WHITE STEPS

Mining Memories - Inspirations for Poetry....

2011-11-12T01:14:00.000-08:00

CHOCK-NOGS, FOOTLIDS & CLEATS…

MINING MEMORIES OF A

DAFT LAD!

I had only just moved to Melton Mowbray. Many of the lads had moved to the area around Asfordby from about 1987, although some of the mining pioneers like Don Povey, Andy Wilkie, Frankie Chambers and

Frankie 'Rabbit', had been over here whilst the shafts were being sunk.

The moving deal was very attractive, with men able to claim for all their solicitors’ fees, the moving costs and subsidised mortgages over about 5 years. There were stories of miners moving from terraced houses into big detached houses.

I used to laugh, thinking that the Meltonites would be twitching their curtains when the Colliers arrived in town…. Looking for evidence of Pigeon lofts, flat-caps and greyhound runs. detached houses in the outskirts of Melton Town.

Most still travelled from Coalvil

le, South Derbyshire and after 1992 – Cotgrave. A few moved to the Melton area and then moved back. I like the Melton area, but always viewed the fact that most Miner’s remained in their original communities as t

estimony of their richness and neighbourly values.

Many of you will be aware of the massive investment in Asfordby Mine. Over £360 Million. The timing of the development was terrible, in a political context. The Coalfield was found in the mid 1970’s energy crisis when OPEC raised the price of oil. The drillers were actually looking for Oil, of which there are a few pockets in the Vale, when they found the rich seam

s of Coal – The Deep Main seam being over 2 meters thick!

The Tory’s had been in power from 1979 and it was during the protracted Miners Strike of 1984 that it was being developed. In many ways the Tories presented the development as their commitment to a new kind of Coal Industry, whilst they closed what they viewed as ‘Uneconomic Pits’. In reality, it allowed them some time as there second wave of closures were planned for 1992.

I still find it incredible that they could close a major industry down so quickly and turn power generation from mainly Coal to mainly Gas! Thatcher would never forget the 1974 Miners’ Strike when the Tories were kicked out of power.

I had worked at Whitwick Colliery from 1974 as a Mining Trainee, completing my face training in 1978/79 aged just 18.

The pits in the North-West Leicestershire & South Derbyshire Coalfields, essentially one coalfield, were old. Most dated from the early1800’s. There were 26 previously privately owned pits, that were now all under the NCB:

1 Bagworth, Bagworth, Bagworth Coal Co.

2 Blackfordby, Ibstock, Holmes and Hulme.

3 Boothorpe, Swadlincote, Boothorpe Brick and Coal Co.

4 Coleorton, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Coleorton Colliery Co.

5 Donisthorpe No.1 & 2, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Checkland, Son, and Williams.

6 Ellistown, Bagworth, J. J. Ellis.

7 Heath End, Stratton Harold, John Lancaster and Company.

8 Heather, Ibstock, Heather Colliery Co.

9 Ibstock, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Ibstock Colliery Company, Limited.

10 Lindridge, Desford, H. Petrie.

11 Moira, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Lord Donnington.

12 Mount Pleasant, Woodville, Knowles and Co.

13 Nailstone, Bagworth, Joseph Thornton.

14 Netherseal, Netherseal, Netherseal Colliery Co.

15 Newfield, Burton, Knowles and Co.

16 Newfield, Woodvilles, Knowles and Co.

17 Oakthorpe, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Lord Donnington.

18 Pool Clay Pits, Woodville, Ed. and H. Ensor.

19 Plough Flats, Woodville, Capt. Ferry.

20 Potsherd, Burton~on Trent, Thomas Green.

21 Rawdon, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Lord Donnington.

22 Reservoir, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Lord Donnington

23 Snibston, Nos.1,2, & 3, Leicester, G. L Stephenson.

24 South Leicestershire, Bardon Hill, South Leicestershire Colliery Co.

25 Speedwell, Coalville, Whitwick Colliery Co., Limited.

26 Whitwick, Leicester, Whitwick Colliery Co., Limited.

I didn’t actually live in a Mining Community. We lived on the New Parks Estate on the edge of Leicester, a short distance from Desford Colliery and Coalville was about 10 miles away. My Father had been a Miner since the end of the war. I guess there were few jobs in the traditional industries of Hosiery and the ‘Boot & Shoe’ trade, so he didn’t have any previous connections to the Coal Industry. I have done some research and my Ancestors come from the Bulkington area in Warwickshire. They were Ribbon Weavers but the area had a large mining community and I wouldn't be surprised if digging a little deeper, there wasn’t some mining connection over there. In fact, if you go back far enough. Most working class families and quite a few middle class one’s have connection to our industry.

http://ithinkmining.com/2010/11/17/kate-middleton-an-english-coal-miners-daughter/.

I didn’t get on too well with my old man, so it wasn’t possible to work at Ellistown Colliery, so I chose my 'Mother Pit' – Whitwick Colliery. Whitwick was on the main bus route and aged 16 I travelled to Coalville and had an interview with Tom Hollick, the Training Officer at Whitwick Colliery.

I loved Coalville & its people. It was different in so many ways. As I

walked up Victoria Street almost everyone spoke to me, dressed in this dapper brown corduroy suit and tie! “A-up me O’d Bod” really required a translation….. I just smiled politely and nodded back. There was a warmth to these communities. All the building seemed to be Victorian and blackened by smoke. There were so many pubs! Far too many to mention….. But I used to listen to the old colliers tales of nights in ‘Polly’s’ or the ‘Vic’ the ‘Half-way-house’ and of course the Snibby Inn! There seemed a richness & closeness that was missing in so much of society.

I spent my first 4 weeks in the Lamp Cabin cleaning lamps and dusting down the shelves where the Cap Lamps were recharged. I also used to watch Jack Unwin clean and refill the Flame lamps. I wasn’t allowed to touch the Davy Lamps as they had to be closed and remain airtight. There was a Lamp Superintendent and a Baths Superintendent. I don’t know where the Superintendent bit came from, but they seemed to relish the title.

As a young boy, I would watch these characters in the morning collect their lamps, most with a final cigarette behind their ear. I would listen to the friendly banter and joshing and couldn’t wait to join them deep in the pit.

