Friday, 23 June 2017

Drowned

Drowned


Eyes of green entice. Mischief
on a pillow. Hair strewn awry
lures my lover's look. Allure
brooks no timorous touch.
From feint impressions traced
by finger tips that linger long
on freckles passion beckons.
O how she looks. Engulfed,
I drown in wells of green.

Friday, 16 June 2017

You

You


What can I say of you that counts for aught
against this forceful feeling in my breast?
I start to speak and fail to utter words;
the sounds exhaled mere sighs and cries
that tell you more than any poem.
A helpless man turned upside down,
in turmoil to his inmost core,
where insistent roils a sickness – love.
For you. Ah you, my love, it's YOU

Friday, 9 June 2017

The night owl

The night owl


She perched on the edge,
watching, patient, attentive.
It wasn’t the talons that held,
nor the wide-eyed triumph
in the moment that fascinated;
it was the noiseless, swooping descent,
her secret, silent flight.
Are you man or mouse?
she said.

Friday, 2 June 2017

Tailored

Tailored


They went at it like tailors
fashioning
birthday suits,
stitching
bodies together, fingers
unencumbered,
multi-coloured threads
threading
their way through hair,
limbs shorn,
scissored,
hands crafting patterns,
collar and cuffs,
buttonholing
the needle's eye.

Friday, 26 May 2017

Principia Philosophiae Naturalis

Principia Philosophiae Naturalis


For every first night's nervous fears
there's fears the first night ends in tears;
for every touching, whispered word
there's words she'll whisper touching me;
for every look from depths in eyes
there's eyes return that look in depth;
for every kiss with parting lips
there's lips that kiss until they part;
for every touch that bares a breast
there's barely flesh left unaddressed;
for every leg that's clad in silk
there's silk that's wrapped about my chest ;
for every high heeled shoe in red
there's red stilettos worn in bed;
for every rhythmic, thrusting moan
there's moaning, thrusting, on and on;
for every force in nature now,
a diametric equal – Wow!

Friday, 19 May 2017

Portobello

Portobello


Do you remember?
In that year of September,
we strayed for a stroll on the strand.

You kicked off your boots
and waded like Knut
'til the tide had gone out on its way,

then danced around
with your toe as a brush
and sketched out a classical heart.

You added our names
and a thing like our youth
was preserved in those pictures I took.

Oh to remember
the day that September
when you took the place of the sun.

Friday, 12 May 2017

Love is

Love is


...like a pipeline to places where only we've been.
Places we've found when we've crawled through our selves,
when we've flowed in each other wisely unseen,
uncontrolled in unruly topographies. Delves

within more penetrating shafts than arrow straight
to where it is that us two coupled always leads?
It is that fabled truth that makes us osculate
and leak and seep and from one to the other bleed,

makes of our every notion an infinite thought--
Yes! No words need be uttered (our eyes cry as much).
Bound in those aeons of time that we've wrought,
we're fully submerged in the aesthesis of touch.

Oh, she looks like I feel when I feel like she makes
me all that I am and she's all that it takes.

Saturday, 6 May 2017

Fifty shades

Fifty shades


...and then there was
that Fifty Shades
starter kit we never used.

The proposition
was, we didn't know
what we were missing.

I could touch you in ways
that made your eyes
widen involuntarily.

You had that look
that drew tighter
than a noose

and a mouth
that smiled as your teeth
closed on my chest.

No, there was never
a suggestion
we needed any props.

Friday, 28 April 2017

Her eyes

Her eyes


It's the green that does it.
Yes...

These are no clichéd pools in which to drown.
Within the grey-green focus-frame
of captive flowers,

like clover through a meadow in spring, 
drift thoughts unspoken,
perceived as yet unvoiced,
beckoning from distending pupils.

The entire cosmos lies therein,
in that singular moment,
blue-black and infinite,

never fleeting,
doubtless,

rising to greet the blue.

Friday, 21 April 2017

Pointed

Pointed


Where lies the point of it; your life?

Its primary focus--- where's that point,
the place where all your thoughts converge,
the centre of your universe?

It's there in her for whom you verse.
The one on whom it all depends.
The one without you'd meet your end.

