I like to think of myself as far-seeing,
not stuck in the past but pretty progressive,
ahead of my time and forward looking,
clearly self-starting and very proactive.

Indeed it's clear when I have some chore
or job around the house to do -
I seem to get to steps three and four
without considering steps one and two.

I mulch my asparagus in the Spring
because it helps the Growmore in
but also because of the little 'cherries' -
it buries berries.

Dementia might be a blessing in disguise
concealing the progress of her sad demise.
Unknowing, there's no need to tell her lies
and surely better being happy than wise.

My personal opinion is, he said,
school discipline has gone to pot.
Too many bleeding hearts in charge.
Too many people lost the plot.
Of course kids like the feeling of power
that comes from getting their own way.
If you take away the threat of force
"Don't you dare touch me" they say.
Detentions aren't a quick enough answer.
A clip round the ear is what they need.
Expulsions are an admission of failure.
You've got to make them take some heed.
I got caned when I was at school.
Six of the best across the bum.
It didn't do me any harm at all.
A bit of pain never hurt anyone.

The old Two Ronnies class-ic sketch

was visual and verbal

from posh through proper to poor wretch

light-hearted more than hurtful.

But words alone could make a dour

social rapper into a star

joking the names we use for our

grand-dad, grandpa or papa.

Old age

We have to accept dying;

we hope to avoid pain.

Optimist or Pessimist ?

Is the glass half full or is it half empty ?
It depends of course on how well you cope.
Even one third full and two thirds empty
leaves the optimist plenty of scope.
But a quarter full or, worse, one tenth ?
The staunchest optimist still has hope !
But even he must be less than hopeful
when the glass is totally unfull.

Tired I rest at the top of the plots

above the roofs of the bordering houses

and watch the crowded clouds slide by.

A straggled flight of starlings dots

the sky and wheeling lower rouses

unseen others from nearby

to flutter up and join the display.

More birds appear out of nowhere,

from trees and bushes soaring high

to join the swirling corps de ballet,

all swooping left and right together,

dancing the curtained backdrop sky.

But soon the choreography palls

whether from boredom or fatigue

no way of humans knowing why.

And gradually the outline falls

as more and more begin to leave

until like clouds the last slide by.

Then time for me also to depart

joyed with a fresh uplifted heart.

I wish I could play an instrument,
piano preferably,
but I've been too busy trying to write
eternal poetry.
With a smidgeon of musical skill I might
previously, who knows,
have given up penning verse so trite
in order to compose

instead of this boring doggerel shite
an eternal melody.

The Sertao, Brazil, November

A flat infinity of stunted bushes like skeletons of thin black bones;
a crewcut fringing bald pates of boulders riskily pallid in the sun;
the burning earth as if submerged under patient scrub,
an occasional cactus or palm tree coming up for air;
the dry land waiting for water, imploring rain;
all life in limbo.
Then the sudden shock of vivid yellow blossom on some roadside trees.

I don't answer women that ask my age
vainly hoping they'll think me younger
and most times they're unable to gauge
it accurately in my favour.

I'm not so coy when it's men that ask
though the chances of that are slight
so it was annoying when, given the task,
one guessed it almost exactly right.

And lately things get even worse
with one woman thinking that I'm older
by several years than I really am -
so perhaps I should have actually told her.

My wrinkles are an obvious burden
so maybe I ought to don disguise
or find some helpful plastic surgeon
and pay him to debag my eyes.

The singer was good doing Elton John
but I couldn't stop watching the keyboard player.
Seated in front of him, eyes dead level
with his chubby fingers as he played,
crustacean-like his hands crabbed sideways,
scuttling to and fro, left and right
as if always seeking some tastier note.

Don't travel the world to see the sights

made famous from iconic photos

for when you get to the actual places,

either they look just as you expected

or more likely they're not as good.

The cameraman who took the photo

had the skill to judge the angle,

catch the quality of the light,

select the appropriate exposure

to create that competition winner.

But you, dear traveller, take pot luck

on season, weather, time of day.

