Cultures
Indoctrinate
Everybody
With
Unchallenged
Myopic
Views
Like
Xenophobia.
Youngsters
Have
Genuine
Needs
For
Zany
Joke
Kindling
Rules.
Perhaps
Better
Teach
Some
Quite
Different
Alphabet
Order.

.

Older widows

They'd like to have young;
they'd like to have rich;
if they can't have both,
the question is which.

How dull a woman's body is compared
to all the gorgeous finery she wears -
clothes in their infinite variety,
shoes, hats and gloves, scarves, hand-bags, jewellery,
perfumes and painted nails, coiffured hair,
and make-up enough to make men stare.

So how would merely being nude attract
as much attention as when dressed ? In fact,
how could the monotone of naked flesh,
whether firm or flabby, wrinkled or fresh,
yet offer anything clothed beauty lacked ?
Anticipation of the sexual act !

In those societies where nakedness
is normal, only youthful shapeliness
might raise excitement; older nudity
tends to sag and wobble apology;
without an invitation to intercourse
most female bodies fail to impress.

Marriage is also nakedness, revealing
characters more then bodies, concealing
only his fantasies. Ladies, mark you,
without the challenge of conquest or taboo
the lure of novelty tempts him to cheating;
it's not your body but companionship that keeps him.

"Write me a poem." you used to say
and didn't understand when I replied
I was too happy, too content and safe with you.
The things I wrote for other girls
came from my loneliness.
I said you should be flattered
that I didn't write for you.
Such laziness in love !
Too sure of you and glad to see you pleased,
(a moderate man, admiring the stoics)
I showed no jealousy at your flirtations
(such liberal, understanding views).
You thought I didn't care.
But now all things are changed and I am lost
from my control, drifting into memories:
remember where . . remember how . . .
when  we were here before . . .
so many, so many memories . . .
Suddenly come awake I brood in kin
with the rain and wet black night
and curse my niceness and understanding.
Here, have your poem.

Retired but not yet expired
and with too many hours in the day,
I try to keep busy and not get depressed
and mostly I manage okay;
but evenings aren't easy to get through unstressed
at home when not wanting to stay
and watch on TV pulp fiction expressed
in some melodramatical way.

So here's to sweet cider and bands that can play
the catchiest pop music going,
to bars and to discos that usually stay
open to late keeping alcohol flowing
till darkness begins to fade grey.

And here's to the people that take to the floor
with rhythm impelling their feet,
seduced by the tunes heard so often before
that their brains recognise as a treat.

Too soon sure to die through old age and illness
I dread being put into care,
dependent on others,  reliant on pillness,
more helpless than I could bear.

So I try to forget my sad situation,
ignoring the fact people stare,
drinking my way beyond desperation
and dancing in despair.

It's still so hard for my ego to accept

that no young woman would ever accept

me as a boyfriend, lover, husband.

Even middle aged matrons stand

afar off rather than get involved

with the probability of aging

illness

It's hard to speak when there's nothing to say -
only the way your eyes meet mine;
there's nothing to think of during the day -
how your eyes shine.

It's foolish to play with fire, I know;
what on earth am I thinking of,
hesitating before I go,
in love with love.

And yet that tingling of the skin,
the tenseness when you're near,
life should be this interesting
if it weren't so dear.

Old Fart

Although I'm getting on a bit,
I know the girls still fancy me.
I see it when they pass me by
and take a second glance at me.

I know a come-on when I see one
and certainly know what to do
but try to check that she's a free one
before I follow through.

Some girls are quite up-front for it
and take a sexy stance for me;
I always know I've made a hit
when mothers look askance at me.

Most women fantasise the fun
of titivating someone new
so who am I that I should shun
more passes than I'm due ?

Despite my grey hair I'm quite fit
and stun them when they dance with me.
I also charm them with my wit
to make them take a chance  on me.

It's easy if you've got the cheek
to woo them with your soulful sighs
and anyway I've got the cash
to get between their thighs.

I love to help them shed their kit;
I guess I'm just a ladies' bum,
a sucker for a thrusting tit
and in my pocket ain't no gun.

But girls these days are much too sly;
they lead you on then change their minds
and suddenly they turn so shy
and flounce away their plump behinds.

So here I am alone again
which seems to be my usual plight.
Still -
though not the luckiest of men,
tomorrow is another night.

A day in May, weekend in June
and weeks in April very soon
were fading memories in view
of all the rest of life in you.

There's been so many disappointments lately -
England flunking the world cup,
Murray tamely surrendering Wimbledon,
missing the share price peak;
the poppy seed I sowed along the road didn't grow
and the meconopsis seedlings that I watched for months
so laboriously struggling for life all died;
sad sod, stick to the usual disappointment -
that the women I fancy never fancy me.

Because I was discontented with my wife
and you are beautiful, I fell in love
thinking that love alone was valuable
and worth recall, ready to abandon all
for this unsought intensity of life.

With more to lose, cautious for comfort's sake,
you fit your feeling to a routine shape,
lengthening winter's coldness into spring
as if in doing so you hope to win
a victory over passion for the mass.

Together we might find a compromise,
on frosty nights or in a morning bed
and read, in meeting one another's eyes,
the story of the life we might have led.

Shy perhaps and maybe needing extra time before appearing in public?
Or else a little backward, not deserving any censure or comment?
Possibly less innocent and rather more diabolic,
cunningly preparing some dramatic entrance?
Just hesitantly waiting the perfect moment?
How explain to impatient gardeners
the lethargy of seeds?

Leaving, I gave my love a rose,
fragrant, royal, red,
saying "Take this flower from him
you kept from your bed."
Glaring at me, proud in parting,
sharply she said

"What am I to do with it?
Why give me this?
I don't want your gestures now
or farewell kiss."
Just as I'd guessed she would -
a chance not to miss.

"Just let it die," I said,
"wither and die.
Don't ever water it,
cover the sky.
Just like my love for you,
just let it die."

Turning she left me with her smile,
dazzling, royal, red,
saying "I shall keep your flower
though love has fled.
Having no root it must of course
quickly be dead."

Technology changes a lot;
old skills can be forgot;
blacksmiths are few
but the adage is true -
strike while the iron's hot.

Why so sombre in the graveyard?
Why the wall around the ground?
What's so precious there to safeguard?
Not the contents of each mound !

Flesh and skin have gone forever;
bones are mostly all that's left;
personality is never
in a body life bereft.

Why then value stone and marble,
names and dates that gather moss,
cliched phrases, words that garble
honest pangs of pain and loss?

Back in former times, I grant you,
grave and headstone spun a thread
anchoring hope that souls continue,
mooring memories of the dead.

Now with photos, film and videos
all the good times glow again;
loved ones live in aching cameos,
revel in "Remember when . . . ."

Knowing life is only temporary
(life eternal can't be willed)
surely death is not a tragedy
(lest a life is unfulfilled).

So no need to mourn a person;
rather care for loved ones left;
loss and loneliness are certain;
loss however is not theft.

What remains is new life growing,
birds and badgers on the tomb,
procreation blindly flowing,
babies forming in the womb.

And if souls can really see us,
let them watch the kids at play -
skipping, squabbling, running raucous
round the graveyard all the day.