The one who knows she'll always be
the one who suits you to a T.

The one on whom you concentrate.
The one you in your blindness rate
as always 10, your perfect date.

The one on whom you lavish care
and touch when both get naked-bare.

Engrossed, immersed, absorbed, explored;
she is your motive force. Adored,
she permeates your dreams
and gars ye grin--- you cat; she cream.

Friday, 14 April 2017

Threaded



Threaded



No tailor's needle ever stitched
a tighter bonded seam.
It binds we two; the woven wire
sewn in to my veins---
she's run through me like a thread.

Friday, 7 April 2017

My girl


My girl


Let me tell you 'bout my girl. She's
a fully fledged member of the species.
What I like to call her is the bees' knees,
a touch of magic gifted by the fairies,
the one and only cure for my maladies,
the habit forming fix for my squeeze-pleas.
Coupled at the lips, we're like Siamese
dwelling in a pod like we're two peas.
Never mind these clichés or my fancies,
she even says she likes my favourite CDs
and just for her I'd listen to the Bee Gees
or play some Motown, say the Three Degrees,
do my very best to see what she sees,
swim the seven seas and carpe diem – jeez!
Is she the one for me, I think so; yes please.

Friday, 31 March 2017

Within her eyes

What is it like to look into the eyes of someone special, the eyes of a lover? It's like vertigo - you fall right in; all the way to the bottom. And as they draw you in, there is always that homecoming, that feeling of captive belonging and a belief that those eyes couldn't return the gaze of anyone else - ever.

Within her eyes


Do I see – or but sense – a molten flow
from green artesian eyes that widen slow
and draw me in where coruscations glow.

To know these wells is to be lost and caught,
to be undone, be still not drowning brought
where I – could not – conceptualise this thought!

Friday, 24 March 2017

You're

Here's one for You...

You're


...soft, all-rounded, nowhere flat,
no angles, edges, curved in places,
your contour-line geography's
to be explored and mapped by me.
Switched on, set to premium view,
you're box-office screening on my TV.

No drama queen playing roles
in on-demand series one to ten,
you're Juliet on your balcony,
there to be Romeo-ed by me.
Fit, in all the right places,
you're every hobby on my CV.

Tuesday, 21 February 2017

A Battle Hymn for the Fourth Estate

Here's another topical poem to cheer you up. Be careful what you believe you've read and even more careful what you are led to believe; believe me.

A battle hymn for the fourth estate


I've seen and read the stories
and the falsehoods in the news.
Don't give a damn for truth,
it's all about the clicks and views.
We've given up the gospel for
the spin that now ensues
from the media and anon.

We have ceased to ask the questions
that all journos they must voice.
We have worshipped on the altar
of the evening news of choice.
We hear the lies presented by
the anchorman. Rejoice!
His smile beams on and on.

I've seen a livestream broadcast
from a ravaged land in strife.
I've found it was directed
in a hangar by the wife
of the cousin of a diplomat
whose wickedness was rife.
Their guile goes on and on.

We must sound the call for reason
and for truth; to not be weak.
We must fix within the hearts of men
it's of import truth to seek.
Be true and check your source
press men, for we must hear you speak.
Go print what's fit my son.

Saturday, 14 January 2017

For Syria - Bashticleer and the West

This poem took a long time to write. Not surprising, I guess, since it's 40 verses long. It was inspired by recent events and it's form is based on Robert Henrysoun's The Taill of Schir Chanticleir and the Foxe. You may see the first two verses draw heavily on Henrysoun's poem, and thereafter, I've continued in the same vein, using the form and structure of his moral fable, although I've departed from his narrative i.e., this isn't a modern rendition of that fable. It is, however, a modern fable, intended as an antidote to the fake news in the mainstream media, and using a wee sprinkling of anthropomorphism and personification. Here then is my tale of Bashticleer and the West. I hope you make it all the way to the end.  

Bashticleer and the West


Most all our beasts are lacking rationale,
having nothing but instinct as their guide.
But you might find that truth ironical
when thinking of those on the other side
of the evolutional divide: the Bear;
the Bulldog, famous for jowls and fight;
the Eagle, who knows that it's always right.

