The floor is full of dancing women

swaying to the band,

a sisterhood of beauty brimming

fun and friendship, crammed

in front of happy landlord grinning

while their partners, jammed

against the walls, continue swimming

through their drinks and stand

unmoved by all the catchy rhythms

as if to dance is banned.

Back home though men insist on winning

conjugal rights as planned,

moving tto a different rhythm

without the need to stand.

But might the girls like dance elation

more than monotone copulation ?

Material for Myth

I raise my head and rest from a session of winter digging.
It isn't really cold but still my nose is dripping.
Damp and growing dark. Eastward the wind is rolling
a grey duvet of cloud across a bare hill's muscled shoulder;
westward is a skyline of skeletal trees resembling
a distant platoon of ragged soldiers surrendering.
A single seagull tacks across the wind spiralling
arabesques on the sky. Now a flotilla of more gulls
appears, a wind blown bluster of white leaves whirling.
Then I hear the call. I know the sound. Like a mewing
animal. I search the sky. There. High up, circling
around each other. Not animals but birds. Buzzards.
Three of them dancing the air, continually calling.
And now two more fly in to join them, all five ascending
toward the clouds. Five ! Surely they must stop rising
now. They are almost into the bottom of the cloud.
But no. One by one they disappear into the grey fluff.
I wait for them to re-appear. Nothing. I keep watching.
Still no sign of them. Eventually I tire of waiting,
shoulder my spade and start to walk home wondering
what an earlier more superstitious age would have made
of the event. Some secret place in the clouds welcoming
the birds home ? An avian territory ? A Kingdom of Buzzards ?

Literature

The nursery rhymes of infancy
sprout fairy tales in childhood.
Then melodramas of puberty,
like comedy misunderstood,
can sideshoot farce or tragedy.

Short stories bud in adolescence
and flower in novel maturity.
Experience turns reminiscence
as falling petals of poetry
till winter frosts presage senescence,

shrinking epics to favourite verses,
shrivelled epitaphs and hearses.

Tweets 1

TEACHING
I certainly never thought much of the pay
but I did get a lot of holiday.

NOSE DROP
It seems to me now that I'm old
the end of my nose is always cold.

MALE SECRETS
The world of men is a charnel house
full of the bones from skeletons in cupboards.

She asked me to write her a poem.
No need, I said, you ARE one.

The women I want just don't want me

and the ones I don't want do.

EPITAPH

Gym junkie, gardener, poet, dancer.

PRAISEWORTHY TOLERANCE

Though murderous muslims test society

normal folk aren't murdering muslims

I'm really trying to ignor all those offers aimed to please;

I'm really tired of being conned by all the Ts and Cs.

I hate this damned detritus of the floor.

As soon as I've cleaned up there's always more.

AFFAIRS

Sex is a superficial sore.

Love is the cancer at the core.

Years calm appetites

but fail to banish fantasies.

Everybody else's death

is easily understandable.

Only our own isn't.

Do hunky guys with bigger dicks

feel extra pressure on their pricks?

SEEDLINGS

Home them longer

till they're stronger

to thwart the thugs 

of this year's slugs.

Nothing feels finer

than a woman's vagina.

A change of mood

I played all night, ignored the scatter-gun
approach of those around me, trusted in
the colours only and the stats displayed
which all the time were in my favour.

I didn't really think of it as fun
but rather just the challenge of trying to win,
to beat the nervous stress of being afraid
to lose as a lifelong frugal saver.

But I was losing badly. Just a run
of bad luck. It can't last. It will begin
to change. Schoolboy probability made
it sure. My confidence didn't waver.

Eventually though, some doubt began to rankle.
The rumble of the windowless casino seemed
the sound of turning wheels digesting money.

The croupier's 'No more bets' among the jangle
of competing voices could be deemed
a new and different meaning not so funny.

On the one discreet clock only the angle
of the hands proved time was passing. Cleaned
out again, the cashpoint closed me down.

Time to drive home. Outside, new daylight
filtered through the air. I drove too fast,
enraged at my stupidity in wasting
self denying, miserly hoarded cash.
Away from the city the sun was an angry boil
on the hills. Reaching the scarp I braked,
ready to descend, then stopped, amazed.
Below, the usual landscape had been flooded.
Only the tops of the tallest trees reached up
for help. The white lake below stretched
to the Weald in the distance. The surface
was tumbled as if boiling. The white fog
dissolved the red mist in my mind. I sat
quietly for a while considering Nature,
Science, Beauty, The Littleness Of My
Puny Life. Driving on again
I forgot the money, just glad to be alive.

Jewels

Raised up from clay to velvet beds,
clean polished faces winking wealth,
cut gems adorn decrepit heads
and nestle skin past youthful health;

cold shards of rock armoured in gold
and silver glint eternity
while stony silences unfold
a coolness for mortality.

The shower of goldfinch comes to ground
beneath a golden oriole;
pearl bordered skippers zig zag round -
an airy, dancing, vital shoal.

Jewels that live, like rubythroat,
should stun us more than minerals;
both rich and poor alike can gloat
at silver throated emeralds.

Spring is coming to a winter garden

Goldfinch dip down from the frosted bushes to perch on the feeder but the blackbirds ignore the bread thrown out on the lawn for them, only pausing to peck occasionally at a more tempting morsel. The scene resembles a teenage dance floor in a music-less interval. The boys chase the girls and see off other boys while the girls chase off unwanted boys and in their excitement even chase each other. In the overhanging oak, staid pigeons seated around the edge of the action, oversee the actors, monitoring each fluffing flutter and remembering with nostalgia the lost vitality of youth.