Don't let's have our ideas hidebound,
let's help youthful vigour thrive;
change the graveyard to a playground -
bring the cemetery alive.

Relationships are really funny;
we don't all fit like hand in glove.
Why will some women do for money
what others won't do for love?

Aleppo, Syria

Here on these artificial rocks
grow grassy spikes of aerials
and daisy dishes turning to
a man-made sun invisible.

Over this arid urban view,
a European alphabet
of jagged angles, broken lines,
the flights of pigeons play their part.

They glide and flow a sunlight ink
to brush on sky a cursive script,
a natural variation of
calligraphy of Arabic

Do you know what love is, Mother, do you know?
And can you tell me how to find it, where to go,
how I'll know it if I find it, does it show?
Oh, do you know what love is, Mother, do you know?

Daughter, love has many faces, you will see.
Just think how I love you and you love me
and how we love your father both and then how he
loves us, and you will know what love is, do you see?

Is that the whole of love then, Mother, nothing more?
What if tall young men come calling at the door?
What if someone says he loves me, is he sure
of what he says or just pretending, nothing more

Two things you need to know, my child, only two -
if what he says to you is really true,
and then, if you love him, how much he means to you.
But  oh, if there is nothing  you can do !

But if we loved each other, what could interfere?
Belonging to each other year by year
our love would be too strong for us to fear
that anything could part us, surely that is clear.

Love is not so simple, child, as you may find
if love as passion conflicts with love that's kind,
if your heart's yearning still cannot be blind
to how you'd hurt the loved ones that you'd leave behind.

Now I don't understand you, mother, do you mean
that love can cause you pain, can intervene
in happiness - has that ever been?
Mother, is that a kind of love that you have seen?

Yes I know what love is, darling, how I know,
breaking my heart to love him yet to let him go.
Quickly, come and kiss me, dear, and let me show
how much I love you. There. Now off you go.

We mark their maths and aren't impressed
by the knowledge that they show
but know they're not among the best
and the standard is quite low.

Then from the impersonal page the zest
of character gleams through;
with no more literacy blessed
their comments still ring true.

Explain your answer: "I just guessed."
Too honest or naive?
Not what's supposed to be assessed -
refusal to deceive !

A chance to get things off their chest:
"I'm sorry. I don't know"
"I never understood the rest."
"It's just that I'm so slow."

Perhaps their maths should not be stressed
more than their virtues, though
we emphasise what we can test
not what we ought to know.

Excuse my lust, unseemly at my age;
laugh if you must at someone not so sage
stirred by the bud and blossom of your youth,
spurred by your character's potential growth
watering dry wrinkles with summer rain,
promising pleasure but threatening pain,
colouring complexion, seeping through skin,
unfolding fantasies, reviving sin,
revivifying what had seemed dead -
a rescued life, in bed just in my head.

Seascape

I saw you twenty minutes ago
from the road on the hill.
Your face was not so deeply wrinkled then,
nor your manner so cold.
From the subdued land
you, the older sister seemed quite friendly;
the white waves were a twinkle in your eye
and the sun sliding between the clouds
brought young colours, greens and blues,
to your complexion.

At your footstool now
the grey waves, hostile,
show your strength and power.
Superior with your knowledge
of shores I shall not see,
of depths I cannot know,
your lonely beauty spurns me.

But I have seen you calm,
playful at my feet
like some small animal,
wiping my footprint from the sand
with a single teasing flourish of your hand.

There was a young lady of Lingfield
lay out in the sun with a windshield:
"It tans me a lot
and I don't get too hot"
she claimed. All the same all her skin peeled.

First overland trip

Stamps and coins earn scant respect;
train numbers even less;
antiques and paintings just reflect
the wealth that some possess.

Birds' eggs and butterflies demand
some knowledge of wildlife;
birdwatchers' lists of species scanned
need patience and some strife.

Most women though are quite content
with house and family,
collecting things to ornament
the home domestically.

And men collect their status toys -
computer, car and phone,
while mothers joke "Men will be boys."
admiring what they own.

Collecting things is harmless fun
and, if it gives you pleasur
no need to denigrate some-one
who that way fills his leisure.

But what of those who won't conform,
true overlanders free
from tyranny's accepted norm
oppressing you and me?

Hard drinking, smoking rockers, fierce
with tatoo on one shoulder
and banded biceps, faces pierced,
ignoring getting older.

It's not so much how high you fly
that differs you from me;
it's more I think you like to lie
of how things seem to be.

You too collect a sort of thing
despite your kicking traces
when in the bar you always fling
in names of foreign places.

You also lead a routine life
along a beaten track
without a mortgage, kids and wife
but camp to camp and back.

Eventually you'll settle down,
an owner not a guest,
and change your smile for a frown
collecting money like the rest.

Better men than I
have lived and died
and little I can do
to emulate the few
whose names survive.
What matter then
my life or death,
my learning or my pride?

Is there no fever in your blood ?
Will you not sail upon the flood ?
Do you prefer to act the play
miming the words that others say ?

You guard your silence all the day;
you will not give yourself away.
Is there no fever in your blood ?

Anchored you rest within the bay
but near the shore no dolphins play;
will you not sail upon the flood ?

Nothing said, so much to say;
how can I talk from so far away ?
Is there no fever in your blood ?

Better to dance than kneel and pray
before the waters ebb away.
Will you not sail upon the flood ?

Must the fruit ripen to decay ?
Must all the colours fade to grey ?
Is there no fever in your blood ?
Will you not sail upon the flood ?

Nothing happened, only dreams;
everything is as it seems;
heart at ease and mind at rest
with never thought of mouth or breast.

So go your way and leave me mine;
I'm not the one to mope and pine.
The days glide by, weeks disappear;
I manage well without you near.

Things aren't too bad; they could be worse;
I think I'll write myself a verse.

Oceanography

What does a little wave know
of the ocean's depth below?
Is it only a passing breeze
disturbs the surface so?

When the sea is always calm
and we have no fear of harm,
its sparkling face is there to please,
its quietness is its charm.

But is there something moving,
too deep for certain proving,
a turbulence that might just seize
the chance of life improving?

And if some turmoil under
the surface tears asunder
that placid and untroubled ease,
then hear the ocean's thunder.

For what if the sea-bed shakes
and the ocean mid-ridge quakes?
Must pulsing lava always freeze
and fail what it undertakes?

New land was the objective,
new sights, a new perspective,
relationships as remedies
against the old invective.

What does a little wave show
of emotion's depth below?
Are we no longer enemies
as the parting breezes blow?

But far too late to save me,
a gesture to enslave me,
in the carpark by the alder trees -
that little wave you gave me !

The mystery of female genitals

"I saw her knickers !"
"Liar."
"Yes, I did."
"What colour then ?"
"They're white."
They always were.
It was a time of shortage after the war.
We sat cross-legged upon a wooden floor
and shivered in the cold assembly hall,
whispering behind our guarding hands that hid
our guilty curiosity, two small
boys nudging each other to puberty.
The lady teacher demonstrating dance
paused to adjust her skirt. We knew of course
that girls lacked willies; what they had instead
seemed nothing much. We hardly gave a glance
at their groins. Women though had breasts which led
us to suppose there might be something rare
behind the veil of their underwear.