The Lamp Cabin.

A first job - just

fifteen

amongst men

freed from a

crushed existence in

coalmines.

Old miners - now

cleaning lamps

filling Davy’s

with kerosene wiping

off the dust and clay.

Jack - with his toothless

smile and deformed

creased head -

some things you just

don’t ask.

Dusting

down the shelf’s

burning the lamps

of men not

turned in

today -

for what ever

reason.

It was Dixie I overheard

saying:

“The roofs bad on 101’s

Jack – real bad”

and violently spits

a plume of dark

tobacco juice onto the

hard floor-

me - just fifteen

years old wide eyed

a voyeur

to all their trepidations

and fears.

One of my jobs was to take the Manager’s lamps to his office. These Managers were like Gods and there every movement was communicated down the line as he progressed form one area to another. Mr Bradford was his name and I always wondered how he could remember everyone’s name. There were over 1500 men working at Whitwick and he knew everyone.

After the first 4 weeks I was sent ‘On the Bank’, filling tubs with timber for the pit. We also had to load steel on to ‘Dannies’ – low trolleys used for transport. The blokes se

emed old to me at the time but I guess they were in there late 40’s. Like many of the surface staff they had been ‘retired’ from the mine following accidents. We had Jack in the PPM (Maintenance Dep’t) with a severely deformed cranium, a one armed Tally man and Loggie and Albert had opposite limps so they could only walk a certain way, with Jack on the left, Albert on the right, or there limps would be un-synchronised and they would bang their heads together!

Jack once asked me if I wanted to take some ‘Cock-Wood’ home for my mam. I didn’t know what Cock-Wood was, but they sawed me a couple of Noggins from a 9 foot bar. Everyone took wood home for there fires. So I went home proud of my logs. As I entered our front room my dad was sat in the chair and my mam was next to him. I said “Mam I’ve got you some Cock-Wood”. My dad nearly fell off the chair laughing and my mam went bright red! I’d never seen my mam blush before.

Whilst on the bank I got used to the camaraderie and learnt this new language ‘Covillian’. I also saw lots of the mining paraphernalia: Auxiliary fans, Pipe-work, Chocks, Mining machinery, air ducting etc.

There was a Saw mill and a Saddler, who I could watch all day. The Saw Mill had a roaring Coal fire where we would gather when the weather was freezing cold.

Comrades.

The sun and sky, brutally quiet -

another industrial morning where

corrugated friendships gather

and sleep is wiped out the corner

of sad red eyes.

Hulks of corroded metal

hug the earth, while the

harshness of another day

is softened by comradely

joshing.

Shared crusts of bread are

washed down with ice

cold water, floaters rise

in the glass, like moths.

We grow with each other

aching arms - aching minds

and push into another shift

like mice, like men.

I worked at Whitwick Colliery from 1974 until 1985 when I transferred to Ellistown Mine, my dad’s old pit. Lot’s of the Lads finished working altogether when Whitwick closed. These were not all old men and the change from being employed full time with all the camaraderie, to unemployment was tough for a lot of them.

Quite a few of them went to a Miners Group that was set up. They met at Snibstone Miners Welfare I believe they called it their ‘Play School’. They would go on excursions to Skegness, have horticultural shows, even basket weaving and painting lessons. There was one chap that went from being a Collier to a professional artist selling his wonderful paintings of horses. There was a feature about him in the local press. Some others struggled in accepting this new life, without the rhythms and ordinary beats of a Collier’s life, some found succour in a pint or three of Marston’s Pedigree, the strongest of local brews!

I couldn’t take advantage of the generous moving terms on offer to relocate to Asfordby Mine. My daughter was seriously ill in 1987 when I eventually transferred to the New Super Pit – Asfordby Mine. Sarah was born with Cystic Fibrosis, a genetic disease that affects 1 in 20 people in the UK. If you carry the mutated gene, there’s a 1 in 4 chance that your child has the full condition. Cystic Fibrosis affects the lungs and digestive system of patients with the cond

ition. Sustained chest infections cause scar damage to the lungs which makes it hard to breathe. Sarah was put on to the transplant register in 1990. It was one of the most heartbreaking moments when I took her along to Great Ormond Street hospital. She had to be strong enough to walk the 30 paces in the corridor yet weak enough to allow the Heart Lung Transplant team to select her for donation. Her pretty face when she managed those 30 steps, I’ll never ever forget. Sarah died aged 9 on the 21 March 1992.

It was a tough time for Lorraine, my wife and I. It was my other family the colliers who supported us and helped us get through it. Russ Miller was a Miner I first met at Asfordby. He was a ‘Bag’uth’ man

. Younger then me, he was a great character. We worked with a team of 6 others in ‘G-Head’ a drivage roadway straight out of the pit bottom. It was to be the ‘Empties Marshalling Roadway’. This was the main arterial roadway which would contain the main full & empty mine cars.

This type of development was new to all of us and to be fair, we struggled a bit at first. It was more civil engineering then mining. Everything was on such a huge scale. The arches we set were approx 5 metres wide. We did 3 sections or ‘benches’. The first section was cutting out the top section, which included roof bolting before we set the Crown. We would set about 30 arches, then a second bench was taken behind with the Dosco heading machine. We would then extend the legs by about another meter. Jeff Harris & Roger Portsmouth would then cut out with a ‘Webster’ cutter loader and set inverts. Finally the whole team would sheet up the arches and grout behind the supports, filling any gaps or voids behind. They said these roads cost £13,000 per meter. It wasn’t paying for the bonuses we earned that’s for sure. I was the team Charge Man and we always seemed to be in dispute over our contracts!

Someone brought a Jelly mould in the shape of a Rabbit and literally

hundreds of Rabbits popped up around the Pit Bottom circuit. They would make a load of Rabbits when they were flushing the Grout pipes out, with remnants of the Grout mix. Some were painted with florescent paint so you couldn’t help but spot them with your cap lamp when walking to various districts in the mine. I think they were a dig at Frankie Parker whose nick name was ‘Fwanky – Rabbit’; Frankie was our Deputy and another fantastic bloke.

G HEADING ARCHES SET AT 60MM CENTRES.

