Not just a walk

Gills and a gaping jaw
Caught in a fishing line
The creature’s freedoms
Consigned to memory

Impaired, struggling to rise
Oxygen-depleted blood
Baptised in despair,
Will, sapped to the core

Suspended between
The depths and the sun
Turning and twisting
On an axis it didn’t choose

And so it was as I trudged
Up Sidcot’s shaded gullies
To the nettle-bound radio mast,
Distractions, undoing and

Dulling the beauty of the
Horizon-wide, sun-soaked
Somerset Levels and St
James’s spire seeking heaven

Half a flock of sheep
For company in the shade
Looking on helpless to
Unthread the tangled line

Later, within a hymn
In a deluge of Spirit
My heart sings songs
Of untethered joy

Now I remember
The moss-covered walls
The poor arthritic ewe
A golden field of barley

And the soothing crunch of
Of gravel underfoot
On the final leg
Home

Outsourced Love?

At each dawn chorus
Lewis Gwyn Knowle’s will stirred
Stiffening muscles and sinews
Grimacing against the strain
Of his unstilled bones.
Lewis, expressionless
Stood under a steaming shower
Devoid of thought
By sheer habit,
To wash the night away

It is always thus: cleansing
The pure emerge, brighter,
Hair and eyes sparkling
And if not so,
Then steady at least
Ready for the day’s toil
Whilst the memories
Of but a day ago are rinsed
Away to another world
Outsourced so we can be clean

In this green and pleasant land
Rid now of satanic mills and
Plumes of foul-smelling smog
A land of coal mines in cold storage
En route to carbon zero,
Environmental eyes sparkle
And if not, conscience quelled,
Guilt is outsourced
To another world
So we can be clean

And if we behave so
Does not God but wilder?
That Will forged in eternity past

That heavenly corporation
A nuclear fire of spirit
Outsourcing the spotless Son
Sluiced somewhere
Outside a city wall
Beyond the satanic mills
Of synagogue and temple
Like some blackened commando
Baptized in our grime
So we can be clean

So, Lewis Gwyn Knowle,
I wonder if imprinted
In some recess of mind
Whether you, imago dei
Whatever satanic foulness
Clings to you, hear a voice
Commanding your eyes
To look upon your clean
Transfigured self,
Made of the sunrise?

If you stumbled

If you stumbled over a diamond
What would you do?

I’d try not to jump up and down
I’d hide it in a shoe

A shoe! I’d sell it, be rich
Uncork the Champagne!

Oh! No! I’d rather keep it
And gaze on its light

Could I see it, my friend?

Only if you bend down
From such a great height

That I could not do
It’s beneath me to kneel

Such a shame, my friend
To the humbled, it’s revealed

Echoes of II Corinthians 4 v6-10

Hangover…don’t shout

My head doesn’t belong
It’s an object
On top of me
Full of low-level pain

Somewhere underneath
Like a child behind a sofa
I’m in the room
But not fully

Up before dawn
Sleep is the language
Of a foreign land
Parts of me are dormant

Black coffee
With brown sugar…
…I can’t see colours
My eyes are closed

Speech is on hold
Thought is slowed
In my subterranean self
All is calm

No prison walls

Sat there
On a cold grey
Flagstone floor
Alive, silent, safe
Insulated from…
A retreat of sorts

A cell, yet not
An anchorite’s
Barred domain
But reduced to
A seed state,
Waiting then

From outside
A softening aria
Breaches the
Solid defensive wall
Broken open by
Just a few notes

The seed
Beyond control
Discarding
Husk and flesh
Growing like a river
Towards the song

Stands up
Green and unsure
To open the door
To what lies beyond
There are
No prison walls