We all know the need for novelty,

for something new not too far ahead

to work and plan for but try to resist

the insistence of image, obsession of idea.

And if you just want to say you've been there,

trying to impress your friends  -

it's a bit sad  !

I hate my ancestors, and parents,
for the features of my face:
the nose too long, the mouth too big,
the ears stuck out in space.

I try to make myself attractive
but the boys still pass me by.
My friends are all much prettier.
Oh God, I want to cry !

I do my very best with make-up,
perfume, all the latest gear.
I try to keep my weight in check
and spend a fortune on my hair.

But what's the good when I'm still cursed
by my unlucky family look.
Deep down I've almost given up,
for all the pains I've took.

If only I had cash enough
for plastic surgery, I'd find
someone to re-shape my face
and cut despair out of my mind.

Three steps to write a poem:
first have a new idea;
then some repeating rhythm;
last, make some rhymes appear.

It happens so often - I say to myself
I'm just too tired to go to the gym.
But then I think - it's good for my health
I ought to go just to keep slim.
So I make the effort and after the session
whatever hormones it is kick in
and I'm pleased that I fulfilled the mission
with aching but envigoured limbs.
It doesn't matter it's not a full hour.
What's exercised most is weak willpower.

If we are only ships that in the dark night pass,
that find each other for a while and then are cast
by wind and currents each on a different tack
drifting too far to ever steer our courses back,
then know I fly your name upon the mast
and carry your memory with me to the last.

Junk journalism, like junk food,
is bad for public health;
we graze on fake celebrities
and choke on others' wealth.

We snack on sex and violence,
imbibe verbal abuse,
ingest the latest additives
with boredom as excuse;

we substitute for wholesome fare
re-constituted mush;
our minds grow flabby from so much
re-gurgitated slush.

So is there no alternative
to journalistic piss?
Of course there is - you're reading it,
junk poetry like this.

Flyleaf

"This book belongs to ME"
and where she lives is noted here,
the flyleaf record of her childish glee
at doing something clever, logically
extending her address to England,
Europe, World, The Universe.

Silly to an adult,
out of place, but why?
For that child starts to realise
in those few foolish words
the journey of the mind
discovering worlds within worlds.

When will she see as clearly again
the logic leading on
to the inevitable paradox
of the place of Man?

Inward and outward journeys start
within that child's head -
the distance of the stars
and the bones of the dead.

The neighbour's red hot poker plant
grew spikes so huge they bowed the stems
until they rested on the ground
but even then continued to grow
so that the flowers bent up towards
the sun with tips like snouts and quills
all pointing backwards, vibrant bright
in psychedelic orange and yellow -
hedgehogs dressed in disco wear.

I've had my suspicions for quite a while
but never had proof enough to be sure.
I've tried to ignore it with a smile
but it's getting to be a regular war.

For it keeps on happening, getting worse,
and the more it continues, the more I'm convinced
they're out to get me, chapter and verse.
And sometimes I think I've even glimpsed

them in a huddle whispering together,
planning their next move to do me down.
I still can't make up my mind whether
confronting them would turn things around.

And the way they stand there innocent like
it's none of their business, not their fault,
and then very soon there comes a spike
in incidents of the usual sort -

the bumping against me, trips and stumbles,
the jogging my elbow to make things fall,
the plasterwork crumbles, the radio mumbles,
things are too big or else too small,

the pen won't write, the key won't turn,
the shoelace bow becomes a knot,
the light doesn't work, the sausages burn -
it's all because of their bloody plot.

Objects conspire against me !

I like to see a silverfish
at night on my kitchen worktop.
I like the way it sprints in bursts
like a blackbird on a lawn
but somehow liquid, bending itself
in order to change direction,
flowing like animal mercury
then pausing for breath, or thought
assessing the situation.
Some people may think it unhygienic
but to me it's a piece of magic.

