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.