, there’ll be tears

if you pluck what sour fruit is on offer –

you scowl, make busy with the Roundup or Raid,

but it seems they like the taste –

that or greet you from some other place.

 

Sneaky bastards – they’ll gouge out your eyes

given half a chance – they despise

your weakness – you can’t articulate why,

what it is that’s needling you,

nor can they put it into words,

how they keep just ticking along,

how there’s nothing here wrong,

mate, holding out hands that if bitten

become feeders, suckers, creepers – give nothing

unless you’re counting bees -

even these seem to tuck tail and flee.

 

You could argue,

the more you cultivate, the more the risk,

while sheering wool, you’re fleeced –

but take out the mower, attack at least:

while down on the line, you spare a copper, Guv,

salve your soul or do it for love,

making measurements of how strong

by the frequency in which you're preyed upon.

Moving On Up

 

Moving On Up

 

Some songs sting more than most,

but not for those reasons:

 

not love, not hate,

never the changing of the seasons

or the guard - the rennet’s set them hard -

coagulated whatever stirred.

Some songs sting because they’re heard.

 

I speak not of loss but something’s lost:

they’ve done us wrong,

moving on out, your time is up –

some bland playlist drops,

Falconer and Garraway rap

something milquetoast, rock your baby,

but I’d rather jack than Fleetwood Mac

and I always hated crap like that

 

And so say all of us, or should –

but no – so smooth, you’d gag

like you did when they served semolina.

 

One day, I predict, you’ll rue

lack of potholes, bumps in the road.

Dreams? Means nothing now.

Somebody to Love? Broken vows.

Baby Can I Hold You? You did.

It Must Have Been Love? I fled.

Moving On Up? But where?

What have you found that counts?

 

Join me, if you will, but won’t,

burn an ear, if you do, but don’t,

pardon my misgivings

but set my face in stone,

I’ll walk on, walk on, alone –

 

There’s part of me keeps on wishing

while the nation congeals,

and it grieves alongside Curtis Mayfield.

Slow Boat to Flushing

 

Slow Boat to Flushing

 

‘You disappeared from view.’

And – on cue –

Mylor Harbour fading out like Layla,

and other assorted love songs

‘And we were worried about you –

but, moving on…’

 

Simon’s got the helm,

steady as she goes -

you could trail your hand

and stroke the mirrorlon below,

break blue borders,

to send ripples to shore’s far corners

imperceptible by the time

they make landfall

and comb the grains,

but they’d be there, just the same.

 

‘Those are oysters,’ he reports,

his voice cutting through their small talk

like a short bladed knife -

each hiding a pearl,

cufflinks for boys, strings for girls.

 

You wonder if he now wishes

he’d stayed below to steer

from within the cabin, not here

on the quarterdeck.

That’s me escaped up the fo'c's'l

by the bowsprit,

but I can still hear it:

their talk a sink full of greasy dishes.

 

I remember we had adjacent offices,

I hadn’t stayed in touch –

such things become too much

like most people are -

the latest flatscreen, the newest car:

 

‘And then we stayed at the Hilton,

Singapore, and at the bar, guess who?

Lionel Richie with the forward row

of England’s starting 15, true –

and that's Ben singing 'Nessun Dorma',

just over there, by the corner...

but, you know,

we were worried about you…’

None shall sleep.

They don't know; the idea creeps

that you could dip them both in Carrick Roads,

trail them behind the boat

to see if its glistering wake could soak

through; make them gleam.

But the only bubbles blown

are the ones they call their own

and trapped within

they push outwards at that thinning skin,

a long way from here to home.

 

Simon grunts while I make clear

there was one boat deploying forwards,

and another abandoned here;

tied to that pontoon;

you don't want to make a splash,

just a dash for new horizons

or sometimes you just get drafted

and there’s no raft back –

 

Or - if there is - it just exists

drifts and drifts, screwing cork into itself

crewed by two by twos

dipping and pulling on opposing oars –

just flotsam from wrecks, 

lashed together

with creepers for the deck.

Coming Round Again

 

Coming Round Again

 

Belts and braces – literally –

let’s not try metaphor, hide meaning,

instead, let’s feed on feelings

either eat or be consumed

because sometimes they take teaspoons,

tap your head,

crack you open like an egg.

It’s coming round again,

tonguing your belly like fire,

moving up through guts to heart

and we all have guilt. For a start,

your sending him to school in trousers

tied around the waist with string

and I have pain about similar things:

Belts and braces – don’t fade.

Children can be cruel at that age,

I remember my own drubbing,

those second tier bullies rubbing

my youngish nose in it -

and a coat unpicked,

stich by stitch, at the seams,

every night trying to avoid another clubbing

by concealing more leaked stuffing.

But, you know, you slough

your chrysalis and make it to man.

These days, I’m old – I can

reach in my pocket, shell out a few shekels,

after all, it’s only what life has dealt,

so, let’s go to buy the boy a belt.

 

I Travel

 

I Travel

 

 

Chacewater garden centre,

plants its mark on visitors,

who are mostly old.

Sipping tea, chewing scones

of gritty currants, dollop of cream,

jam – cherry, maybe

more likely raspberry,

excavated from the wholesale tin.

Spit seeds from gapped teeth

where they lodge like squatters,

dab tissues on dribbles like blotters.

Some have a partner oppositting,

perhaps there’s a little talking –

sometimes silence because they say

when you know somebody so well,

conversation gets in the way.