Illusions of a Quiet Life

Not disappearing into a
3D-painted-non-hole
So convincing

Things not as they seem

A river, graceful and inviting
Tips over its end
And falls somersaulting

Lost in a desert
Fooled by a shimmering
Oasis, a mirage only

One day follows another, but
Not for God’s sleeping agent
Licensed to heal

The call, tearing a hole
In the liminal
Living from the other side

On earth as it is in heaven
There’s a noise
Some say it thundered

MG – The End

My 1997 MG. Sold. 8.20 a.m.
Resplendent in racing green
Apart from the peeling lacquer
And the electrical faults
And the worn tyres. Selling
Took more from me than I
Knew I had

It is not the carburettor
Or the mid-engine warmth
Or its throaty roar
Nor is it the lack of suspension
Or inability to take on fuel
Except at dribble-pace
After all is said and done

It was a chariot of the gods
A carrier of persons
Of a bride, of long friends
Of Sir Gaffa to Calais
It is like us
A material courier
Of immaterial riches

Of inestimable worth
And so the ache
I unexpectedly felt
Is as real as the wind
As truly solid
And impervious
As a sigh

My bank balance of joy
Felt diminished, and yet
In its depletion
There is no emptying
No, our losses leave us
As intact as the equator
Joined to all who lose

The Stones Cry Out

It’s early May
Apples are the size
Of a small toenail
And Beer beach
In the baking hot sun
Beckons the unwary
Into its bone-cold water

Beer Beach

Three boys, liberated
From their school desks
Two on a paddle board
Just out of reach from
The pebble-launching third
Summer heat making sense
Of male madness

Older ladies,
Impervious to the cold
Slipping in and out of the
Incoming tide
Perhaps unlike mermaids
And yet…
Perception is so deceiving

We’re butterflies on an oak
Raindrops on a hotplate
Temporary distillations
Imprinted on priestly stones
Hearing our confessions
Seemingly unmoved
Their tears fall as autumn rain

Can Opener

Like other domestica:
Ink-filled pens
Sharpeners, staplers,
And can openers
You can travel for years
Before you meet The One

Then, in a moment,
The metal lid yields
A smooth easy incision
And what was beneath
Is open to the blue sky

A blade, disguised
As a music chord
A Monet, a mime, a
Dancer’s move,
A line in a love song
And I’m sliced open
Spilling the light
You’ve been packing
Inside

Little did I know, I am
A suitcase for the Almighty
On His travels

Until he finds you

Missing the Changing Room? `

Hot feet leaving their memory
Sweated on the cool tiles
White towels discarded
Steam from the showers
Percolating through
To where silence
And speech own the floor

It is here that boys become men
The place of the pubescent
Two-finger cough
To check something unknown
Of early pubes and armpit odour
Voices cracking, showers
Avoided in the uncertainty

Pre-match rituals
Are conceived here
One hangs his knotted tie
On the lower hook
Another sits, unfocussed
As hopes and fears
Take him, like a dream

Older now, the Ralgex owner
Takes his position
Gumshield in
The huddle, the shout
Louder than the opponents
The knee drives
The clatter of hooves on the floor

Finally, the locker room
Can relax, for nigh on an hour
‘Til the animated, injured
Swearing horde
Returns, jubilant or jaded
Weary, but rejuvenated
With a joke or a fierce captain

Finally, the survivors
Of the second-half return
To the steam, to the undressing
To the exaggerated stories
To the towels, the crisp shirt
To the bar, with a black eye
And blooded manhood

The 5 states of consciousness…in one University lecture

Lecture Hall 2 at 5.15: d-d transitions: Complex Ions Lecturer: KK

It started Oh! So well
Chirpy and animated
Like a chimpanzee on heat
Crisp, narrow-lined A4 note pad
Primed, a new page,
Date written, pen poised
Front row

Thirty minutes in and
Handwriting is punctuated
And decorated with
Unlikely doodles, the margin
A play area for eyes in boxes
Looking back at me
Words on copper complexes
Missed

A stifled jaw-breaking
Face-contorting yawn hidden,
One hopes, from the lecturer,
A mere chalk-throwing distance away
I have dropped my pen, twice
Head propped in the palm
Of my left hand

My recording continues
Never deviating from the voice
All is well, except my eyes closed
Five minutes ago
My copious notes; a diagonal line,
Like an erratic urination
Falling, bottom right

Waking in an in-between state
Blissful in one
Embarrassed in the other
My heavy head collapsing
Into two worlds
I am surely, am I not
Schrödinger’s cat?