After Asfordby Mine closed Russ started up in business and brought a Guest House in Blackpool. He was very successful being such a great lad, always brilliant company. We used to go all over the UK watching Leicester City play. Once, on the way back from watching Leicester beat Stoke 3-2 we stopped off for some Fish & Chips. Russ’s Coalville mate XxXxxx, 6 Foot 2 and built like a brick outhouse weighing over 18 stone placed his order…..

“I’ll have a Large Fish & Chips, Battered Sausage, Savaloy and a Curry Sauce please……… Oh and a diet coke!!!

We never stopped laughing all the way back up the A50!

I stopped at Russ’s place a couple of times and would stay at his bar drinking and reminiscing about all the good old days and laughs we had along the way. I got to ribbing him about a time we were redeployed to some remote place in the pit replacing props that had come loose, or doing a bit of spot bolting. We had loads of spare time once we had done the jobs we were sent to do. It wasn’t at all common to be left alone like this. Anyway, we took a travel chess game along and had fiercely competitive games that lasted for what seemed like hours. I was ribbing him about beating him at Chess and him disputing my recollection of winning. I suddenly said:

“You know Russ I never understood why they sent us on those jobs, they were hardly important.”

We seemed to be dossing about for a month or more. It was only then – ten years later - that Russ told me what happened. After my little girl died, Don Povey the Colliery Overman had a word with Russ to look after me. He sent us to areas that were safe and where I couldn’t come to any harm. He was watching my back and didn’t want me in an area where my concentration might slip. What can you say? I never fail to be amazed, to this very day, in the compassion, empathy and kindness of this community and I honestly never had a clue at the time!

No such thing as society.

The mines have long gone

the empty church bells
chime for lonely skies
still.

Wet empty streets
dormant but
for the old man
stick and flat cap
heavily leaning on
a pedestrian
barrier.

The local with
boarded up windows
stands another
shell in a lost
community.

No children’s song
lifting in the breeze no
smiling mothers leaning
into
prams and push chairs

nothing

nothing

only bullet grey
skies and memories
of the old days
full of stories
when people had
hope and each

other.

For Amy & Jay On their Wedding.

2011-03-07T11:41:00.000-08:00

Any casual observer

could see

this searing love

and in their eyes

the deepest of all reachings

for the promise of tomorrow.

This wonder of

each other

that moves in

new seasons, where

calm

sultry afternoons slip

into passionate nights,

where the gentle murmur

of lovemaking and heartbeats

rise up to the heavens

embracing the moon

and the stars.

NIBBLE!!!!

2011-03-07T11:28:00.000-08:00

Great news, another poem published in the magazine Nibble!!!

I received a free copy of the printed version of the magazine!

That's a first!

The poems featured on this Blog, just scroll through the older poems section.

It's called 'The Clamour of Sundays'

DNA.

2011-03-07T11:19:00.000-08:00

DNA.

I thought I caught his

face

as I moved from the mirror

saw his walk as I lurched

through empty

streets.

Even my hands now

hold his thick veins

calluses and

wrinkled skin.

My arm falls

behind my back

in that damn same

way I

don’t smell of whisky

my chin lacks stubble

there's an absence

of violence.

He’s dead of course

and yet I feel him

in my pain

in my blood

my poetry.

2011-02-16T02:07:00.001-08:00

Snowdrops.

I don’t know why

the snowdrops

bow their heads

only that

in this new spring

sunshine

she

reminds me

of you.

The awe of happiness.

2011-01-23T03:21:00.000-08:00

It’s not all about

Rapture

Banquets, Champagne

and Caviar.

It’s the strangers

Smile on the subway.

The luxury of

buttered toast

steaming coffee

and a three bar fire.

Poems Published!

2010-12-26T11:46:00.000-08:00

Great news.....

I've recently had two more poems published. I wrote them some time ago.

There published in a new quality Emagazine here:-

http://issuu.com/theneglectedratio/docs/theneglectedratio1

Enjoy!

Bethlehem Calling.

2010-12-26T11:43:00.000-08:00

And people don’t smile

at each other anymore

don’t chat

don’t smile

take Prozac instead.

Neighbours don’t neighbour,

we do it online now

no communities anymore

even

the shopping’s delivered

by strangers in vans.

I need to change my

status

in these demanding times-

Instead I bring my hands together

In thoughts of you

and feel the

pull.

And Everything’s Wrong.

2010-08-21T04:19:00.000-07:00

And everything’s wrong

that makes it work,

from the high heel shoes,

to the short length

skirt.

From the gloomy

disposition, to the enigmatic

smile, to the possible and maybe's

to the “see you in a

while”

Every thing is stupid -

everything is sweet,

from the lilting of her

perfume,

to the painting of her

feet.

And everything is wrong

‘Cos everything is right

in the kissing of her smile

to the ending of our

night.

Of course.

2010-08-21T04:09:00.001-07:00

Of course - she lies with me

in my arms, her head to

my chest I can feel her

breath so gentle against my skin.

Of course - she walks with me

by my side, her head inclined,

to my shoulder, her hips kissing

mine with the rhythm of our

steps.

Of course - we live together

share our lives, the washing

up. We walk the dog, wash

the car. Make our bed.

Of course – we make love,

her warm silky skin,

the catching of her breath,

the wonder in her eyes.

Of course-

Of course.

Alabaster or Marble.

2010-08-13T00:21:00.001-07:00

Alabaster or Marble she

sculptures her look

resolved

to push through another day.

An armoury for survival a

perfected

indifference, a strained resistance,

she looks the other way.

Unrequited.

2010-08-09T02:45:00.000-07:00

I guess I kinda love her

In an impossible way

In a fanciful way

In a whimsical way

I guess I kinda love her.

I guess I kinda want her

In a curious way

In a mysterious way

In some kinky kinda way

I guess I kinda want her.

I guess I kinda need her

In a selfish kinda way

In a greedy kinda way

in a needy kinda way

I guess I kinda need her.

St. Swithin's Day

2010-07-19T00:10:00.000-07:00

She would have been twenty eight

today.

I felt some guilt at the overgrown

grave, the weeds and long grass.

Already someone else has laid a small

bouquet.

I get the tools from the car

and trim and cut in the still

summer silence.

