Friday, 28 August 2009

The Wall Isn't A Person

The wall, silent, groans
at the impact of a slovenly ball.
It can’t speak back, it’s the excuse
for what the thrower lacks,
who with upstretched
arms, aims for it again.
The wall takes this abuse,
crumbles at each targeted piece of footwork,
the tapped patter, the resounding
full pelt bouncing back,
as brickwork chards to powder.

The child, bored, runs off looking for his
mother elsewhere, he’d begun to build a wall of defence,
brick by brick for when she wasn’t there.
She cleaned, fed and clothed him,
reassured when he did nothing at all,
scolded his arrogance when he did.

No demand, nothing expressed, a silent receipt of every noise,
with frustrated absence of mind, the wall and the ball.
Now a young man, looking at a picture on the wall,
rehearsed, the pleasure fades. But as a ball, reminded of his
former basic needs, society says a mind is not required.

The wall is flat she doesn’t speak back
to his fantasy with an absence of mind.
He recalls the frustration when the child was denied.
All is confirmed, make a noise against the wall
it’s pay-back for an earlier meagre time.

Over the road, in the pub, mates, sisters,
brothers, wives and kids, winners, losers
and a not so friendly sexist goad.
Who will be his scapegoat?
Suggestive images leer, urging his body
towards callous, over-arching or trivial need,
and nobody’s there but him, looking at the
pictures on the wall, which fall to waste.
It’s become a habit to look at things, expecting
a service to bring satisfaction in haste.

Outside he searches unfulfilled,
he stares and gapes at a pitiless picture on the wall,
looking back at nobody there, just talking to his ball.
From the window, he hears women talk,
they laugh, love, hate, resist and negotiate,
and he’s confused, he’s missed it all.
You can make a noise against the wall
no matter how the brickwork falls,
but the picture on the wall is you,
you are the sacrifice, a thrown
away appetite.

Tuesday, 11 August 2009


These poems are about resistance to intervention for whatever reason –other people’s preference, discomfort, submission, health, examination, not wanting to conform, wanting feelings rather than actions or habits of power.

Orifice One : tunnel not in use

(vagina not for use)

Boring through a tunnel
disenfranchised from her body
of the road system, with helmeted
torches and convenient workware,
they’d decided to dig the hole
in the sense that it was theirs.

It was their passage-way, to drive,
skid, rev, slosh, elbow, tear, bash,
and claim as their domain. Naturally,
this was of great resentment to her.

Approaching the entry point of open
and without her welcome, they
pulled the doors, and dry and
resistant, they squirted in gunk
to ease their tread, even though
strands of the walls and the careful
repair work had become too sensitive.
After they’d been in there, the feeling
of the atmosphere was one of open invasion,
discomfort, displacement and colonisation.

The fact was she’d decided to put up a sign
“tunnel out of use for heavy good vehicles”.
But with suitably designed operation-ware,
they then tackled the tunnel with fit for all
stream-lined devices, and a voyeuristic
young male work force - as
if that made it credible.

But unfortunately for them the tunnel
had its own mind and put its foot down, and
there was a new sign now, “ no vehicles at all
to pass now” . They were displeased, so what
made them carry on? Was it donning the uniforms?
Or the sheer control of the use of the tunnel
and to have their turn with their apparatus.

It gave them importance, despite the fears, that in the dark
the tunnel could give way, but not to them, if you see
what I mean, but that the complete road system would
collapse under their insistent pressure. It was
these mindless tactics which were under question
and needed to be overhauled.

The main problem was that there’d been no consultation
with the architect herself. This rendered the digging pointless,
because it was going nowhere, and there were no connections
to the mind and the soul of the city, and a journey such as the
kind they’d started, would be a ghost ride with
nothing particular going on, the users climbing out of their
tiny tin trucks looking big, numb, gormless and dumb.

Many people wish they’d just give up their obsession
and leave the tunnel alone. That’s of course what she wanted,
it was her tunnel, not theirs, and they had no right to be there.

Orifice 2: canal not in use

Rebuffed by their primary digging procedures,
the tunnel management then audaciously decreed
that a second tunnel was to be taken. This ran
parallel under the first. Already prepared for
the invasion, a ‘No Entry’ sign had been placed
at the entrance.

Orifice 2 group considered that this tunnel would
provide an alternative route for the sporadic
traffic influx, accommodating those attracted
to a divergent and scenic landscape. But this
road, like the first, neither reached the mind
nor the soul of the city; it was therefore pointless.

Orifice 2 knew that behind the very thin walls was
a mineral supply that could easily be contaminated:
specially protective garments had been issued.
With work going on, irrigation and ventilation
simultaneously ran through tunnel 2, now
moistened and inflamed, with a sore, more liquefied
sludge which passed along its discomfited walls.

