It's much like dermatitis hatching,

the masochistic pain of itching,

the knowingly harmful joy of scratching -

young women in the disco, leching.

I lie in bed on my side awake
listening to the clock in my ear
ticking the time for my life's sake.

I lie on my side awake in bed
knowing the pulse that I can hear
is consciousness inside my head.

I lie awake in bed on my side
and the ticking clock makes it clear
I haven't slept although I tried.

I lie on my side in bed awake
and try to pacify the fear
my ageing heart makes some mistake.

I lie awake on my side in bed
wondering, in some future year,
if I will know when I am dead.

I lie in bed awake on my side
anxious to sleep but able to cheer
another night that I haven't died.

Clouds are gregarious

I motored slowly down the road
so calm and happy, almost high
on summer weather. Long unmowed
on either side the verges showed
a silent crowd of dandelions.

Their lowly heads had not the height
to wave and billow in the breeze;
their flattened faces, packed in tight
could hardly turn and yet the sight
was sunset gold on tropic seas.

Those humble flowers, so despised
by lovers of their lawns, can still
hold up their stunted heads comprised
of tiny, complex florets and will
contest the vaunted daffodil.

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.