I arrange the flowers as best I can

asking her to help me, she knows

what I’m like. I place the soft toy between

the two bouquets, hazarding at symmetry.

Only ten when we lost her.

Standing back at last the work all done

I wait for some sort of spiritual message.

Nothing.

I look for some sign in the clouds,

maybe a rustle in the trees.

Nothing.

On the drive back I remember

as I stood on her grave cutting

grass, pulling weeds:

“Hurry up Dad, you weigh a ton!”

and the flicking of her hair out of her

eyes, head thrown back

that cheeky mischievous grin

and realise she was with me all the time.

Selima Hill

2010-07-01T14:21:00.000-07:00

A wonderful poet I've recently found.... Knockout and her books in the post!!!!

Her heart is like a room full of roses

that fall apart

like dry white wounds;

her heart is like a garden full of wounds

that know that pain

needs them and aches for them.

From 'Violence'

Lust.

2010-03-29T03:08:00.000-07:00

We couldn’t hear the wailings

of the betrayed nor the calm

breathing of the innocents.

Our heads thrown back

singing to Satan - you

wide open, over the baby

grand, on the stairs,

in your shower.

Always so hungry

never satiated - I adored

the taste of you -

the smell of you.

Much later we lay

rotting in the shadow

of our guilt.

The clamour of Sundays.

2010-03-07T12:45:00.000-08:00

Nine o’clock church

bells always come

like the seasons.

I went to Church now

and then a Baptism, a wedding

or two,

buried my child.

Once, I waited at the

Vicarage,

hoping for someone.

I might have been an

ancient druid

stomping around some

ruins marching

time.

A lifetime.

2010-03-07T10:03:00.000-08:00

And to think one day
I’ll lie down with them.

Maybe I’ll get the news
reel thing going on

remembering.

My mam and dad,
sisters and brothers.

Us staying awake all night fucking
ourselves silly in Skeggy.

Our children-
living and dying.

Lying down at last with
the rest of them.

Thinking it didn’t last long
that -

lifetime.

Detritus

2010-02-21T05:38:00.000-08:00

A
bin liner bag,
clothes
of a dead man,
a watch
still ticking
darned socks
grey pants a
snake belt.

I collected it-
father-
two days dead
and noticed
behind,
thirty others
bags,
all in rows
other dead
other bags.

Rain in Aberfan.

2010-02-21T05:13:00.000-08:00

We peel the caterpillars
from Poplar trees,
gather frozen cobwebs
this frosty morn

only eight years
old the fates
already formulated
on roads of destiny.

Rain falls across
the empty playground
childless now-
a screaming silence.

Shadows of mums and dads
stall, unrecoverable,
wasting a few more hours
a few more days.

Shelly.

2010-02-18T09:21:00.000-08:00

You could never
forget Shelly,
with his be-bop-a-lu-la
- Gene Vincent at
six o’clock on
the manrider
train.

The flume of baccy
juice at his feet,
an act to the management,
“not too close
sunshine”,
"don’t step on my
men."

Brothers underground -
carrying Tommy Collier
out the pit twice in a
week.
A camaraderie
I grieve to have
lost.

I wish I could have
spoken to him
in those last days,
joking
in his wheelchair,
running the nurses
ragged at 63.

I could have told him:
thanks for
pointing me the
right way,
thanks for the humility
the grace and honesty
of a real man -
for your hand at
my weakest time,
for your
truth
Shelly -
for a friendship
hewn in
Anthracite.

Now
the tools
all rodded up,
your snap box empty,
water gone.
Rest now mucca,
the ratch is won.

For Mick Sheldon, my mucca.
Passed away 2005.

Note: a ratch was 10 yards of coal blasted and hand filled by one man during his shift. roughly 10 ton of coal.

Gestures

2010-02-13T13:45:00.000-08:00

Her words like
antique ink
sunken into vellum
read a million
times - sunk into me.

Fold lines that fold
themselves
like hinges - a door
to memories
of us -
words dancing
across the
meadow of her
page
the riches of
other days.

Be careful how you
open her
the toughness - the
moxie a
masquerade she
kills with
miniscule gestures.

2009-10-04T12:38:00.001-07:00

Entangled in you
your eyes your
head entangled
in you

Entangled in you
your arms your legs
your mind your
bed
entangled in you.

Every Road.

2009-08-17T01:08:00.000-07:00

Every road

inclined

as weighted

days and

weighted limbs

collide.

Children

scurry through

his minds as bright

as the morning

sun.

Eyes of piercing

certainty

truth and grace

embrace these

last scenes

and hold them in his

mind like

luke warm

wine.

2009-08-13T16:11:00.000-07:00

The Cement Garden.

A warm incestuous writhe

of bramble and honeysuckle,

the sweet decay a funeral cologne.

I taste your marzipan breath

yet suffocate waiting for your eyes

that stall and never reach me.

In your garden the rain sounds a

discord of our coupling – a gentle

trespass playing summer’s saddest

symphony.

Promises

2009-07-17T13:14:00.000-07:00

We promised each other the little
things – for tomorrow.
Prayed for lottery wins
when first steps passed us by.
Baby laughs and chuckles from
some other room.

Days slipped by with death
around the corner – thoughts
that death was for the old
not for the young.

Waiting for the next pay
cheque - the next weekend -
anxiety scurrying through
minds like starlings trapped
in the loft.

We promised each other the little
things for tomorrow
while birds sang in other
trees - in other skies.

2009-06-30T01:32:00.000-07:00

The sun and sky, brutally quiet -

another industrial morning where

corrugated friendships gather

and sleep is wiped out the corner

of sad red eyes.

Hulks of corroded metal

hug the earth, while the

harshness of another day

is softened by comradely

joshing.

Shared crusts of bread are

washed down with ice

cold water, floaters rise

in the glass, like moths.

We grow with each other

aching arms - aching minds

and push into another shift

like mice, like men.

The Boulevard.

2009-06-08T11:50:00.000-07:00

It was streetlight that
shone in their bedroom -
streetlight.

No stars or moon no
sunshine - the room
ached in its dull thudding.

The children slept three
to a bed, they slept in -
threes.

They wove stories
and dreams huddled
against the naked cold.

In the dark,
panelled light plays
on the nested innocence
of their eyes.