The land herself, where the tunnels are located, as
previously noted, had strongly objected to the first
invasion scheme. Orifice 2 tunnel was considered
a further gross violation scheme to the land, which
after all was green belt, no build, considered to be
under a preservation order.

Orifice 2 knew that it had to tread carefully, but
was furtively smug about this further catchment
area – it being ‘underground’, transformational,
daring, appealing to the ‘in-the-know’ revellers,
groups who themselves knew about sub-branch
systems of tunnel work.

The land had to be careful how it objected, for fear
of alienating the reveller groups who, conversely
to her predicament, may have agreed to their land being
tunnelled, which was the main point of contention:
they had consented to excavation, this stretch of
land had not. It was her land, not theirs.

Monday, 10 August 2009

Epic New Waves

They kept me from my
joyful ways and stopped my cosmic play.
They assumed it was for them to judge me
they refused to let me be.

When I invited new rhymes in
none was celebrated mine.
They couldn’t even stand aside
or see the chances here and wide,
they made it all so limited
for them alone and me omitted.

Relief they aren’t just of one mind
plenty more ignore biased bind.
There’s something wrong about their power,
it’s not for all to fear and cower.

Is it wrong to think outside
and follow the stream’s currents of a new tide?
I’ve moored my boat just by the jetty
and looking back beyond the bay.
I remember the waves
of those afar afloat on crafts
in schemes of hilarious castaways,
just agaze in futile laze,
waving back to me and others newly found
because to a future encounter for us is bound.



The door to her room was open and welcome
then it shut behind like a stranger unkind.

He tapped it softly and called her name,
to offer recompense churlishly
but without any shame.
Another game thought she
not enticed by such a wanton plea.

Creeking the door ajar, he took his chance,
and there stood she, realised he unconvinced,
a disbelief unseen not yet since.

Her eyes met his then disengaged to look away,
then he stepped forward not thinking any better,
persuaded by himself without affection or fetter.

Standing so near he recalled her warmth,
but she stood her ground and kept her sense.
He felt forlorn and beckoned towards,
she was not impressed, neither sorry nor with pretence.

In her dream he’d smiled, reminding her he cared,
but he’d left her nothing of desire
his affections elsewhere shared.

Saturday, 8 August 2009

The Cuckoo

The Cuckoo

The cuckoo lays its eggs among others’ nests
for her to nurture is considered elsewhere best.
Some might say a clever tactic
a ploy to maintain jurassic.
Her flight is not just pillar to post,
but an echo of a future among leaves keeping close.

Perchance ready made for a brooding muse
there’ll be nature’s clock’s door to open
shrill hungry mouths to soothe.
Fledgeling creativity to continue in its ruse
appetite first to hasten the food’s thrill of clues

Cuckoo, Cuckoo how will we know who?
Some to be excluded soon
to have gone and flown the nest.
Make way the cuckoo comes home to roost
meanwhile for the gatherer hen no rest.

The wood is quiet waiting for the cuckoo’s song
ascending wings far near and beyond.
Where could she be found among
unseen mysteries from the ground?

For us you are a wanderer some cuckolded
for what can’t be told.
Established barriers transcended -
laughter, songs and merriment descended.
One flew east and one flew west
and one flew over the cuckoo’s nest,
where long tall trees reveal the ways of others
free and open to perceive.
Cuckoo cuckoo, where are you, cuckoo?

A Waiting Friend

A Waiting Friend

You’re waiting there
Without you
Would have gone
Don’t know where
Talk and laugh
The coffee swirls
Hers to hers
A woman’s words
Tell me he’s gone
Told you so
Now keep away
No need to say
No going back
The angry trap
Shout and cry
The sleepless nights
Same old game
It’s me to blame
Get used to two-time
Intimate crime
We sit in the park
Looking at the pool
Calm and cool
Float leaves and flowers
High blue skies
Low puffy clouds
Free from lies
And what’s now kept
Are hidden depths
Lost now found
Could not have thought
What wasn’t there
No return to before
To what didn’t care

A Moment Passed

A Moment Passed

Suddenly our worlds collide
something inside watched and ticked
knocked and rocked, and there you were again at last
you’d stepped back in from a forgotten past.
Of regrets unsure tho’ to me you had drawn,
not expecting you to be there
at such a moment rare.

Perhaps you knew the wish I felt
those mute years your silence had dealt,
but when our eyes met
it was not our hearts which leapt,
instead our feet walked on to an individual beat
away from a fate that came much too late.
So I wept and cried because of my pride,
and promised when a future meeting next arrives
I’ll embrace the wonder of its prize.