They are so different in their qualities,
each with its own degree of might or plight.
But still they have their similarities,
most all of which you'd spot with your insight.
And so my friends, I'll just jot down this tale
that made the news on telly all this year,
involving Dogs and war, and Bashticleer.

Once, there was a Desert Eagle country
that thrived in peace and earned itself esteem.
Despite its neighbours' wars, if you ask me,
it was a pleasant place, but then the theme
of rising spring was broached and brought a stir.
That led to calls for Bashticleer to go
and proud, the Rooster loudly crowed his No!

Now, his country was on a list of foes,
compiled by agents in the Eagle's nest.
You may ask why. Well that's the way it goes.
You know the minds of Eagles from the west.
To be a listed foe was shaky grounds
for goading insurrection overseas,
but Eagles don't observe the legalities.

One year in spring, some demonstrations held
against and for bold Bashticleer the Cock
were just 'me too' events until propelled,
by erstwhile allies who would turn the clock
a thousand years or more way back in time,
to armed attacks by snipers toting guns
they'd stored inside the Mosque of Noble Sons.

With wile and guile and vain contemptuous sneer,
the Horse cried, Neigh, it wasn't me, I gave
no weapons to those Snakes, dear Bashticleer.
At which the Cock, severe of mien and brave,
said, You can torch our towns and kill our kin
but know you this; you all will rue the day
you armed fifth columnists and looked away.

It's clear they sought to stitch him up with news
of brutal means employed to still dissent.
The papers 'round the world all aired their views,
prejudged in line with partisan intent.
The red-tops and the broadsheets told their lies.
The noose they thought they'd stretch around his neck
instead fell short, their allied plan a wreck.

I am my father's heir, cried Bashticleer,
and whomsoever follows me shall be
the choice of Gallus birds. Cowards here
demanding change – Chickens all – fail to see
through hooded eyes, I shall not be removed.
By those who rose in arms against their kin,
his message wasn't heard; they'd roused the Djinn.

And so the rebel Chickens gained their arms
as gifts from hostile beasts who'd sue for war.
The Foul next door, the Eagle, signed the forms,
signed up with all the Curs who formed a corps
of foes you'd never need with 'friends' like those.
A civil war ensued and Bashticleer
resolved to do-or-die. Give in? No fear!

The treacherous Redwings still had more to do.
By turning blind eyes on the border line,
they aided Dogs of War in passing through,
so freelance foreign fighters made the spine
of proxy rebel units gun by gun.
The funding of the Dogs, their arms, supplies,
was public knowledge undisguised by lies.

The war intensified and rebels took
control of many points. They thought they'd won.
The western press rejoiced with headlines, look:
RÉGIME IS DONE. They never had such fun.
But Bashticleer was not for giving in.
He stood his corner, fought and made his gains.
The price, too many Cockerels' bloody stains.

In time, the rebels' sponsors' wounded pride,
that pride of vital nation's vices worst,
gave rise to sneaky nods and winks, and tried
and tested means against the one they'd cursed.
They smuggled in a load of sarin gas
that rebels willy-nilly fired and blamed
on Bashticleer. Such Dogs would ne'er be tamed.

The case against poor Bashticleer was fraud:
he'd fired upon his own in city merged
with elsewhere's gas taboo. Both claims flawed.
Despite their 'evidence' the facts emerged,
but all the mainstream press ignored the truth.
The propaganda war was fuelled by views
expressed by allied states to spread #fakenews.

They claimed he shelled his own with sarin fuelled
Volcano rockets but – there was no fit
with what was found. And just because they willed
it true can not be grounds for guilt. The bit
they never told you was the reason why
results of tests were never publicized;
the Eagles simply can't admit they lied.

Things turned to worse when Carrion Crows appeared
in guise hirsute. A bearded Caliphate,
whose reading of the Prophet became feared
when oh so many met a halāl fate.
The Strutting Clucks soon filled a vacuum where
the guns of Bashticleer were not around
and those of rebels elsewhere to be found.

Now Bashticleer was fighting moderate rebels,
at least in theory if you read the news.
But tallied rebels in such numbers tells
you more about the counters and their views
...the numbers right, their motivation skewed.
Your mythic seventy thousand rebel stock
are terrorists and traitors, said the Cock.