Incident at the Tate

" he'll certainly die and then I'll go to prison "
Certainly that would-be murderer of a little boy
was obsessed by the idea of killing a child.
But sane enough to know that he would live
after his conviction rather than be executed.
But what if that teenager had known for certain
that he would be put to death for the murder
instead of living a cared-for life in prison ?
Would the death penalty have been a deterrent ?

Love that loses
never chooses,
lets itself be led

with kind smiles
or by lust's wiles
into trouble's bed.

JSQ

Two young boys noticed some sweets
on the ground by the jumble sale queue
obviously unfit to eat
and pondered what to do;
furtive whispers and shuffling feet
decided some stamping was due.

Gleefully they stomped a dance
with vocal accompaniment too
having fun with no backward glance
but trepidation grew;
adults looked at them askance
fearing trouble would brew.

Enter a toddler who didn't hide
his intention to join the crew
clearly set on a course to collide
but mother had him in view;
"Elijah ! Step aside. Step aside."
and he wobbled back to the queue.

Because you begin to obsess me
I think I had better explain
this passion that starts to possess me
will bring less pleasure than pain.

What starts as a little flirtation
with honesty rather than lies
can soon become infatuation
with caution cast to the skies.

Despite that your smile enthralls me,
your youthfulness tempts me so,
your personality calls me,
I grieve to let myself go.

I find myself wanting to see you;
your presence brightens my day
but I certainly ought to flee you
because there's too much to pay.

You need to be courted by young men,
some charming and vigorous lad
first suitor, next lover and last then
dependable husband and dad.

How beautiful the colour of blood is on the white paper;
how vibrantly it dyes the toilet bowl water.
Nothing unusual for women to see in menstruation
but beauty with fear for me in defecation.

I live in Now, a narrow space
forgetting how I reached this place.
Important then to understand
what happened when and why some planned
events in Past did not succeed
while others last and far exceed
the aims of Soon where hopes reside
and wants balloon till all collide.
The Future sings a siren tune
but what it brings may prove no boon.
The way ahead is never clear;
safer instead to shelter here
in Now and let the Past expand
though I forget much that it spanned.
But Now moves on while Past extends
till Future's gone and living ends.

You know I wouldn't want to lead you on
for nothing with the risks we'd have to take;
you don't know what you've got until it's gone
and then it costs so much for one mistake.
I know 'cos i'm a bloody fool sometimes
and just end up by reaping what I sow;
and so perhaps we'd better stick to rhymes
and just content ourselves with what we know -
having our little secret when we meet,
if not lovers, partners in deceit.

Mammon

The great god Mammon has shrines all round the globe;
his worship spans the hhistory of man;
while most religions' fortunes ebbed and flowed,
his primacy's endured since time began.

As greed served evolution's strategy
and money eased accumulating wealth,
so favoured men by legal larceny,
conquest, subterfuge or cunning stealth

enriched themselves beyond all normal needs
and wasted scarce resources without shame,
creating envy in the other creeds
for decadent luxury and foolish fame.

Then wealth became the aim of simple minds,
a dream to solve life's problems in a flash
of rich relations' wills or various kinds
of  windfall, property or lottery cash.

More sober souls could build life-long careers
on steady increase of portfolios,
a bigger house or better car in years
to come without risking imbroglios.

For women Mammon is a household god
with furnishings and white goods in his praise,
his holy book a big store catalogue
accompanying prayers prosperity stays.

While every new possession adds some spice
to lives that need the interest that comes
from something new, and shopping's no great vice,
and no-one really wants to live in slums,

too much devotion to the Mammon cause
can badly warp our personalities;
cupidity is not the worst of flaws
but magnifies our other frailities.

Thus blinkered eyes of envy only see
the rich, ignoring those less fortunate,
encouraging selfishness and snobbery,
refusing help to the inadequate.

Instead of  'Love thy neighbour' Mammon's flock
believe that 'Charity begins at home',
so comfortably avoiding any shock
responsibility where they don't roam.

"We can be friends with anyone." they say,
"We have no prejudices, that we know.
We don't let creed or colour bar the way
to anybody's progress; let them go

their own way, we'll go ours and then no doubt
we all can prosper. Oh, and by the way,
just pull the ladder up on your way out."
("You know it's only sensible." they say.)

Of course we all want to improve our lot
and give our children what we never had
but does the need for what we haven't got
obscure the fact indulgence can be bad

for them as well as us: obesity
signals excessive cash but bankrupt wills,
and unathletic minds zapped by TV
think life should be a constant stream of thrills;

or, failing to distinguish real from fake,
we search for meaning in the shopping mall
and fuss about the icing on the cake
when many people don't have cake at all.

How little does the latest fashion count
compared to widespread third world poverty
and all the problems others can't surmount
unless we curb our selfish vanity?

How dare we hanker after some new toy
or windowshop for something nice to buy
when somewhere parents, whom our whims destroy,
for lack of medicine, watch their children die?

No doubt our primate ancestry explains
our need for status and respect from peers
but if a whole economy ingrains
just selfishness, it surely causes fears

for that society's continuance.
Could Mammon's blessings undermine their cause
since wealth and luxury breed decadence
and hasten terrorism and new wars?

Still we enjoy our wealth without complaints,
believing everything is fairly priced
and trust in Mammon's pantheon of saints
where Father Christmas outranks Jesus Christ.

Crash

"I think he's alright. He moved his head."

the TV commentator said.

But he wasn't alright. Ayrton Senna was dead.

His head hadn't 'moved' but slumped instead.

Warmly welcome, worthy of respect,

a social service ministration

adapted to undertaking risk

confronting chancy situations

paid well enough to accept.

Unquestioning of motivation,

non-judgemental of performance

with sympathy for inadequacy

and quietly confident reassurance

of future satisfaction.

Professional willingness to please,

refreshing in lack of modesty,

young and beautiful, no slags these,

intelligent femininity

delivering sexual therapies.

We toured Israel, we three,
you and my wife and me.
(My wife however could not guess
at my degree of stress.)
Tel Aviv passport control
saw part but not the whole.
The Hula valley soon went past
(bluethroats and cranes at last).
Mount Hermon's summit heard your voice
make Galilee rejoice.
Ma'agan Mikael impressed
the uninvited guest.
The Negev desert, Elat's shore,
En Gedi and much more
we visited and revelled in,
a trio not a twin.
To me you were as bright as day
wherever we would stay
but other people could not tell
that you were there as well.
We went and we came back still three
travelling hopefully.
Such a strange group, three in a bed -
two real, you in my head.

This city street is awash with yearning
people in the current,
jetsam in the gutters churning,
flotsam on the pavement.

No imminent fear of loss of life
but only deprivation
as displaced persons, refugees
hoping for salvation.

No aftermath of some disaster,
just a bit dejected
with levels of happiness much less
than what might be expected.

While the young are busy at work,
the old, infirm, inept,
the shameless few content to shirk
and those who overslept,

widows, widowers, husbands, wives
parade the shops bereft
to regain meaning in their lives
unsure where it was left.

Somewhere here they hope they'll make
a way out from their plight -
perhaps a chocolate bar will take
the pace of Mr Right.

That bloke dawdling by the pub
still thinking of his ex -
maybe another pint or two
will substitute for sex.