An arrowhead of
promise whipped
circularly over
their heads.

The granite of
tomorrow
still
in the ground.

2009-04-23T03:02:00.000-07:00

Aberfan

I didn’t lose God from

theological argument

or scientific dialectics.

I lost him in Aberfan

in Vietnam in

empty cupboards

childhood hunger

bread and jam.

Here are my feet.

2009-04-01T09:25:00.000-07:00

Here is my clitoris

you need to know

what makes me tick

own me from

head to toe

here is my clit.

And here is my heart,

I wear it upon my

sleeve its so easy

to see raw - pink

and throbbing,

here is my heart.

Here is my mind so -

so grey - see through

almost translucent

fertile - a newly ploughed

field words fizzing out

of the furrows -

here is my head.

And here – here are my

feet,

I stay - I remain -

paint them up

red just for

you -

my feet –

here are

my feet.

Aunty Pat

2009-03-28T11:31:00.000-07:00

The weather weighted down on all of us -

the corporate suits, December tans –

indifferent others.

Her funeral just fifteen minutes,

this the very limit of her allocation.

The Vicar, his hollow voice, electronic

echo - somewhere buried beneath his pulpit

that mucky mag’ - one eye on the clock,

false tight lips.

Only half her family there - some dispute.

Just ten people present, this then, her throng.

Sixty years ago she worked those twelve hour

night-shifts making ammunition for the War effort.

Fifty years ago she laboured in childbirth pushing

new life into an uncertain, fractured world.

I had visited her in the home she was already cold

the radio still switched on, she of the wireless

generation.

And as I walked away from the ‘Crowd’ I realised

they didn’t know me and they didn’t even know her.

She lives.

2009-03-27T05:11:00.000-07:00

She lives in a room next
to a room she lives
in a room next to a room she may
live in

An annexe she lives in an attic she lives in an
image she made she lives it for others
she lives? In a glasshouse an out-
house she lives in her mind

She lives in an idea of what she maybe
what she could be what he wants her to be
what others want her to be a mother a
daughter a lover some saint a lady
a whore a goddess - a shadow of
A fu*k - a suck - a hole

She lives in a space inside a void
below a hole under some rubbish they
piled up she lives in a bonfire in a cardboard
fu*king box under a bridge like a fu*king
troll. She lives - She lives? She lives?

She exists in every street every neighbourhood
every avenue every boulevard every where
She goes on and she lives behind the mask
she wears for him for you for them
But not for me She lives in me – in
my mind in my soul I know her I love her
and I’m fu*king angry for her!

Only coffee.

2009-03-25T11:25:00.001-07:00

It was only a coffee -

she entered with a quiet grace,

a touch of tiredness in her eyes

a smile so young – so very young.

Wisps of blond hair on her

neck as I removed her coat

something moved within me.

Quickly added mascara on

eyes that yearn for love

somehow – somehow

I can taste her lips yet

only kiss her pale angelic

cheek, time as fragile as those

wisps of hair

sadly.....

it was only a coffee.

One Night Stanzas....

2009-03-20T12:21:00.000-07:00

Whoops.....................................

Well they actually did it! Yep - they Feature my poems here:

http://www.readthismagazine.co.uk/onenightstanzas/?tag=featured-poet-roger-cornish

.....................and I thought they had changed their minds!

Enjoy.

Voices in the trees.

2009-03-19T12:39:00.001-07:00

You can hear them, hear them

in the fossils underfoot

beneath us, underneath us,

in the rich carboniferous seams

trapped with the ferns, the brackens

of prehistoric times. Hear them in

village names, Silverdale,

Calverton, Bilsthorpe, their souls

remain, listen to them, listen

to their voices - the wind in the trees

you can hear them, calling, calling.

Tenner.

2009-02-06T09:41:00.001-08:00

Her days were too long, nights

even longer, as she turned in his

empty space, felt the damp pillow

on her pale cheek.

She had put all the photographs

away, wrapped in newspaper,

in envelopes, deep in drawers,

she put them in a tin, hid them

in the attic.

She couldn’t have him smiling

down from shaded walls, sat

shrouded in an old grey cardigan,

in the quiet violence of her afternoon.

Tall chimneys.

2009-01-12T09:13:00.000-08:00

Pulling chalk out of dirt my little

sister draws on cold pavements-

a cottage - tie back curtains -

smoke pouring from tall

chimneys - a roaring

fire in the hearth.

Even in childhood there’s agony

in bare walls, a naked light bulb

and empty cupboards.

Published!!!

2009-01-11T07:02:00.000-08:00

I'm really pleased to anounce some advancement in the publication of my work...
I have recently been published on the poetry web site 'Gloom Cupboard'

http://www.gloomcupboard.com/

The title is 'Aunty Pat' and is in issue #73. Please take a look.

In addition, I am to be featured poet on the 'One Night Stanza' web site around March 16th. This article will contain an interview and at least 3 of my poems.

http://www.readthismagazine.co.uk/onenightstanzas/

Thanks everyone for continuing to read and support my work.

Roger. X.

A simple truth.

2009-01-07T12:04:00.000-08:00

She sleeps at my side
her breath caresses my
face.

Our years of laughter -
mini disasters –
the little tragedies -
have left the slightest
lines on her face,
at the edges of her eyes,
around her lips.

I search her calm face,
her eyes move in morning
dreams, her chest
rises and falls – rises and falls.

“You don’t even know
me” -

she had said last night –

“you don’t even know
…me”

words that lacerate
and break -
waves on shores of
anxiety.

For all our time,
all our seasons,
it’s a simple truth.

The Lamp Cabin.

2009-01-06T11:55:00.000-08:00

A first job - just
fifteen
amongst men
freed from a
crushed existence in
coalmines.

Old miners - now
cleaning lamps
filling Davy’s
with kerosene wiping
off the dust and clay.

Jack - with his toothless
smile and deformed
creased head -
some things you just
don’t ask.

Dusting
down the shelf’s,
burning the lamps
of men not
turned in
today -
for what ever
reason.

It was Dixie I overheard
saying:
“The roofs bad on 101’s
Jack – real bad”
and violently spits
a plume of dark
tobacco juice onto the
hard floor.

