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.