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The Piano Stone

I recall
a large rock
or perhaps a stone
that stood
on the hill
all on its own
shaped in no small way
like a piano,
as children
we’d sit
grandly before
like Ludwig or Brahms
or Jerry Lee
and tap out silent
concerts
only we could hear,
until of course
our interest waned
and we ran to play
on the swings
down the way.

The Mighty (a poem for Pete)

the randy dandy scallywag
atop cathedral steps
with prayers of lust and freedom
a self styled hero to none
pre-raphaelite sensibility
dressed in post punk finery
he falls in love
and out of heartbreak
while singing the blues
in broken latin
a hero from a Fellini film
never made but rehearsed
a million times
in coffee shop dreams
across the decades.

frail and mighty
just like you, and just like me
but most of all
like nobody.

Roundheads & Cavaliers

In our school we’d often hear
about Roundheads
and the Cavaliers
and how a king would
lose his crown
before an axe
came tumbling down

and the we’d learn for all our sakes
how another king
had burned some cakes
and one descendant’s
wandering eyes
would mean the block
for his poor wives

then how those people great and good
the world had brought
to brotherhood
by building ships
to sail the waves
filled with cotton
coin and slaves

the world it turned round and around
as we set foot
on foreign grounds
to show the heathen
how to pray
whilst we hid
his wealth away

We copied out these histories
and it came to me
as mystery
why with such well
laid thoughts and plans
this world hails not
the Englishman

perhaps it is that through the years
we’re all still just
Roundheads
and Cavaliers.