Skull/Ghost

Prairie fields in England.
Sheep following.
There is no Star.
San Diego boy.
Alone on a train.

25.3.97 (Old Found Poem)

God's love is bottomless
God's love is endless
He counts every hair on my head
And loves me every minute of the day.
Why question the one who loves me?
Blessed be the Lord and Virgin Mary
For they are my refuge in times of persecution.

Ruth's Kyrielle

The Almighty’s child was born to bear the light.
Each one of us so fondly met,
To carry on this lonely fight.
Remember her lest we forget.

She'll wait outside to see us on.
To never rest her mind was set.
The everlasting war is won.
Remember her lest we forget.

The burden lifted from her frame,
Through bit-ter-ness she paid the debt.
A bride to Boaz was her name.
Remember her lest we forget.

Now, needs must bear her torch for life,
While peace and love is what she'll get.
Continue through this world of strife,
Remember her lest we forget.

Mariana in the Mental Hospital

Committing her one and only sin,
They locked her up inside
Those darkened walls outside and in,
Where others lived and died.
Reminding her of silent screams,
Of an eeriness so aged and dank,
Her heart so maddened sank,
And nothing real was as it seems.
Oh, my life, I will the end,
Between fantasy and reality I can not tell,
A cure for it, I wish they'd send,
Dear Lord, I would that I were well.

The nights at first were full of woe,
Doctors came and nurses went,
And twisted thoughts her only foe:
Demons and shades from Hades sent
Came to move her on to locked-up places,
Where others paced and puzzles made,
Who just as much from sanity strayed,
With topsy-turvy minds and dirty faces.
Please, my life, I will the end,
Between fantasy and reality I can not tell,
A cure for it, I wish they'd send,
My Lord, I would that I were well.

The noise of laundry wagons early on,
And evenings of jokes played by staff,
A helicopter rescue from RAF Benson,
Video screens to make them laugh:
Of severed heads and pickled jars;
Scanners, pigs and formaldehyde -
Funny from the other side,
And escape attempts foiled by men in cars.
Oh, my life, I will the end,
Between fantasy and reality I can not tell,
A cure for it, I wish they'd send,
Dear Lord, I would that I were well.

Like the soul of an organic brain
In a disturbed body:
Is Millais' woman still sane,
Vainly looking out and full of folly?
Did Ophelia 'want' to drown
In the nearby blackened river?
Or the eroticism make you shiver
As she sinks in petticoats and gown?
Oh, my life, I will the end,
Between fantasy and reality I can not tell,
A cure for it, I wish they'd send,
Oh God, I would that I were well.

Sunday 12.6.16

A face clenched into a black-holed fist,
The other mousey, full of conceit,
Checking to see if he missed
the bus from Seaford. Wheat
in the fields on the way to Eastbourne…

Misty and rainy over the tops:
Girls lost at the pond near Friston wood;
I should have understood,
The face left him at the shops,
Where he cursed.
"There's three minutes left on the antenna," he exclaimed -
That's a first!

Back to the real
world. Supermarkets.
A meal.
A drink or two.
Mow the lawns and papers.
Mother and lack of patience.

Little Robin Redbreast

Little robin redbreast,
From where do you come?
At my every trial and test
you always show your handsome chest.
And leap and bound to my delight,
Of the littlest creatures you are the best.

Little robin redbreast,
From where comes that worm in your beak?
Are you taking it to your nest?
You always show such kindness. Zest
to help the poor, lowly, meek and mild.
Of the littlest creatures you are the best.

Little robin redbreast,
Of all Old England's great and good,
You certainly are most blessed.
When blood-red sun sinks, in the West
God will send you back again.
Of the littlest creatures you are the best.

The Final Solution

I live according to the sounds I hear,
As I hate acoustic cacophony.
Sweet music always brings a tear,
To satisfy the lonely.
What would you say or do now,
If I told you that tonight,
You and God were to make a vow,
And the Devil renew his might?
That Death would come a-visiting,
And you were finally to leave this world?
The timbres of life a deadly ring,
With funeral drapes unfurled,
Would toll the parish knell?
What would you say or do now,
If the rivers of woe were to swell,
And your precious God allow
You to enter paradise alone?
Would you relish the news,
Find disdain in his tone,
Or abandon this body he eschews?