There's a couple slowly walking
towards the cosy coffee shop.
Perhaps a cup will start them talking
and save their marriage breaking up.

I, like them, am seeking love
and trawl potential partners;
I also could ask God above
for someone who likes gardeners.

I want the warmth of a partner's body,
comforting without stress,
but the warmth of a personality
is harder to assess.

Though much too old for passion now,
I'm still a mug for beauty
though trying to re-aim my bow
and answer call of duty.

I'm trying to develop a taste
for mutton over lamb
though sometimes it does seem a waste
of what I thought I am.

We all of us can make the most
of life without our spurning
experience so we can boast
this street's alive with learning.

The back of my house points south south east;
the morning sun shine through a glass door
into a room allowing me
to sunbathe naked on the floor
for an hour or so at least -
less a window, more a door
of opportunity.

Talk to the ones who love you,
confide in those that care;
boy and girl friends come and go -
parents are always there.

When I am not busy, I think of you,
sitting on a table, across a room,
unsmiling round the camp in brown or blue,
then suddenly the sunshine breaking through.

When I am not busy, I think of you,
longing to see you, hoping you will come
at reg or break or dinner or after school,
any time at all - but you never do.

I catch my breath on entering a room
or round a corner case you should be there,
making my days so long I long for sleep
to free myself from all this aching gloom.

I have been here before but long ago
with other women not as young as you.
Then I had less than they to lose,but still
the strain of longing aches as ever so.

I could have come and taken you away,
careless of consequence, a week ago
but then the shock of seeing you in that
so long expected, unexpected way

as you should be with someone of your age,
unworried by my ageing, ageless cares,
able to explore life by yourself,
unsullied by the trivia of this page !

How could you fit the clothes I foist upon you,
attired in my wearying waking dreams?
Perhaps you are sensible enough to stay away
until this mangy quarantine is through.

Knowing that this will pass as such a thing should,
I hope I have not caused you any harm
and in this passion for your precious youth
you will in later time find something good.

Some sail the ocean, voyaging wide,
daring danger with youthful pride,
run with the wind or drift with the tide:
adventure is the fuel.

Some plunge the ocean, diving deep,
beyond safe light where creatures creep
unknown to men who aim to keep
discovery as their rule.

Some travel wide and deep as well,
heroes indeed as legends tell,
who enter heaven via hell,
their fame bright as a jewel.

Others are timid and stay at home
content to foster instead of roam,
preferring shallows to ocean foam -
Who's for a dip in the pool ?

In our civilised society
most sane people would agree
the need to help and even protect
those least able to fend for themselves.

By and large we'd also agree
on who we think are vulnerable -
those ill, disabled physically,
as well as challenged mentally.

But we still allow the constant abuse
of those without too much of a stash
to be exploited by the use
of lotteries promising easy cash.

While we start to reign in gambling,
we haven't yet begun to enable
other restrictions in remembering
the gullible too are vulnerable.

And do you think you'll ever come to bed with me -
this year, next year, sometime indefinitely ?
What would you say if I should ask you that ?
Pass some remark about the weather or the cat,
busy yourself with something on the stove,
anything except face up to love.
Or should I call it lust, reading your thought,
wrinkling your nose at some disease I've caught
that can be cured only in your bed
between your legs not raging in my head.
True love is knowledge in the whole soul's sense
and to this knowledge no impediments
remain except our bodies' separateness
which lust will overcome and thus be blessed.

I've always known but never quite believed
that I would die and so I've never grieved
an umimaginably distant end
but now I'm old and know my time is short
it seems a most illuminating thought.

The prospect of annihilation tends
to dim the rosy lighting memory lends
to efforts and achievements highlighted
by wishful thinking - what was life about
and what remains when all the lights go out ?

So much that bulked important at the time
in retrospect seems farce or pantomime
with stereotypic characters and plot
stuttering to an undramatic close
of anti-climax wrapped in tragic pose.

Religion claims to offer a way through
the darkness ( though these days the Christian queue
upon the path is not as long as some)
but flickering candle shadows still create
caverns where superstitions lie in wait;

and answers given by theology
confuse with abstract terminology,
raising new questions to explain the old;
then unconvincing theories only leave
faith as the trumping ace tucked up the sleeve.

As gamblers sitting round the circled glow
that floods the table we can never know
for sure the bluff from real and make our play,
crossing our fingers and our breasts in hope
that, even if we lose, we still can cope.

What of the explanations science brings
to countless age-old questionings,
demoting commonsense and old wives' tales
in favour of experimental ways
and data in the glare of public gaze?

Now evolution, atoms, gravity
concede to scientific method, we
can train the scientific searchlight on
the gloom and mystery of human death
and try to make some sense of shibboleth.

With all the power science can provide
it surely must be able to decide
whether eternal life is fantasy
and so religious fraud or whether Man
evolved a Soul somewhere in Nature's plan.

With or without a soul it's my belief
that time in general is not a thief -
it makes its bargain with us through our genes
since births contract repayment at our ends
of all the atoms nature only lends.

And when the sun expands in years to come
and swallows up the planets one by one,
the Earth itself cannot avoid its fate:
all life will perish - animals, plants, men -
one last illumination ! And what then ?

The terracotta warriors

Jigsawed together, re-arranged in rows,
millenia faded military pose,
unblinking stares ignore the tourist gaze
and stony faces censure foreign ways

Famous from photos and the strange idea
of burying soldiers in a grave
as bodyguards against some royal fear
that ghostly subjects might not quite behave,

these charioteers and archers, cavalry
with horses, officers and infantry
were made to boost the ego of one man
regardless of the cost of his vain plan.

Presumably he thought himself too rich
and powerful by far to actually die.
Could someone so important not just switch
his empire to that afterlife on high ?

Just like the pharaohs in another land
with pyramid squat toads upon the sand,
because he can't imagine being dead,
he thinks he must be somewhere else instead.

But thieves who later broke into the vault
to steal real weapons from toy soldiers' hands
despised his guardians that never fought
and smashed his dolls ! In the museum stands

a likeness of that ancient emperor.
I didn't want to see his face or name
as worth no more than any warrior
accorded anonymity not fame.

It's unjust peasants endure poverty
to further monumental vanity;
unfortunate as well that art should need
patronage from colossal greed.

At your mum's

It's a long walk from the station
knowing you won't be there;
the empty streets echo my thoughts -
tonight you will not soothe my care.

Who would have thought that loner me,
who prided living to himself,
would find in you such love and help
that you became, as if by stealth,

a cloud enveloping then absorbed
from time and sympathy shared alike,
changing the outlines of my life -
new land reclaimed by a dyke.

Most of the time we live too close
and, out of focus, cannot see
the lineaments of love that touch
unfolds unknowingly.

We need to part for time to think
and feel the emptiness surround,
to know we both are growing ever
closer together in love's ground.

The boss again

You,
hypocrite and liar,
make me one too
when
in your power,
I can't speak true.

I have my doubts about the common phrase
much used by politicians and economists
who often advocate 'freedom of choice'
without then speaking of what it consists.