The options for the Eagle in a huff,
if Carrion, poised to conquer far and wide,
became the ones to win, were clear enough.
They had to get involved to turn the tide,
to seem to be against the terrorists.
They turned from sending arms to flying planes
and blowing infrastructure up in flames.

The UN vetoed their request to act,
to get involved in-country on the ground.
So they resolved to just ignore that fact,
and send the planes to drop their bombs and pound
the bad guys with the beards, or so they said,
but truth to tell they dropped their bombs elsewhere
and made full sure the country was laid bare.

The Bulldog held a vote and got his way,
and joined in with the others flying planes.
They should have struck to make the Carrion pay
for selling oil to Redwings, but the pains
they took to look the other way were seen
to be contrived and far from free of guilt,
they were, each one, involved up to the hilt.

Those selfsame Redwings helped themselves to what
was used to drive industrial business growth.
They took machines from works and said, Ah but...
We're keeping safe your plant, they said on oath,
and sure we'll give it back, they promised too.
But what they did was plunder, pillage, steal
and capture all, against the commonweal.

They ganged up next, their indignation rife,
those beasts with morals high and pure and true,
and passed their sanctions, adding to the strife
that Bashticleer and his would suffer through.
The very ones whose covert acts began
the war were those who chose to blame it on
the guiltless through a mainstream media con.

In time the shit was seen to hit the fan
when rabid, fiendish zealots then appeared.
All deaf and heedless to the western plan,
they lopped off heads and laughed and sang and jeered
and said, Thanks very much. We'll fill the void
you've left with righteous zeal. Our Caliphate
will spread throughout the land with ire and hate.

Oh shit! they cried, that's such a bad result.
Rebellions call for change, but hey, guess what,
when proxies bail, it's all the master's fault.
They cannot steal our glory, so we'll shut
them down, the Eagle cried in feathered rage.
The protégés had shown their colours-true;
to bite the hand that feeds – a Carrion view.

So coalition planes took to the skies
and bombed their erstwhile allies; Hooded Crows.
But shortly, soon, quite quickly all their lies
became so plain to see. They reached new lows,
destroying infrastructure meant to bleed
resolve through pain from Bashticleer and hide
their real intent to barely stem the tide.

They launched their anti-Crow crusade abroad,
despite United Nations voting no.
Their claims to justify were nowt but fraud,
conjoint because their leader said, Let's go!
Avoiding trucks with oil on-route towards
the north and Redwing's borderline, they turned
their blind eyes to the ground. The truth was spurned.
 
It took the Bear, invited in to help,
to strike the convoys handling stolen crude
that made its way 'unseen' to Grey Wolf's whelp,
who sold it on with ease. You dare intrude?
the Wolf exclaimed and boxed its nose in rage.
We downed a plane, he cried out, fucking hell!
Oh big mistake. Oh deary me. Oh well!

The Bear, his head now sore, maintained his cool
and set about the task of clearing out
the proxy rebels used as Eagle's tool
for changing a regime. The Eagle's pout
was seen both far and wide on CNN,
while State Department stooges ranted, raved
and spoke of lines in red they should have braved.

The progress made then led to schemes and plans
to turn the tide of war in people's minds.
The propaganda war was waged by bands
of NGO reporters of all kinds.
In tweets and posts and videos from the hell
of cities under siege from terrorists,
they summoned tears on tap, and waved their fists.

In Oscar winning style, they filmed their acts,
in rescues bravely staged for mainstream news,
but failed to hide their glee when: here's a fact;
they posed with Carrion Crows. But those were clues
suppressed, denied, ignored by CNN.
Instead, it gave us views from deep inside
a council house in Bulldog's land supplied.

A Nobel Prize seemed once within their grasp,
but common sense prevailed and nonsense stopped.
The boldness of their claims would make you gasp,
yet folks believed; their intuition blocked
by brainwashed thinking it was true, because
they'd surely never lie on Channel Four.
All logic dies when truth is shown the door.