Late March

Outside
Where the soft, late afternoon light
Bathes the world in stillness
A stillness in which, crows perch
On road signs to clean their beaks
Ready for the next kill
Birds are few and small
Winged insects are waiting
For the cooler air an hour away
Stilled, I breathe the sweet Spring air
Inside

Inside
The house, all are sharp rectangles
Edges of boxes, packed
With a soul’s accumulations
Accretions that speak back to me
Needing reassurance perhaps
Of original love. Will you keep me?
The mug with the broken handle
My father’s sand wedge
Leaning against the shed door
Outside

Outside
The Sun is painting the sky
It is the end
Below the horizon
Out of sight, it does its best work
Like Julian of Norwich
Or Franz Kafka
When all its former glory
Is extinguished and
Stripped away, then I go
Inside

First Steps

Fish scales, Galilean glare
Soft feet, unused to walking
And the saline smell of a former life
Like their nets, left, discarded
And a pile of unused nails
A length of half-sawn cedar
The aroma lingering still

One, binding a broken oar, another
Hands black with caulk, and one
Brushing splinters and sawdust away
Mothers’ and fathers’ witness
A carpenter capturing sons
In his kingdom call, their sons,
Taking their first steps

And us? What did we discard,
Our feet now shod with
The gospel of peace?
The stripping began as the
Carpenter, saw and plane
In hand, fashioned us
With dove-tail joints to pilgrims

Walking, parable upon parable
Signs beyond sermons, the blind
Now seeing, seeing nothing
As the Son of Man,
Works his way to the place
Of his penultimate step, everything
Laid down, stripped, discarded

And then? Then
Sore feet planted
On the pressed soil and rock
Of a garden tomb before dawn,
He takes his first new steps,
One word forming in his eyes,
Mary! And, later, your name

The Ills of America

The last time I saw a boy
Dragged by his lug ’ole to
Stand outside
The Headmaster’s Office
Was half-a lifetime ago

Mr Laing caught
The unfortunate Franklyn
With stolen items
From the school tuck-shop
Tucked imperfectly in his
Worn-leather music case

The innocent Franklyn, named
Benjamin, made no sound
He had grown used
To being accused of the ills
Of America, even its creation, by
Sixth Form historian, Carl

The older boys with their muscles
And well-developed acne
Vietnam fatigues and Dylan
Graffiti on their exercise books
Demonstrated their outrage at
Lynchings at Carl’s command

Carl, window pole in hand
Inserted it through Benjamin’s blazer
And hung it, and its sudden owner
By the tall pegs in the
Cricket pavilion
Across the field from the school

It was the ever-watchful Laing
That detected silence
During after-games registration
And searched for the missing voice
…His wrath descending
Upon the culprit, Carl

Now subjected to the truth
Of his participation
In the ills of America
That lie in us all
Apart, that is, from
Innocent B. Franklyn

 

 

 

Unmade Bed

Deep-seated frowns
Wrinkle the youngest brow
I mean young, less than two
That deep-seated frown
Just prior to pushing away
Another bowl of tasteless rusks

I cannot trace the trajectory
From the child to the adult
Booking into a plush hotel
But here, the frown returns
I stand still, sighing at the cocoon
That has swallowed my debit card

Here, I am sluiced down a river of time
Double de-clutched into reverse
Hard rammed; suddenly
I am five, or four once more
Clamped in a bed tight with sheets,
Blankets, eiderdowns…no duvet

A five-star constriction,
Bound, mummified and squeezed
Between cold white sheets
Barely daring to inflict a crumple or a crease
As if doing so would
Incur the wrath of an outside agency