Me - just fifteen
years old
wide eyed
a
voyeur
to all their trepidations
and fears.

(A bit indulgent.....

Me bottom row third from left.
Around 1995 Asfordby Colliery
Leicestershire. Now closed)

The Ramones.

2009-01-06T11:47:00.000-08:00

A young man

struts past

burgundy hair,

Ray-ban’s perched

on his head

wearing that

Ramone’s

T-shirt.

Attitude in his

walk

maybe a Saab 900

convertible

parked

around some corner

it makes me

angry

and

I’m shocked at this

feeling.

Last night I

dreamt about my

friend who’s dying-

waiting for a new

heart he

won’t

get.

He wanted to sell

me some

turf - in this

dream -

and he walked me

into his garden.

A flood was

washing all

his turf

away –

this torrent

the

ground

collapsing

washing all his

turf

away.

And

you know what…..

I can’t get that

shirt

outta my

head

that

fuc**ng

shirt.

No such thing as society.

2009-01-06T11:38:00.000-08:00

The mines have long
gone the empty
church bells
chime
against another
lonely sky-
still.

Wet empty streets
dormant
but for the old man
stick and flat cap
heavily leaning
on a pedestrian
barrier.

The local -
boarded up
windows -
a shell - a lost
community.

No children’s song
lifting
in the breeze no
smiling
mothers leaning
into
prams
and push chairs,

nothing only
bullet grey
sky and memories
of the old days
full of stories
when people had

people - had
hope.

The fire.

2008-10-16T14:38:00.000-07:00

There was always menace in the myriad

of colours dancing in the fire, the blues

greens, multi-oranges and yellow-reds.

Those clicks, cracks, pops and snaps.

The sudden shifting, falling of embers

and ash, framed in this dark fisted silence.

And those shadows convulsing on the wall,

a haunting raving of arms and heads.

Eyes protruding from emaciated heads.

He spat into the fire after a deep clawing -

harvesting the phlegm from his congested

lungs. The contagion - his poison exposed.

Gritty

2008-09-27T03:41:00.000-07:00

This poem was motivated by a comment from a friend when we were discussing the qualities of Charles Bukowski's poetry....... she said she didn't like his poetry, that "It was too gritty"

And as a lover of Bukowsi's work I wanted to hit back (lol) I do hope it makes you smile....

Gritty.

“I don’t like your poetry” She say’s

“Too Gritty!”

And fucks me with her tongue -

Golden flecks in her eyes

hypnotic.

She grips my buttocks with

crisscrossed ankles

tearing into my back with her

filthy nails - there’s blood.

She wrings my insides

pulls her dirty knees

up for depth and smiles.

She holds the back of my

neck tightly.

“your poetry - brat boy

is shit -

far too

Gritty!”

Scarlet shoe.

2008-09-22T07:44:00.000-07:00

You run through

unseen lanes

my mind

trampled nettles

wild primroses

why

back so

soon?

I taste you

still from

before

on my lips

in my

throat

a cough.

Time’s blowing

through the

tree tops

as I search the

sky -

you in

some other

country

I’m

laying on

damp grass

observing

my loss

in winter’s

other

sky

so cold-

so empty

That aura of

youth

dancing in

auburn hair

now lies

single scarlet

stiletto

dismembered

in a

ditch.

Her room.

2008-08-31T12:32:00.000-07:00

The

heavy beat

of the

clock -

the missing

plume of

cigarette smoke

gentle rising –

no fire in her

grate.

empty chair

sits soaked

with her

form

its

threadbare arm

from a

million

gentle strokes.

Dust burdened

bookshelves

stand

ridiculously redundant.

Her radio

silent

whilst cheap-

priceless trinkets

parade from

some other age.

She had chuckled

“I eat no more then

a Bird now

Son…….

no more then

a bird”.

No welcoming

kettle rattling

cooker tops

imperceptible

twitching

of nicotine

net

curtains.

Outside the

still

sky stands

waiting-

waiting

whilst

homing pigeons

circle-

and never

land.

Fairy Steps.

2008-08-15T11:38:00.000-07:00

She put a wall around her

garden

to keep the strangers

out.

Wore a shawl around her

shoulders

to keep her warm

inside.

Always wore a smile

yet deep inside she

cried.

She shuffled little

fairy steps-

was careful not to

stride.

She cuddled with herself

at night

and kept her hurt

alive.

A miracle.

2008-08-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

You sit a salt and pepper

pot away - the late summer

sun lighting up your face a half smile

teasing across your lips but

this is not a miracle.

There’s something in the

way you hold your glass

offering it in slow light steps

toying, playing, yet

this is not a miracle.

You subconsciously wipe the

wrinkles from your summer

skirt and cross your suntanned

legs, lift your face to the fading

day and I know

this is not a miracle.

Night slowly chases away the

day and we climb in bed together

and I search inside your eyes

once more as we dance our dance

and I know this is a

miracle.

How tall the Trees.

2008-08-12T10:17:00.000-07:00

How tall the

Trees

forgiving of all

fate’s

seasons

How tall

the

Trees.

How quiet the

Stream

meandering,

cutting

shaping,

the landscape,

how quiet that

Stream.

How empty the

Sky

today,

unthreatening

yet, always

tomorrow’s canvas

those blue

empty

Skies.

And Time’s

shadow- heavy

laden

on the wall

waiting-

waiting

Time’s aching

shadow.

And how incredible

the cry of the

newborn

baby

how wondrous

innocent-

beautiful

that cry.

And Tomorrow-

Another day

flowing into

us,

across us,

beyond us,

upon us-

just

Another

day.

Summer rain.

2008-07-29T12:48:00.000-07:00

Summer rain

breaking the heat

lightly caressing your

skin

the soft lush grass

pushing between

toes

as the

image of you

lifts

me -

lifts me.

Honey hair

a summer

smile a

brassiere strap

falling onto a

shoulder with a

promise

the shimmering of your

pleated skirt

inviting

inviting.

something in the way

you move…..

capturing me -

capturing

me.

White steps

2008-07-29T12:32:00.000-07:00

I never actually saw my mother with

a cock in her mouth, but I could have done –

Arms in Belfast sinks full of pots - hour

after hour - clothes boiling on the

gas hob – the smell enough to tarnish poverty

itself.