Now if it means ability to choose
whether to fill ones belly or to starve, it's clear
the choice is much the same as that between
whether to have clean drinking water or the fear

of waterborne diseases. But perhaps
the phrase includes those freedoms we all need - to choose
disease or health, unlettered ignorance
or basic education, jobs through life that use

our skills or wasteful enforced idleness,
subjection to dictators or democracy.
No choice is needed  for necessities;
'freedom of choice' is only for vain luxury.

The time is past and will not come again
when love was spun with glances in the air;
the feelings fade and only words remain.

What I do not feel I will not feign
but do not think I do not care
the time is past and will not come again
.
The memory of love causes no pain
for time and distance shrivel what was rare;
the feelings fade and only words remain.

Your smile put those poems in my brain,
an audience of one with shining hair;
the time is past and will not come again.

Life is dying but growing again
and love is having faith in what you dare;
the feelings fade and only words remain.

But love's experience is not in vain;
what we have been through we still can share;
the time is past and will not come again,
the feelings fade - but still the words remain.

War Graves Commission

This summer cemetery queue
to visit those beneath
waits patiently alert in line
for its advance to stain
the dark incline.

Over the top the field of view
discloses restored heath
where gravestones martially arrayed
in rank and file remain
dressed on parade.

This sunny graveyard grinning through
neat rows of dragon teeth
disguises errors of command,
decisions which the slain
can't countermand.

Did architects of memory rue
the sword outside the sheath
and reimburse the withered lives
to prove they weren't in vain
with fame that thrives?

Did soothing peacefulness ensue?
But what could compensate for death?
Despite the calm, death is not peace
though horror, fear and pain
must surely cease.

Why do we all prefer, in lieu
of thorny crown and wreath,
polished lawn and manicured stone
to glory rotted brain
and splintered bone ?

We seem to think we own the Earth
as something inherited from birth
whereas we've really stolen it
and very soon will have broken it.

We've used the land, the sea, the air
as if there's nothing important there
to stop us doing whatever we like
(and if there was, we wouldn't care).

We suffocated the soil with cities,
buried our wastage at its roots
and like commencing hostilities
dumped on it everything that pollutes.

It's only very recently
we've started to realise what we've done
and though some payback has begun
it's not enough. We urgently

have to address the planet's need.
But with human nature as it is
we can't eliminate human greed
and competition for personal status.

So the only way to avert disaster
for all the other life on the planet
is actually taking action faster
to identify the cause and ban it.

We won't reduce our global warming
and all the rest of human harming
just by looking at carbon footprints.
We need to reduce the NUMBER of footprints.

The solution is trimming our population.
The Chinese had the right idea
but we won't stem human copulation
so the need for contraception is clear.

Although the birthrates of richer countries
are already starting to decrease,
that of Africa is set to explode
so the world's population will still increase.

We need the richer nations to help the poorer
reduce their birthrates for all our sake's
and make contraception free for all
and also abortion to counter mistakes.

Then, hopefully, we'll soon be seeing
everyone, everywhere all agreeing
more than two children is unacceptable
all the while babies are contraceptable.

However smart respectable we are,
beneath our shiny show of clothes and skin
we carry stinking shit inside our bowels.
Though there's no problem while contained within
ourselves, eventually weak ageing dreads
loss of control. But even that's less foul
than some of the shit inside our heads.

I think it's possible for dogs,

a crowd pleaser at dog shows,

possibly trained on piles of logs

until their fear of falling goes.

But following what dogs have begun,

aided by avian chatter,

carefully hopping rung to rung

a magpie climbing a ladder.

The madman said some clever things
and had one brilliant idea
but miracles merely fulfilled
expectancies of those who feared

more ancient gods. Many who ringed
the preacher listened but didn't hear
what hardship his ideals would bring
and how his vision would cost dear.

Though words of wisdom helped hope spring,
the parable did not make clear
just how we lilies of the fields
could eke existence year by year.

How on earth could he hope to win
acceptance from more worldly peers
by telling them they should not build
up power and wealth in this life here ?

Insane to think that he could wring
respect from those whose aims he smeared;
resentment rallied the threatened guild;
disaster sailed the course he steered.

But those who prosecuted him
might have done better just to jeer
him out of court, his aura sealed
as worth no more then a passing sneer.

Better maybe to draw his sting
as crazy and let him disappear;
attention maybe was what he willed,
glad for Caesar to interfere.

I as the storm clouds quickly rose,
would have let my opinions quickly slide
but when you're a nutter, I suppose
you don't mind being crucified.

Spring is in the air

Flaunting themselves high on display,

hoping for something to come their way,

signalling that it's not too late -

tits out looking to attract a mate.

North Indian plains

After stern mountains, dour hills,
occasional cultivated valleys,
this favoured plain, unfairly lush,
amazed adventurers.

Flooded by sun more than monsoon,
plants, animals, men, gods all multiplied,
a windfall treasure trove of tax
for conquering kings of kings.

Aided by priests, this royalty
created a religion to deprive
the peasants of their harvest wealth
and glorify themselves.

Illusion fuelled by deceit
indocrinates the ignorant
with hopes of compensation bribed
by gifts for peevish gods.

Here wealth spreads thin across the fields
but stinks like dungheaps where the rajahs built;
here wives of farmers still can't read
and children beg for pens.

Monuments that amaze the world
survive the centuries built on the backs
of prematurely infirm castes
still defaecating fields.

When I was young at love, the girls passed by
because, not knowing what to do, naive and shy,
I thought I could not offer them things enough
to tempt them to me, fearing their rebuff.

Now I am older and could make them stay
with presents, evenings out, charm all the way,
self-confidence and even a witty tongue,
I only want you and you're too young.

I was gutted, hollow as a blown bird's egg.
Superficially intact, well rounded,
smooth; in fact, so insubstantial any
gust of trouble whirled me round in circles;
winter gales blew me away. Too fragile
to survive for long uncracked, uncrumbled,
here I am against all odds still running
on empty but puzzled, wondering how
to put life back into a hollow shell.

Everything that lives deserves respect
regardless of appearance -
slug and spider,
snake and tiger
glory life's occurrence.

Living though implies no right to life;
some creatures must be killed.
Though prey that dies
won't realise,
its role has been fulfilled.

Harmful parasites, diseases, pests
we kill without compunction;
we poison slugs
and squash strange bugs
and think that's just our function.

Useful creatures also get destroyed
by chance, without intention;
worms can't evade
the slicing spade,
their deaths not worth a mention.

Even cultivating plants for food
destroys some wilderness;
extinct creatures'
unique features
we cannot re-possess.

Men destroy so much of nature's work
some even kill each other !
Should we respect
those who reject
the life right of another ?

Violence and death are natural
for life is nothing sacred
but humans see
society
survives by curbing hatred.

Individuals are barred vengeance
and so rely on others'
views of fairness
giving justice
for loved ones who have suffered.

Men are more than merely animals
because they use their languages to think.
Language enables hypotheticals
combining past and future as the link

to form imagination as something new.
Imagining more than he can really see,
a man can see from others' points of view
and with intelligence humanity

achieves its highest moral attribute
in opposition to the selfishness
of evolution. This new moral route
tempers the drive to personal happiness

in favour of the rights of people quite
unknown, not family or even friends.
Of course, the underlying human right,
the means of reaching all the other ends,

is life itself. A murderer denies
his own humanity. With neither Hell
nor Heaven to put things right, justice relies
on execution not a prison cell.