Cremation is a waste of human flesh
much better fed to worm or dog or bird.
True, ashes fertilise the soil if spread
but, potted, nourish nothing, set absurd
upon a mantelpiece as monument
to man's withdrawal from the natural scheme
of birth, life, death, re-use in other life
in favour of the life eternal dream.
Is man so valuable his flabby flesh
is thought too good for other creatures' use?
Such vanity in a species guilty of
exterminating others without excuse !
I'd choose sky burial with my flesh and bones
served to the lammergeiers as final boon
and fly in those birds' bellies through the sky
between the mountains and the keening moon.

Terrorist incident

oh why couldn't you be a coward
just stand well clear and call for help
let the authorities deal with it
it really wasn't your concern
why did you have to push yourself forward
not leave it to others to sort things out
oh no you had to rush right in
without considering me at all
no-one else would risk their life
for a stranger even if a woman
didn't you think things might go wrong
with just a skate board against a knife
oh I can hear the way you thought
I cant stand by and just do nothing
I have to help however I can
that's why I loved you silly man
why did you have to be so brave
you weren't cut out to be a hero
just a normal family man
not a maniac like that bastard
just keep on walking don't look back
just come back home like every day
youll soon forget it life as normal
the future for us all ahead
oh god please can you turn the clock back
what future now that you are dead
now your children have no father
and I your wife have lost half my life
o why o why o why o why
why couldn't you have been a coward

Overwhelmed by the warmth of your welcome,
dancing embraced in your arms
and lifted by cider and catchy music,
I dared to give you a kiss.

It was just a brushing of your brow,
not presumptuous lips,
and then an apology on your hand
so as not to blight the bliss.

But you whirled away across the floor
and found somebody else,
leaving me stranded in outer space,
summarily dismissed.

It was only a gesture of tenderness
but maybe you misread it
as too familiar, going too far,
somehow something amiss.

I really wanted to see you again
and have a proper talk
so I'm writing this poem just to tell you
how much I regret that kiss.

Age no love's fool is lest it fret
for youth's infatuation yet
how reckless naïve passion thrills
where age's sad discretion kills.

Under the bridge in Trafalgar Street
right next to Brighton station
slogging uphill with someone to meet
I read on the pavement this slogan
sprayed in letters remarkably neat
but only on view to pedestrians:

'Help the homeless'

I remembered I'd seen one time before
a bloke lying there on the pavement,
a castaway washed up on shore
asking for change to get the payment
for a bed in a hostel or so he swore
though I rather doubt that was his intent.

Could the slogan itself be changed to say
much the same thing in a different way?

'Home the helpless'

First a miniature volcano

erupting from the earth;

then changed into  a scaly green

but blind reptilian snout,

it mouthed its open jaws to threaten

fiercely spewing forth -

not burning lava - flowers ! and

delicious clinging scent.

A winter miracle of nature,

potted hyacinth.

A la carte

Devoured too quickly and never intended
to fully satisfy verbal hunger,
short stories seem to be incidental -
just literature's hors d'oeuvres.

Novels provide more substantial fare;
consumed over days with interludes
for slow digestion and calm reflection
plus the added interest of prediction.

A poem is dessert.

Flower Power

A summer garden kaleidoscope in her wear
and clothes arched over by rainbow tinted hair,
she shouted silently 'notice me,  notice me'
just like a flower to a bee.

 So many seemingly good ideas

didn't succeed but no need for tears

for in a way I don't really mind -

they kept me busy at the time.

Reflection

Sometimes I find myself feeling sorry

for some-one who looks like one of life's losers

only to realise after some thought

they were probably feeling the same about me.

Thanks to Paul Valery

'Poetry is to prose as dancing is to walking'
But -
about what sort of dancing are we talking?

The disco do-your-own-thing thing
without a trace of melody to sing?
Clockwork two-step rhythmic monotony?
Something to do with frontal lobotomy?
Or the body sway as if a wind is blowing,
the arms awry like sculling more than rowing,
the nodding head obeisant to the beat,
the glass in hand but no invention in the feet,
the grinning face telling friends this prancing
is something special - "Look at me, I'm dancing".
Much like free form verse ignoring rhyme,
just posing to be admired all the time.