My septuagenarian neighbour, Kevin,

clatters metal buckets of weeds,

uprooting daily those unpleasing

thickets of intruders seeding

on his four square bit of green.

From my window his constant noise

is sometimes ignored,

and sometimes annoys –

often inoffensive, but makes me think

of other plots, days gone down

where we’re younger - it stinks

to have me around, he thinks

and he longs for the days I travel.

But here’s where it ends,

bent backs, pots and pails.

Today, I’m on Artemis, out sailing,

tacking across Carrick Roads,

maybe St Mawes, who knows?

Depends on where the winds will blow,

I’m ten years behind him,

in no hurry to rattle my tin

but know, in my heart, it’s coming.

Maybe, nations are only people –

they want to travel too

with views that may be strange,

but they’re views all the same

and we’ll mistrust our sight

as they waive your right

to cultivate, border and contain.

Within our minds

travels each and every state

to be explored with furrowed thought,

and destination is only            

what a planted life has brought.

Butcher’s Choice

 

Butcher’s Choice

 

There’s only one apostrophe.

On the wrapping. Quite clear,

signifying singular:

‘Butcher’s Choice’ it assures us,

slapped on the thin plastic packet

which some sleeving machine

took no time at all to wrap it

in. Purporting to be sausages,

high quality product, these porkers -

a year before a walker

as Squeeze would have it

in reverse – appropriate, you’d think,

but fry them, they shrink

and water come a mi eye.

I wonder what they’re stuffed with?

Sage? Onions? Certainly not bone

sawdust or reclaimed gristle – no

that’d be bang out of whack,

this is top quality and that’s that –

but I microwaved one

for a shade too long

and it turned into brick.

That or a pale thin anaemic thing

you’d get arrested for quick

if you waved it at a trusting public.

They claim with maximum fuss:

‘Good food for all of us,’

in orange wobbly Mary Ann sans serif –

but quick! quick!

Send for the sheriff -

I’ve seen shopfronts

of affronted butchers

murder in mind, downing hooks,

wielding hand saws and cleavers,

taking to a nation’s streets

screaming: ‘Where’s the fucking butcher

who chose these?’

Teatime Tygers

 

Teatime Tygers

 

It’s written as a cautionary tale,

obviously, one you can’t fail

to spot. Even a retired mallet,

gone to seed and having cracked

his fair share of heads

would leap out of his deathbed

for this one. Devised by a hack

with a nought degree, ECE, probably –

into barrel-bottoming

with a major in crayoning,

fuzzy felt and tummy time.

Couldn’t cut it as a teacher,

throws on a dog collar to preach.

Presents two or three pages

using the deepest, biggest fonts,

with, ‘Illustrate this, please –

let’s have animals, with placid faces

drawn not quite right, off centre,

clothed, standing upright,

you know, anthropomorphic porkers.’

Chalk in a comedy hedgehog

with a bonnet, wooden clogs

and a penchant for mushroom houses –

it’s Beatrix Potter with an asinine plot

so far removed from ‘Animal Farm’

the only probable harm

could come from paper cuts.

This self- published slop

is flying off the shelves of no shops

whatsoever like an out of breath

iron propellered Caxton Press.

‘Piggly Porker Chokes On Sausage’:

there’s little industry and no cottage.

Sorcha

 

Sorcha

 

Why do two truths flower on one face?

Maybe you’ll see traces

at first – like how pinks streak a warning sky

before melting into blues – perhaps a cry –

Shock? Surprise? Something you’ll recognise.

Smoke signals that always have been there,

lofting skywards – calling both to dare

to read, pore over the hieroglyphs

once obscure but becoming obvious:

and now the flames are fanned,

she’ll coyly take you by the hand.

 

But how can you both play this harmony?

Maybe you’ll settle for one key,

G Major – you’re a tonic, she’s the dominant,

all hands to duet – each as complement,

soft strokes, neither of you more prominent.

You’ll find a corner – you’ll practise, amazed,

shutting the fallboard but still on display,

to touch in blunt wonder; trace

semi-breves and breves scoring your faces,

and when you’ve had time enough,

she’ll lead you to honesty from bluff.

 

And if you surrender, what will you lose?

It’s not something you can choose,

battlements will tumble like dominoes,

as rushing water into cracks must flow,

thrusting your coracle onwards and you row

against currents, strain at oars, bend backs

until you relinquish and the rudder snaps.

All you might have wished for – yours:

Shipwrecked; entwined with each other,

and as you cling with nails to her beach,

she’ll chide; she’ll tease; begin to teach.

 

Where does elation end and jubilation begin?

That is a difficult place to find,

but together you’ll uncover it; spend time

there shocked by its relief; how fine

it is, long languid hours tracing contours,

from rippled peaks to valley floors,

dazed by the accuracy of the charts you draw –

and once complete, you still sketch more.

No longer strangers on a strange shore,

and as surveyors becoming familiar,

she’ll fix positions and chart the laws.

 

When will you know there’s nothing more?

Here is the unkindest cut of all,

a scratch, but it will serve - then fall,

Caesar - but a little way above your heads

comes some sort of chopper; you’re led

by kindly lights, subtle phrases, shepherd’s crooks

impersonations of those doting looks,

something intangible was all it took –

a smoothing of corners, a grinding of blocks:

and when at last it’s time to go,

she’ll softly sigh and let you know.