I never actually saw her like

that - but remember her fingers burning

on that cast smoothing iron the spit zipping off.

Ladling plate after plate of porridge

to hungry mouths – sat around an open

fire – like birds in a nest - vests stretched over

scabby knees broken fruit boxes burning

too swiftly and gone – ashes.

I never ever saw her like that - yet

life dealt her and her kind an evil hand -

drunken men in every house whilst Bairn’s went

hungry - wives painted white steps in their

back-to-backs while the secrets stayed behind

closed doors and minds were ruined - twisted for-

ever.

I never saw my mam with a cock in

her mouth – not with my eyes anyway.

Just the rats scurrying in rain filled

gutters feeding on the rancid vomit

of man.

True Soldiers

2008-07-20T15:06:00.000-07:00

Pull the string – flick the switch

True Soldiers never did this

No Virgins - just your head over

There

a look of startled surprise

Killing women – little kids

True Soldiers never did this.

Warriors – crusaders – martyrs

Pick your tag - put you in

A body bag

Then clear up your murderous mess

True soldiers never did this.

Pick a cause – any cause

Like cards out a pack

Listen to the clever one’s rant

Poison your mind while you

Suck them off

Then walk slowly to your wasted death

True Soldiers never did this.

And the tomorrow of another

Fool - certain of everlasting life

Is waiting in your steps

To once again slaughter as many

As he can

True Soldiers never did this.

A small death.

2008-07-20T14:28:00.000-07:00

There was no wailing

screaming

groaning

no precipice

just some small death on

the other side of

town.

A sad silent

loss

anonymous -

quietly slipping

away a lost

footing on

a cobbled street.

Death - a sad sack

the

last heavy breath

now the

hopelessness

a cold touch - on his

headstone

Names engraved

on cold

marble an

immortal script.

An empty vase

sits whilst

somewhere

nails screech on

blackboard

A small death

the other

side of

town.

This.

2008-07-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

I’m sharing your night as the

secret rain pains across open

windows

your eyes hold on to me

as your fingers try to get into skin

my chest - my back your

sad, lonely, eyes already

there.

Together, alone – between us

just

the dark - we are soothed by

the hiss of passing cars

on cold wet roads,

yellow lights slowly dance

around the room and on your

honey skin - you

sigh and I know this

- this.

Thoughts, hopes,

chase across a void

some empty mind - I

tremble while cold alleys

echo

we hold each other

still. I feel your ankles

crisscross my flank

as I soften inside of

you.

Together we share each

other –

this

feeling

a slow pealing scab

from healing skin. You

me and the night –

This.
This.

And a single

Tear.

Dorset girl.

2008-07-04T14:43:00.000-07:00

You’re with me

down lonely lanes

the sweet scent of

wild Honeysuckle -

Pink Foxgloves

tip-i-toeing

‘look-at-me’

you say –

you’re with me.

You’re with me in

the soft collapse of

every breaking wave

a light mysterious

breath -

caresses me a

gentle kiss your

crystalline reflection -

you’re with me.

You’re with me as I pull

the lonely crumpled sheets

across bare shoulders

while quiet shadows close in

a strange moonlight lulls

me to sleep-

you’re with me.

You’re with me at night,

Pink Valerian dreams

as we love again in

fields of Meadowsweet

you’re with me.

Episodes of you.

2008-06-05T12:39:00.000-07:00

I lie with my head in

your lap where all my

dreams are met

where your rose water

moves you in circles

of delirium.

Where you push

back against me

where my boy-

hood got mixed up

with life.

The sky outside

is crying again

as tomorrows

weeping children

lean out of the shadows

of brutality.

Episodes of you -

battalions

of you engulf me

wave after wave

medieval battles

hand to

hand.

And you defeat

push your

lance right

through my

heart

and now I

look up

head in your

lap –

defeated in love.

Imprison me

2008-05-28T09:41:00.000-07:00

Imprison me in May where we

meet in our secret lane

you - beautiful and naked under your

simple shift dress.

Hold me hostage in this moment where

arms crossed you slip out

of your clothes - creamy skin

the treasure of your breasts.

Capture me as I pull off my jeans

tear off my T – Shirt naked

ready for us as I lay

you down.

Make love with me amongst the

Dog violets and Cecile

Where clouds of Hawthorn blossom

meet your heavenly gaze.

Remember this always as

unhindered by your everyday -

life – you laugh and slumber

in this our sultry dance.

Linger in this stolen moment as fertile as

the month - walk away from

me full of our love with new life –

our own white cloud

growing within.

I drink at the Altar of you.

2008-05-20T11:07:00.000-07:00

I drink at the Altar of you

Your back arcs in ecstasy

As thunder clouds hide behind

Ancient Mountains

Your eyes glorious Gazanias

As the nib

Of me navigates you

Searching – searching

I scallop your bottom

Thirsting in this

River of my desire

An arid lusting

As Jets leave your nail marks

In the sky

And this is for me a

Selfish sustenance

My cravings - this lascivious hunger

For you my love

For you.

Callow Top

2008-05-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

Your waiting on the ridge

of Callow Top swaying in

the Holt.

The new Moon caresses

you with a promise

of tomorrow.

The sweet smell of your

blossom enriches me -

enters me.

As the blanket of our open

meadow unfolds for -

us.

In the darkness - snowy

Whitethorn embraces

Laburnum in nature’s

hustings.

Whilst even the virgin

white flowers of Nettles

entice me in.

Was that you?

2008-05-16T09:57:00.000-07:00

Was that you

the low morning

Sun, shimmering in the

glade,

smiling?

Was that you

a chill chasing up

my spine, a wild Orchid

in the breeze,

swaying?

Was that you

a brilliant

Red Admiral

fluttering

just two inches

from my face
dancing?

Was that you

my little

girl

always

nine years old

nine years old,

was that you?

Gin and Knitting Needles.

2008-04-26T13:25:00.000-07:00

There was violence in her legs

it resonated up her spine fed the

synapses in her brain fell from the

edges of her mouth shot from her eyes.

A stifled suppressed violence

blanketed by darkness and lore.

‘With my body I thee worship’.