It's embarrassing to realise just how much I value beauty
when all the time I tell myself it's character that counts.
So when sometimes (amazingly) a woman really likes me
but I don't feel the same for her because she's rather plain,
I actually feel guilty that I ought to do my duty,
respond to her as best I can and hope affection mounts.
The un-lovely are not unloving and shouldn't be unloveable.

Bad dreams

The early hours waiting dawn
exercise powers of memory drawn
from all the years of pallid places,
buried fears and nameless faces,
faceless names, embarrassments,
mistaken blames and harrassments.

Sleeping awake and sinking diwn
in some deep lake where reasons drown,
a mental soup of random scraps
whose every scoop some morsel traps
which, thought they differ, taste the same -
the too familiar flavour: shame.

The satisfaction of the day
in dream reaction leaks away;
what seemed so clever now looks wrong
and weakness ever downs the strong;
now watchers jeer my consternation
and constant fear: humiliation.

The day's events and people met,
the varied scents from soap to sweat,
the scenes imprinted, God knows why,
albeit tinted, past the eye
are disassembled, pulled apart.
and then re-modelled into art -

a work of gaffes and slights and snubs,
of hooting caffs and hostile pubs,
deceits uncovered, lies revealed,
old blunders suffered still unhealed,
incompetence idealised,
inadequacies realised.

Youthful confusion re-appears,
doubt and delusion, sexual fears,
exam room panic, her rebuff
although loved manically enough -
then at a stroke, the morning chime
turns all to smoke - until next time.

I hereby appoint you as my judge
and charge you weigh me in the balance.
The reason is you must not bear a grudge
against me for my foolish dalliance.
You could not call me thief or fraud -
I've stolen nothing, only wanted to;
deception I have kept for other folk
and nothing that I've told you is untrue.
One crime however I confess I meant
but that is only loitering with intent.

Another overland trip

Shipwrecked from normal life, afraid to sink, we float
a surging sea of foreign-ness in a lifeboat
of overlanding truck provisioned with alcohol,
protected from the press of people critical.
Embarking alone shows courage past mere posturing;
adventurous self-image now needs bolstering
by tales of previous travels, funny anecdotes,
with all in harmony and no discordant notes.
'Don't rock the boat' becomes the order of the day
when saying something matters more than what we say:
as long as you don't disagree or question things,
we can enjoy the comfort group acceptance brings.
Now every comment ends with prompting laughter
and jokes echo around the group for minutes after;
each adds another verbal pebble to the pile
then basks in mutual admiration with a smile.
For some it's an extension of the mating game
not played too well at home perhaps but all the same
upgraded to an international event -
results unknown but definitely overspent.
For many it's adventurous to leave their work
so even necessary chores are cool to shirk.
For most the famous tourist sites are only seen
through eyes obscured by cataracts of what has been
absorbed through years of travel documentaries
and writers' hype about romance and mysteries
of foreign travel. So we cannot separate
the sights we see from our expectancy and rate
'fantastic' what we think we see, quite unaware
it's just excitement at the fact of being there.

Menial chores are necessary
to satiate our time
and also temporarily
anaesthetise our minds,

a way of occupying hands
while letting our brains rest
from mulling over everyday plans
and so become de-stressed.

Alternatively, when we're bored
with nothing much to do,
it's better to be slightly  chored
than just boil up a brew.

There is some satisfaction in
completing little tasks
and it also lets us answer something
when somebody asks

"So what have you done today then?"
But there is a problem lurking:
clearly we do things the best we can
to minimise our working

although there may be better yet
which we just haven't found.
Repetition creates habit
and we can end up bound

to do things in the same old way
that we think is the best,
regardless of alternatives
that others might suggest.

Habits can turn into rituals,
demanding strict observance,
where we cease being masters of them
and just become their servants,

angered if we're asked to alter
the way we run our lives,
unable to effect a change in
our fixed emotional drives.

We live in a world of changing ideas
where new technology reigns
and we need to be able to throw away
outdated mental chains.

We need to remain adaptable
since dogmatism's rife,
remaining open to innovation
in all aspects of life.

Persepolis

Among the scrub of hills enstoned with Persian script
the slender elegant poplars stand
with sapling spruce like fine paintbrushes taper tipped
in re-afforestation land.

The scoured background mountains chiselled in bas-relief
anticipate Persepolis
as lines behind each proud though subjugated chief
engraved within the edifice.

Where lions savage horses distant emperors
and local kings queued patiently
to give their tribute to the greatest conquerors
thus far in ancient history.

The murals catalogue the diverse styles of dress,
the beards in curls and ringlet hair,
Persian pyjamas giving trousers to the West,
Asian variety to spare.

But past the stark simplicity of Cyrus' tomb,
in outlook though not miles or years,
inheritance of power and riches presaged doom
when decadence met foreign spears.

The rock-built platform of Achaemenian fame
weighed down with monumental pride
was shaken when the upstart European came
and made the East and West collide.

Yet Alexander and Darius thought the same
in many ways: men could be gods
until a later militant religion came
with anti-immorality squads.

Now a reminder of a freer grander age,
the palace where those legends strode
stands an anathema to Islam's soldier-sage;
yet golden eagles scan the road.

The Philosophy of Identity

Somehow I used the word 'person'
which he seemed not to understand
so I tried to explain with examples
but it didn't go quite as planned.

We both agreed that his mummy
was a person and daddy too
but certainly not his sister's dummy,
his train or his toy kangaroo.

And as for himself, was he one?
He didn't seem any too sure.
Well, what could he do that his toys just couldn't?
He sat and pondered some more.

Eat? Walk? Talk? might he have brooded?
Then - Eureka!  finally .
He pursed his lips and his tongue protruded -
a person can blow a raspberry.

Contemporary art

It has to be original;
the skill required is minimal;
avoiding jeers of mimicry
leaves only shallow gimmickry.

Elegy on an English allotment

The track beyond the gate leads to the sun
low in the sky now day is nearly done;
tall hedges either side harbour the birds
that cackle disapproval when disturbed;
bright clover heads' white horses fleck green seas
while trees, restless as waves, ripple the breeze.
A blackbird porpoises the viscous glare
with feathered fingers dipping, trailing air,
spreading behind invisible vortices
that swirl the few remaining bumble bees.
A lake of silence drowns the distant knolls
and flowers swim deep in scattered perfumed shoals.

The sinking sun inflames the anchored clouds
and I relax alone far from all crowds -
and yet not quite alone, one rabbit peers
between the bushes, still but taut with fears
of fox or weasel or that monster, Man,
and I try not to scare it if I can.
A little magic mouse, night's butterfly,
eddies the air with angular sallies by,
hunting the edge of these allotment plots
where moths seem unaware of what's
in store for them - a sudden end to life.
Will my end be as quick? I see my wife
below the slope where our house stands alone
empty of children now our birds have flown.
Our lives drift onward with momentum kept
from busier days and interests now all swept
away. What is there left in life for me
but her who's been my partner constantly ?
I haven't always treated her as well
as she deserved and she could surely tell
of pain unmerited caused by my flaws
which she for love of me kindly ignores.
The lingering summer light still drains away
and evening fears crawl out again to prey
upon a mind enfeebled by old age,
still mired in mediocrity, not sage
as honest effort and experience should
have made it and the young man thought they would.
A distant car crawls like a beetle by,
lights in the gloom aping a firefly
but sweating dirt and grating through its gears
to leave the twilight whistling in my ears.