This will not do!
And, clutching the folded coverings
I erupt, and tear it all away,
And dance on its grave
Like the warrior I am, ha!
Man shall not live by counterpane alone…

Now the lines creasing my skin
Stretched ever more loosely
Across my facial features
Are mostly from smiles,
Gone are the days of unmade beds
Perfection takes approximately 9 seconds

Flowers

You stand there with half-flowers
Hidden behind your back
One eye glistening, the other
Flooded with immeasurable joy

Whilst I fuss and chatter
Battering you with
Requests I think you’d
Like to grant me

Exhausted by your silence
Eventually
After decades
I stop talking

And look up
And see your glistening eye
And the other, an ocean
For me to swim in

Only then can you surprise me,
A man, with flowers, half-flowers
Dressed in colours I’d never seen
Some already gone to seed

You hold them out to me
Silent me. Before I take them
I close my eyes and bask
In scents from another world

Then, I take the flowers
And wonder about the seeds?
And finally, I know
What lies there, behind your eyes

A Bus Journey

Top deck affords its randomly selected members
With eyes from steamed-up windows
One wipe with the back of a finger
Restores sight to view the world below

Two women, smiling, hug on the high street
A lady transported by the book she is reading
A man, impaired by less of a knee than when he was young
Making his way, shopping in a rucksack slung

And I, earbuds in, listening to a podcast:
Deitrich Bonhoeffer’s imperfect
But uniquely courageous
Opposition to the Nazi horror

Makes me wonder if I have eyes to see?
I wipe the window one more time
There is the departed Waterstones,
Its logo not quite brushed clean off

It’s raining icy splinters now
The rain gurgling its way to open drains
Each raindrop making a soft landing
The cold gnawing at my bones

The awkwardness of us in the rain
Dipping into pockets and wallets
Deep inside large cumbersome coats
Searching for library cards, bus passes, phones…

And a young man slumped on the seat
Leaning down to re-tie his wet
Unusually wide, very white Converse laces
All of us, heads down, quieter than usual

In Bristol we say ‘Thank you, Drive’
Then it’s off, following the feet
Of the one who alighted before,
Carrying two books, hidden from the rain

I stop at the corner shop, the owner’s Alsatian
Objects to me spending money
Always gives me a fright
Home now, book open, dry trousers on

Socks of Merino Wool

Trump is in the White House
Musk is on the Moon
Washington at minus nine
Did a chill travel down
Your left-wing spine
Or are your feet a-dancing
Your heart full of hope
As we walk into the future
Along an uncertain
Political tightrope?

There’s Gaza to rebuild
Hostages to repair
Putin to, frankly, stop
Ukraine’s wounds to heal
From years of bloody warfare
And let’s not forget
We were all slaves in Egypt
Refugees in a foreign land
So let’s give our neighbours
An open heart; a helping hand

Yes, Trump is in the White House
And Musk is on the Moon
It’s time for a cup of tea
We’ve made it thus far
We’ve made it to noon
And I’ve made a decision
To celebrate life to the full
To fill my glass with bubbles
Wear socks of Merino wool
And sing the praises of the King
And good old John Bull.

Dreaming

Vivid, well known
Characters to me
Fully fitted with souls
Personality, accents
Particular clothing
Walk onto my dream-stage
Without permission -
Not exclusively at night -
With stories to tell

When my defences
Are off-guard
Like Nathan the prophet
Illuminating the
Silver and the spiders’ webs
Treasure and trip wires
The whole truth
And nothing but the truth
Is acted out around me

Insecurities exposed
Failures examined
Sins confessed
Fears faced
Sadness
Hopes
And dreams
Unspoken prayers
Strutting and fretting

Colourful performances
Formed in less time than the
Flickering of an eyelid
Persisting for hours, often,
Evaporating in seconds
Characters retreating
Beyond some thick curtain:
Rarely stopping to take a bow

Coffee#1 Cold Friday

Writer, scarf, laptop
Flat white, tumbling syllables
Biscoff cheesecake joy