To win and then restore his land to peace
was Bashticleer's one wish. Defeat the foe
and then he'd talk about reform. To cease
the pain of war and have the rebels throw
their weapons down, no longer soldier on
with freelance fighting men who never tired
of waging war was much to be desired.

And when the writing on the wall began
to look as if old Bashticleer could win,
the Eagle played an ace and drove a plan
for talks about more talks on talks; a thin
disguise for time to resupply with arms
those blackguard Crows at bay in desperate dance,
and give the foreign Rooks a second chance.

They talked and talked, agreed a truce to last
for several days until the convoy came
with food and stuff they'd crave. Then came the blast
of shells from rebel held enclave. The blame
was tossed around, but who had most to gain;
the Eagles or the Bear and Bashticleer?
Who'd stall, delay, prolong the war? Oh dear!

And while they argued back and forth about
what sent the UN convoy up in flames,
the Eagle sneaked in planes, without a doubt,
to strafe the local forces. And his claims  
it was a misadventure fell like lies
as Crows began assault. Pure chance it seems.
But who'd believe such crap is lost in dreams.

A strike that lasted for an hour or more,
precision led and surgical we're told,
was hardly a mistake. When you'd set store
by pinpoint skill, the myth that we've been sold,
you'd disbelieve all claims they're error prone.
Oops! Sorry Bash. We didn't mean to kill
your guys. But hey, this shooter game 's a thrill.

When Bashticleer looked like he would retake
a major city from the Dogs and Crows,
the Eagles's best Psy-Ops began to make
their YouTube posts still more absurd. Who knows
if fake profiles and children's posts get viewed
by readers who are green or really dumb,
but reasoned thinkers fear they're simply numb.

With liberation nigh, they cast a cloak
of darkness over cause for untold joy
With tweets and monologues for Crows they croak
for lack of evidence. See through their ploy.
See how the mainstream media gets its 'truth'.
See how they spin Orwellian Psy-Op tales
of rebels under siege – beyond the pale.

Far from the myth of cute 'n' cuddly birds
rebelling at injustice under siege,
the Dogs and Crows are hardly short of words,
of hate-filled lies encouraged by their liege.
Those choppers-off of heads are glorified
by 'journalists' of fifteen minutes fame
who post 'exclusive' scoops. So who's to blame?

The syndicating bias against the truth
just demonstrates the depths to which they've plunged.
The mainstream media disregards the sleuth
whose stories fail to air as if expunged
from view like so much awkward background noise.
The crafted echo chamber just resounds
to what's uncensored by the Press Corps hounds.

And so my friends, I've written down enough
about the news of Bashticleer this year.
The winds of change have turned. With Eagles's bluff
annulled, it's clear the Bear and Bashticleer
are near to triumph now; to reinstate
the Cock-a-doodle-do and rid the coop
of Dogs and Crows and others of that troupe.

Saturday, 7 January 2017

The Bucket List

Here's a poem that appeared in Prole, Poetry and Prose, issue 11, back in August, 2013. It was inspired by a poem called Stations by Jim C. Wilson, which I read in a Happenstance pamphlet entitled Will I ever get to Minsk? It also contains a fond reminiscence of Fyfe Robertson, the idiosyncratic travel reporter on the BBC's Tonight programme in the 1960s, and his oft parodied catchphrase, "Hellooo, I'm standing here..."

The Bucket List


I always thought some day I'd go abroad,
imagination fired by places conjured up
from wireless shipping forecasts' fog-bound names,
South Utsire, Viking, Forties, German Bight,

to travelogues in mealy black and white;
Hel-ooo, I'm standing here... (while you're still there),
before a Colourmaster set revealed
Kampuchea, Vietnam and Communists.

I'd also read of lands, devoured in books,
that beckoned me from far beyond a north-east coast,
from mythic cities over chartless seas,
from Tír na nÓg and Rivendell to Shangri-La.

With itchy feet I felt compelled to go
and crossed the border on the train, all by myself,
but got no further than these foreign tongues,
Scouse and Cockney, Geordie, Brummie, migrant Strine.

Now, decades later, passport's bought at last!
Resolved, ahead of pension age, to travel far,
I'm reading Outback Trek and TripAdvisor--
it's Machu Pichu, Chichen Itza, then Tibet!