June is so poignant, mid-summer eve like death;
evenings that last forever vanish like breath.

Now they begin, the funerals of friends.
Where previously one dutifully attends
a family wake with relatives unknown
to younger members, now those young have grown
to fill the coffins fashioned at their birth
regardless of success or moral worth.
Old friends begin to tread the narrow track
where all life's multitudinous paths lead back
to what they came from - time's oblivion
in dissolution not reunion.

The floating band of dusk wears like a charm
the burnished copper coin against night's harm.

I missed what life was all about and why.
What can I do worthwhile before I die ?
How can I fill, so late, a fading life
that never played a part in business strife,
that's nearly picked undone the Gordian knot
oF disentangling children from the plot
and long since willed itself against all chance
of aged infatuation to enhance
an otherwise dull life that lacked the drive
to status, power or fame (while still alive!)?

The Earth revolves some more; the stars soon vie
the absent sun, a flush upon the sky.

Too late for action, knowledge may suffice
but what's important is told in a trice:
things living die however long their day -
there is no shrine that sells eternal play;
and wealth does not ennoble but deprave
both those who have and those who only crave;
Man's vanity and pride are a disgrace -
love and compassion save the human race.
But turn your eyes away from human strife;
admire the impossible complexity of life.
Without such truths, trite as they are, to show,
knowing no more than when we came, we go.


The blushing pastel cheek of sky's delight
brushes the dark jowled face of  Earth goodnight.

Inappropriate

If I were twenty years younger,
I'd ask you to marry me.
But if I were twenty years younger,
you'd still be in junior school
and marriage might be a little frowned on.

They say
floating is better than sinking
don't they?
I'm quite
sure you don't have an inkling
what's right
and guess
nothing at all gets you linking
to stress.
Of course
water's involved, just a sprinkling
resource -
no doubt
not what you're probably thinking
about.
Suppose
proper disgust has you wrinkling
your nose
but pride
foils your impulse of slinking aside
convinced
finally, hurriedly shrinking
back since
these words
only concern daily stinking
fresh turds.

I never fret about the ferry;
I know my berth is booked ahead;
it certainly won't go without me,
waiting till I'm dead.

The voyage itself won't be too taxing
(the river Styx is not so wide);
a boat ride could be quite relaxing -
no threat the other side.

It's more the journey to the harbour
before I even reach the boat
depresses me as I get older
and life becomes just rote.

As muscles tire and bones grow weaker,
the transport system gets so frail
and people's outlook sure seems bleaker
when lights begin to fail.

The traffic then could cause disaster;
the road ahead is all downhill;
no wonder time starts going faster
so much of it to kill.

No problem with the route to follow -
prescriptions point the varied turns;
obsessed with illness I can wallow
in petty self-concerns.

No holdups threaten onward progress
though motorways may take their toll;
less chance of bed and hearty breakfast
for this convicted soul.

No holiday accomodation
required; no frolics at the port;
no postcards from that destination,
the journey's last resort.

Perhaps I ought to change my vehicle
for something more appropriate -
a wheelchair might make me more cheerful
once death is definite.

Or they might build a channel tunnel
to speed up progress with a train
or even fund an airport - one'll
get there quicker with a plane.

"But why all the fuss?" she enquired retreating
around the end of the bed in the gloom -
young girl unimpressed by my sad entreating
alone at last in her curtained room.

"It's only a body like any other."
she said while gliding away through the door;
but hers is the body I want to smother
with love and kisses for evermore.

I sail on the swell of her belly meeting
the crested curve of her breasts' dark tips;
I plunge down the dip to the bottom greeting
the smudge of hair in the trough of hips.

I rise up again to the shoulder whitening
the rolling wave of her waisted back;
ahead the face of the heavens brightening
is wreathed in swirls of fine curling wrack.

And then comes the storm with the thunder beating
my heart apart at the neck of the bay;
one last little thrust and her mouth's repeating
the words I always want her to say . . .

"I've got to be going. You'll have to leave."
A quiet voice puts an end to the gale.
Washed up on the beach what did I achieve -
passion or love or a fishing tale ?

Winter, North Vietnam

Grey bullocks plough the green fields brown;
a paddled tractor muddles by;
flat water squares awaiting rice
are grey fields mirroring grey sky.

Whole schools of children cycle past
misted banana trees and palms;
grey tarmac roads span splashy pools
where floats of tame ducks quell their qualms.

Grey walls of buildings front more fields
whose matt green spatters topee'd heads,
a real-life water colour scene
where sunless drizzle dourly spreads.


But coned bent backs plant change to come;
the new-shoot green shines winter's cure;
the wading cold promises sun
with message clear - only endure.

Jesus was crazy, Muhammad a fraud
and Buddha way too pessimistic;
the Hindus are children with novel for Book
and Jews are just so narcissistic.

Shinto and Taoism never left home;
Confucius made life bureaucratic;
the native Americans lacked holy tome
but still made their worship ecstatic.

So why do we now still believe in these creeds
when science explains nature's working ?
Religion may ease our emotional needs
but only with dangers left lurking.

As kids we believe just whatever we're told
(Loyola grasped indoctrination);
if adults don't question beliefs that they hold,
self-righteousness brings confrontation.

When Catholic, Protestant, Sunni and Shia
dispute the beliefs of their founders,
their doctrines to laymen are ever less clear
and sensible confidence flounders.

New prophets appear and new sects multiply
like Methodists, Sufis and Sikhs,
plus Baptists and Jains, Adventists, Bahai . . .
some folk like belonging to cliques !

If finding companions and comfort in cults
from Moonies to Salvation Army
means losing your logic, it only results
in tenets increasingly barmy.

When cranks like John Smith can invent a new creed,
religion is surely illusion.
Just how many versions of Truth do you need
before you know it's all delusion.

Texting

'Are you asking me out?' she replied at last.
Well, what else would 'Dinner sometime?' mean?
'I'm not sure I'm ready for this.'  Too fast?
It's all ad lib. I've got no scheme.
There's really no need to be so aghast.
It's only a meal, not a marriage proposal.

But I should have made clear I'll pay the bill
with absolutely no expectation
of anything back except my fill
of hopefully interesting conversation
and a pleasant view across the table.
It's only a meal, not a marriage proposal.

PNG

After two weeks together all the time
(except in bed !) with birds of paradise
the quarry, sharing meals and crosswords,
shopping together at the supermarket
(like old times for me) I commented
it seemed like being married. Much too far
too fast. You bridled at the word.

So now I try to put my thoughts to rhyme,
expecting all the time to pay the price
for too much haste, though very few cross words
were said. I didn't even remark 'it
seems so right' just in case you resented
my presumption. Now I'm trying to bar
a 'Dear John' e-mail from my favourite bird.

Oh, I'm so sorry !

We think we sympathise with others in their grief
and illness, worry and despair,
but all we really do is pose upon a bridge
above a mile deep gorge and stare
at mannikins trapped in the depth below and wave
to let them know we know they're there !