Sometimes the people opt to dance in line
reviving memories of Ibiza holiday time,
whole teams performing synchronised stupidity
as well drilled morons in some military.
Much like the violent, over-rhyming crap
of mechanistic, syncopated rap.

Or, from a different, older generation
some movement of the feet in ambulation,
no drinks in hand when social pensioners jive,
wind-milling arms to prove life still survives,
outlining shapes and patterns as a pair -
concrete poetry typography in air.

And what about the plethora of South American dances?
A cornucopeia of moves the sun enhances -
tango, rumba, cha cha cha, lambada,
forro, samba, salsa and bachata -
all so vitally rhythmic just like terse,
irreverent, witty, comic verse.

And still there's basic ballroom discipline
of foxtrot, quickstep, waltz delivering
the artistry of  Shakespeare and of Byron,
Wordsworth, Hardy, Brooke and Housman -
crafting each individual feeling
whether in the rain or on the ceiling.

Apologies to Isaac Newton

I do not know what I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to be only like a boy peering into a sweetshop window, and diverting myself in now and then seeing a tastier delight or a prettier  package than ordinary, while the great ocean of life lies all untouchable around me  -  infatuation, sex, love, children.

I have to confess that I do get depressed
at being unpopular when I venture
beyond my usual neighbourhood.
It's clear that I do have to work to eat
but I'm very far from being obsessed
with only pursuing my livelihood.
Sometimes I just like to get away
and surely don't deserve the censure
I get from the strangers I encounter.
I can quite see the problem of being famous
when every outing involves the hazard
of being mobbed by total strangers
as in my case by gulls and jackdaws -
it's no easy life, being a buzzard.

I have a long filler funnel for my car.
One day my explorer youngest grandson.
found it while rummaging in the yard,
and confronted me with it  like a gun.
At the age of two !

I think it's sick to make celebrities

out of convicted murderers.

What must the loved ones of victims feel

about their use as entertainment?

What sort of viewers want to wade

in a sewer of private perversion

and what sort of TV executives

disgustingly pander to them?

How paint an English summer sunset ?

Not a boring monochrome disc

but clear sky blue for a baby boy

and grey clouds fringed with little girl pink.

Then an explosion of lucent orange

flaring to flaming furnace red.

When will some drivers ever learn

signalling's meant to show

not what they're actually doing now

but where they INTEND to go.

Anybody young who wants to be a politician
should be barred from politics as a national threat.

I do my bit for evolution

by killing flies within my reaches

so that those that aren't so stupid

propagate the species.

Pauses

He sat on the kerb, his feet in the road -
not someone I wanted to talk to -
but through his tiredness, sadness showed
so I paused to ask if he was alright.

He lifted his head but glancing at me
served only to act as reminder
mine wasn't the face he wanted to see
and I couldn't help, whatever his plight.

He got to his feet and looked all around.
I asked where he wanted to walk to.
He paused. Then he spoke. It seemed that the sound
echoed deep from the darkness of night.

"My wife has just died. I don't know where she is.
So now I'm just trying to find her."
I paused. Was he mad? Or was some insight his?
He turned. "Well, good luck." His wave seared my sight.

Sissinghurst

The failing summer evening sunshine
struggled across the hazel hedges
which walled the grassy alcove where
a straggled arc of listeners
focused a poet there.

The man stood to recite his verses
(published in his latest volume)
and used the cliché 'poetry sings'.
But while he sang of humankind
a thrush sang thrushy things.

Soon it was joined by blackbirds, robins
shouting their manhood to the heavens.
Sound without sense to human ears
but clear and fresh and ringing true
as daylight disappears.

Boldly the thrush confronts the audience
flaunting rhetorical repetition.
Although it can't make its poetry scan,
unfazed by the human competition
the bird outsings the man.

But as the stain of night's black pigment
spreads through the sky, the thrush must finish.
Without humanity's spoken word
it cannot think beyond its kind.
The man outlasts the bird.

'A place for everything and everything in its place'

At least that way you minimise mistakes

like trying to eat with the daisy grubber

and cleaning the toilet with the bath back scrubber.