Ode to my Mother

To bring a girl into this world,
From coal-fired face and misery,
Her parents, tired, steady and old,
Raised on frugal martyry.
Methodism and the narrow way -
Love-lacking,
Confidence drilled out,
Nothing to make her stay.
Sent her wayward packing,
From Newhall to wander about.

Solicitors, shorthand, Dentists,
The world of work came too soon.
Adult, young and no lists,
Already: love, fate and misfortune.
Parties, boyfriends came and went.
Twitching curtains,
Parents' disapproval.
But one remained, from Lethe sent,
One they precipitated for certain.
Exeat and countrywide removal.

At last: three perfect children -
Two boys and a girl.
One too late and one delusion,
The last, sweet, ringlet and curl.
Husband, rich, bombastic,
Demoralizing,
Negligent,
Often paralytic.
Socializing,
And absent.

She took the bitter pill again,
Carried the load.
Said goodbye to lads and men,
No more thoughts of safety owed.
"Character is fate," they say,
Both: pluck and nervousness,
Strength and doubt.
Her only way,
Was righteousness,
Joy and toil inside and out.

South, Mid, South once more,
England held no quarter.
A knock, a ring upon the door,
From him no shelter.
Both mind and sinew carried on,
With duty done and duty must.
Spirits lift.
Wars are never won.
The ornaments always need a dust,
We clean, sort, die, sift.

Having no apogee in life,
Nobility is much too dear.
Our lives are full of strife,
And never shed a tear.
But of this I am sure:
Judgement comes to us all.
We act at our own peril,
When life is no more.
Receiving the call,
The winds will blow her no ill.

Her achievements are many:
Loyalty, friendship and love.
Her faults too are many,
Gentle as a Dove.
Funny,
Irreverent,
Caring.
The room is sunny,
When she is present,
Life forever sharing.

I write this ode before the end,
The end is never ours.
So time itself these thoughts will mend,
The closing of the doors.
When all is done,
The carpet pulled,
All of us no more.
Remember the sun,
How we were dulled,
And the light upon the Southern shore!

Mother (The Vice Squad)

I'm just trying to make you see.
Not to prove I'm right
Or superior in any way,
Incapacity or might.

Stronger, quicker, younger
As you crawl along the pavement
Like a crab or snail -
Making me meander in front and behind
Staggering sideways to avoid a bush or shrub.

We rush slowly to catch the train
And wait on the platform
To err and miss the doors
As they close shortly before it leaves.

We argue as usual
When we arrive in public.
Not saying a word the whole way there.

You invent the truth
Like a child playing with balloons.

Once more
We lunch in silence.

I'm not livid -
Just sad and tired.
Up till now my life has been full
Of frustrations
And my head stuck in a vice.

When I am a Solitary Old Man…

I will hate to be alone
When all I've got is the fear of loneliness:
That hollow, wan spectre
Of a time long in the past
When, at least, I could taste cheerfulness
And I could be happy with friends;
Before it all went sour
And the fun evaporated.

Old-aged Juvenilia

Gyrating to boredom.
Boredom lasts.
Boredom to some is a way of life.

Any excuse to say and do nothing:
Nothing interesting;
Nothing which stimulates;
And nothing of any value.

This is really boring…

Looking Out to Sea

The beauty of it:
Those powerful, foam-clad, rolling waves,
Drenched in late-Spring sun.
Far-off from Winter lunatics,
Who abuse their fragile frames,
And threaten the mighty sea,
With empty promises of conquest,
Or sport with overreaching self-congratulation.

The dredger passes by,
And it won't be long till early night,
When the Côte d'Albâtre admires another namesake,
As it narrows in to port at Newhaven -
And the Seven Sisters come into view,
On the starboard side.
Full of all-day, drinking Brits,
And their lairy, home-bound insults.

Diptych 14.5.15

I'm 42 now...

In the spectral shadow of failure,
This convoluted world, this complicated life,
Hard to come by, easy to go...
Like not finding a suitable tailor,
Or a fitting wife,
And having nothing left to show,
For efforts, which come to nought,
Where success was all that was sought.

And problems seem to abound,
Making all that inspires fall to the ground,


Words...

Forget the meaning:
It's Art concealing Art.
These words are nothing but an array:
A tower leaning;
A place to start;
A place to stay.
And nothing but an impromptu talk:
To listen to;
To walk to;
And something to choose,
Turning off the hate from this evil world.