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.
verse
The Dark Butterfly
who is this butterfly
strapped in black lace
delicately painted
so carefully bound
that even the sky
whose kingdom she graces
is not displaced
by her gossamer sounds.
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.
Colours Run
the past is blue
the future red
this present, gold
it must be said,
the known is green
the unknown black
but face we must
for turning back
to what was when
and that which cannot
be again
is as a quest
for rainbow’s end
and colours run
come not again
Old Man’s Song
not with words can I impress
dare declare the hopelessness
that I could seek to find to truth
fair narrative upon my youth
nor to those days long dead and gone
would I decry in old man’s song
for that time though brief, was gold
thus in my poor verse ’tis cheaply sold.
Give me leave
give me leave your love to taste
as to the gods ambrosia
and in consuming each embrace
we will feed on our desires
Bird Box
If I could build a bird box
in which we both could stay
safe and sound
without a care
I’m sure we’d be okay
inside our little bird box
in the branches of a tree
oh how blessed
in our love-nest
the two of us would be.
Hope
and should the night in black dismay
retreat from all thy dreams
even the deepest dark gives way
to new hope upon dawn’s beams.
Ashes
we burn our regrets
in the flames of history
yet embers remain