Cured for 'Life'

The bottom falls out of its decay -

It will never see the light of day.

When we were young,

It reminds me of songs we once sung.

The sun it shines,

Upon our lives,

When all was dark.

Adamantine more solid than stark.

The light will never go out,

Though many will bellow and shout.

An antidote to pain -

To nothing again.

An antidote to death itself -

No purpose for worldly wealth.

No more sorrow,

Nor fear of tomorrow.

I don't contend my poetry is divinely or otherwise inspired. No angel (or demon for that matter) has come a-visiting: it's probably due to my mind playing tricks on me or some voice inside my head! The creative impulses I feel are sometimes perceived as inner suggestions or comments as I write, telling me to choose one word over another, but this is just my simple human creativity. I'm not proud enough to promote myself as a conduit for God or prophecy - I'm just a flawed man who is trying to express himself. There, there, Dan, any excuse for your religion and not to sound too pretentious!

Mother's Illness

You could cut this shroud-like atmosphere with a knife
Or take her to the Tapsel gate
Ready to take her life
Or wait and wait.

The atmosphere, so hellish dulled
Misery embodied
Joy annulled
And trance-like eyes.

          Optically so maudlin proud
Full of anger and despair
Frustratingly endowed
To stare and stare.

Is This the End of Winter?

The atmosphere vibrates a kind of static death
Preternatural to the actual event.
I roam the rooms,
Looking for a present memory,
Which I can treasure when it happens.
But, it hasn't, and I must wait.

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.

That Time of Year

It's the indestructible life that I'm after,
It's the 'still small voice' I crave,
It's a candle in the wind that I want,
It's beyond this piteous time of the grave.

I envy those whose lot is done,
I wish I could be with them now,
I'd hate to wait till Kingdom Come,
My transit thence - could God allow?

I'd love to sing for joy above,
My rapture there would ceaseless be,
I can't recall what wrongs I've done,
My death would rather set me free.

Ecclesiastical Woes

This verse begins a tale of woe:
At least one that won't last long.
And before I'm done,
You'll be sorry from top to toe;
And perhaps wanting to take it more slowly,
Before the main events begin.

The venerable Solomon, you might recall,
Had the right idea:
His words most clear,
And written in full,
Says you will be miserable before you're dead and buried.
But anyway, I'm still glad I was born…

I've been around many a cathedral,
And seen many sarcophagi,
And many people die.
I'll try to quote Larkin's poem next to the couple's stony pall:
"What will survive of us is love".
At least that's one I won't be able to remember!

Now, let's change the scene:
Dead kings and queens in Westminster seemed poignant;
With Catholic sleeping next to Protestant;
In life not too keen,
To let the dust settle over them,
Or to allow their mortal remains to push up the daisies.

I've also been to Arundel,
And seen that poor chap Philip Howard,
He, being definitely no coward,
Chose Heaven from Hell.
Now, maybe you can tell where my life went so badly wrong,
Before I go and consult the Black Prince and Becket at Canterbury.

My time began with Archbishop Fisher,
And my "cup of suffering" too.
But at the end to begin anew,
And make this tale so much the richer,
I'll remember bishop Warner's backward-flicking mitre.

So why do I talk of holy places in this way?
It's really the history, pomp and circumstance that makes me stay!

Contact Unum

The wings of the mind:
Whims that we find,
Turning virtue into unkind.

Sound is intense:
Music,
Which means
To find its defence
In life, which never ends…

Assorted Haiku

Late nights and no sleep:
Many years devoted to
Books and one's learning.


No inspiration:
Dig up another's piece while
Composing music.


No clouds and calm skies.
Easy to take for granted.
Hot hours in Spring.


Too often abused.
Cherish always while it lasts:
Your mother's free love.


Abstract emotion:
Another language of tears
Makes music's meaning.


Pay your dues while young -
Treasure stored up in heaven.
Money won't do now.


Try not to bellow
At me. Remember always,
Anger is a sin.


Con-fu-ci-us say,
"This year be year of rat, so
Eat up dog and cat!"


Seagulls through the sky;
Freedom in three dimensions;
Hovering on air.