 We stand in sunshine and enjoy the sweeping views
forward and back quite unaware
how dark and dangerous the canyon cliffs appear
from the valley floor. How do they dare
attempt the climb from mental mire toward that streak
of liquid sky and laughing air ?


Unless we stumble into misery ourselves
there is no way that we can share
the outlook of those folks we'd like to help. Perhaps
it's best because we could not bear
a fraction of the suffering all around beside
the pain of those for whom we care.

What's the use of sending e-mails
when there's no hope of reply,
of getting no acknowledgement
and never knowing why,
unable to unlock your silence
any way I try.

I thought our personalities chimed
although the different ways we fly
might just reflect our differing incomes.
What does that imply?
Perhaps you're richer than I thought
but I don't want to pry.

I still don't know why you are single;
you could have your choice of guy.
You obviously don't fancy me -
too old of course. Or did you lie
re-lesbianism? I don't mind.
Perhaps you were too shy.

I wanted to continue contact,
know you better by and by.
I bitterly regret your loss
but I won't die or even cry
though if you never change your mind,
I guess this is goodbye.

Grandchild

A baby's daze of days begins to clear
when shapes resolve to objects, sounds to sense
and senses all combine to make appear
the real world - still unreal in consequence

of innocent ignorance of unseen cause.
Then days become a riot of strange delight -
kaleidoscopic faces, mimed applause,
a chaos of novelties that soon incite

rapt exploration, first by touch, then taste,
entrancing all the hours of day till night
restrains the embattled brain from too much haste.
The oddysey resumes at each first light

when sleepy crew wakes up to captain's call
and port routine re-victuals for the race
ahead; new voyages of discovery trawl
the ocean of experience in space.

Discovering legs that scissor to a crawl
expands the universe, opening new doors
to galaxies of rooms whose alien sprawl
needs concentrated study of its laws.

Black holes of cupboards understairs support
daring ascents which step by step increase
exhiliration; doubt though can abort
the missions with the subsequent release

of energy for use in other ways:
for, realising legs can take the weight
and feet plus ankles balance, the odd graze
will not deter this now child standing straight.

To stand upright, albeit clinging on
to legs of people, furniture or dogs,
heightens awareness that more can be done
and from a new perspective catalogues

additions to the world's variety.
If standing tall expands horizons, then
they can be gained once the complexity
of falling forward on one's feet like men

do can be mastered. First though imitate
the action of the crab - sideways along
the shelving sofa ledge, then circulate
the rocky coffee table to the throng

of kitchen unit cliffs whose towering height
freezes the fearful grip; eventually
stiffen the knees and from that stranded plight
accept the helping hand to totter free.

Just one small step for man on earth - to walk !
The giant leap is to the spoken word
and when this infant once begins to talk,
every man's epic journey will be heard.

Wintertime blues

Nothing's working out;
nothing's going right;
I can't do anything well enough
no matter how I try.

I know I'm through the direst time,
the darkening months, the shortest days
but I'm so far beyond my prime
the future still dismays.

My summer was the challenge of improving;
autumn even the triumph of achieving;
but now my efforts only bring
the satisfaction of enduring.

My diary lists convivial
events I can look forward to
but they all turn out disappointing
or else next day seem trivial.

Everywhere is full of couples -
Romeo/Juliet, Darby/Joan -
or, in between, Happy Families
while I'm now on my own.

I hate this life without my spouse.
Despite my busy days I dread
coming back to an empty house
with a cold and narrow bed.

My teeth decay; my joints give way;
it's no fun being old.
It's obvious what time will bring -
this winter won't warm to spring.

If I didn't live with you,
I really don't know what I'd do;
it's just because I laugh with you
that I can last the long years through
and if you leave, my life will end
without my lover, guide and friend.
Believe me then, while I'm alive,
it's only for your love I strive.

A Natural deceit

The recent week's warm weather seems

to have hatched the eggs of house and fruit fly.

But one part of Nature has deceived another

for the imminent cold will soon make them die.

My mum's dementia

"Who's that in the photo, there ?"
"That's me, your son."
"Oh, wasn't I good-looking when I was young ?"
I felt embarrassed she should seem so vain
but as old age had filched her memories,
dementia leached politeness from her brain
and loosed the normal verbal courtesies
from her vocabulary. What remained
was language that seemed sensible at first
"Where did you say this was coming from ?"
till constant pointless repetition strained
belief in any underlying thirst
for knowledge !
"Where did you say this was coming from ?"
                           Then the sadness of inane
remarks instead of conversation failed
to stop my irritation being plain.
"Smoking kills ? It's never done me any harm."
The lies about the chores un-done
"I cleaned the floor two days ago."
                                                      soon paled
beside the foreign places that she claimed
she'd visited, insisting she'd seen all
the tourist highlights. I am sure she blamed
me for my winter travelling. The gall
of feeling she was being slighted stained
her personality indelibly,
her sense of self-importance so engrained
she could, still sane, reply incredibly
to "Is there no-one better than yourself ?"
"No, I'm as good as anyone." Insane,
any suggestion meant to help implied
some criticism of herself; her main
conviction was she did no wrong. I tried
to reason with her sometimes but the bane
of our relationship she could not hide -
her disappointment and resentful pain
at her displacement by my bourgeois bride.
Even in forty years it didn't wane;
her only child, I carried all her pride,
and expectations baulked made her complain
"You said I'd live near you when Lily died
but sold the house without even telling me."
She wanted to be loved yet couldn't deign
to loving - but, now guilty while I live,
even affection I found hard to feign
and duty was the most that I could give.

' - - - the black highway snake - - -' Don McLean

The dark anaconda, silver striped,

stretches its length in the morning night,

unwinding an empty winding road,

blinking back at the flicking headlight.

The cobra uncoils, sways left and right,

poised for a sudden deadly strike

at any rushed bend too rashly unslowed,

carelessly tempting a fatal bite.

The python lies patiently out of sight

but its presence increases urban plight,

causing chaos where cars once flowed,

strangling the traffic

The boa constrictor also might

endanger rural streets at the sight

of deep winter drifts after it's snowed,

enveloping villages so tight.

So, all in all, these reptiles quite

hamper our everyday lives in spite

of the fact that before you read this ode,

your knowledge of them may have been slight.

Snow in May ? It happens every year:
the hawthorn blossom, drifted by the breeze,
lies heaped in layers, heavy on the leaves;

though poised to fall, the overhangs appear
to rise upon the wind, white flakes that fly
untroubled lightly tethered in the sky;

warmed by the sun to melt and trickle tears
or avalanche to earth and trampoline
the boughs, the wavy whiteness calmly leans

on air, at ease in summer atmosphere.
Those wedding whitelets revel in the sun
till bridal litter shows their job is done.

As long as man or beasts don't interfere,
discoloured snow becomes brown berry slush
forcing a future in a scarlet blush.

Don't ask "Where are the snows of yesteryear?";
they feed both birds and animals or grow
and metaphor to daisies down below.

Blinkered by youth and dazzled by
my own reflection in the glass,
I noticed only scenery
painted by others for a farce.

A wider view needs time to pass
with vistas even for the blind
though clarity needs different glass
for weaker eyes but wiser mind.