She had no choice but to endure

this violation –her husband’s

want – he reads her signals all wrong

the anger. Something else she hates -

the way her body reacts wet lubricated

but reluctant-willing? Animalistic even?

He rolls off - farts and wipes himself on

grubby sheets while she quietly weeps into

her pillow, pulls down her nightgown her

knees up, as his semen runs from her and she

wants it out of her;

OUT! OUT! OUT!

This the night of my conception.

Weeks later she attempts to kill me.

Gin and Knitting needles a red hot bath

stabbing, piercing, lancinating through her

cervix, a devastated crying, weeping drunk,

sweating in bloodstained water, those long

cruel devastating, size six knitting needles.

Can’t even afford the two pounds for back

street Annie.

Yet I grew on. Another nine months gone

and she’s so very scared as Aunty Pat wipes

the sweat from her brow as this - a simple

berth in some back room naturally takes it’s

course….

“It’s a bonny lad Edna…and he’s

all right - he’ll be alright Edna, he’s ok – fine,

he’ll be alright….. he will!”

And I’m number five child, one other

dead - stillborn - there’s two more to

go and many more nights of violence

and violation. But never - never again

knitting needles or hot baths. The

occasional Gin though – call it survival

also helps with the guilt call it anaesthetic.

**“Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, to cherish and continually bestow upon him your heart’s deepest devotion, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him as long as you both shall live?

Magnolia blossom

2008-04-15T11:26:00.000-07:00

The rain gently patters on the

Windows-

Whispering your

Sweet secrets as

Our long afternoon seems

Stalled in beauty-

This Beauty of You.

And your smile is a

Chorus of all

Your wondrous being

Singing just for

Me-

Just me.

So if I could capture our

Moment in some Jar

Screw down this moment

For us – for eternity -

To re-visit again and again-

Then I would.

Instead of witnessing

This beauty like the

Delicacy

Of Magnolia Blossom

So enriching and yet so

Fleeting

And duly

Gone!

She’s got it.

2008-04-13T03:42:00.001-07:00

She’s oblivious

of her beauty

what it

does to me

bringing me her

femininity -

her grace -

spring buds of

love.

Her hair the colours

of corn fields
flowing

like a river

shaping her pretty face

a gilt
frame - those

brown eyes

just a hint of

sultry

desire.

She brings me
Strawberry afternoons

where the Sun kisses
our skin

as we lay in the

arms of each

other.

She brings me

old love songs

with new

meaning -

the

rich promise of

tomorrow’s

nirvana.

She’s unaware of

her glamour her

style her elegance-

her

felicity.

and me?

I sit in

the cobwebs of

my dark afternoon

and watch her -

observe her

in my

mind.

And we’re

dancing – in her

warm - sultry

enchantedness

we embrace as

she smiles and turns

my insides to

custard.

She’s blind to

my love as

another day slips

over another

empty horizon

yet - she sings to me

in her smile

in her

movement

in her aura -

in this

her

dreamy

seduction.

Tracks.

2008-04-06T14:01:00.000-07:00

Another missed train

pulling out of the tracks

of your mind boy

rattling, rattling - over

your joints

every joint –

boy.

You missed another

journey boy

another chance to

escape the

smoking chimney stacks

scared streets

screaming, screaming

hopeless children

empty days

empty days.

That train was a

chance boy

a chance and

what do you

do with chances

boy

you talk, talk, talk.

to yourself

like some fucked up

automaton

Miss the next one

boy the next

one

listen to your

lonely

masturbatory

voice boy

death rattling

through your

mind boy

like the tracks

like the

fuc*ing tracks

of life.

Room 9.

2008-03-30T01:40:00.000-07:00

It was never meant to start like this a

seedy hotel – room number 9 that thread-

bare carpet – walls and shadows echoing

our guilt.

You had gripped my hand tighter as the landlady,

fag hanging from her lips, no teeth - had said

“ Mr & Mrs Jones I expect ?” and pointed to

our room.

Passion made us short of breath, yet somehow

the smell of dead dust mixed with the scent

of us added to our excitement.

You undressed hanging your clothes over the

back of that single chair the light from passing

traffic chinking lines of orange glow on

to your camisole – On/Off On/Off teasing me.

As you slipped under the cold covers our

skin seared together our first stolen moments

as you whispered “ Undress me Rog – undress

me”

Today I drive past our ‘Ritz’ and

remember that night me and Mrs Jones

made love amongst the stars and dust of

room number 9.

As today, somewhere else, you lay in the

arms of another, warm, and dust free.

My River

2008-03-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

She’s calm this night

My River.

The Moon’s nestled

Quietly between the rocks

Settled

In these calm waters,

That slip quietly to my runnels

Or Ruin?

Silver Waters

Shimmering, softly, serenely.

Calm now, yet

A Torrent not far

Away

That tumult

Digging at My Footings

Bedrock

To slurry

My foundation to

Marl.

Other times

Accepting this

Onslaught

Facing into the

Torment

Hysterical at this obscene suffering

Enjoying

Flourishing

Smashing my face against Rocks

Ripping one’s skin to

Ribbons

Life’s lacerations

Life’s acceleration

Out of control

Did I conspire with

Fate

Goad on this

Loathing

Or is this foaming

River

Affliction

Sins of

Fathers

Laid upon

Their

Son’s

Is that my

Curse?

Oh how you could have saved

And Tomorrow’s

River

Tomorrow?

Confetti rain

2008-03-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

He never managed to find

Himself despite searching

In the eyes of a thousand women

Like those hand-in-hand

Paper cut-outs Dolls.

He brought them all perfume

And wild roses wrapped up

In coloured paper

But still he was lost.

He would take them dancing

Swirling them around until

Midnight exploring their every

Twist and twirl always

Searching their fair faces

For the One.

He had a child in almost every

Town with too many of these Dolls-

Too many names to remember

But he never did find him-

Self.

They’ll be no more lifting of skirts

Or moonlight walks home

In that confetti rain

His searching has to be over

And he finds himself still

Very much

Alone.

Sinners

2008-03-28T15:07:00.000-07:00

In our wake

The litany

Of our clothes:

We never even

Reached

The Bed.

Our

Sighs and Moans

Spill

Into the shadows

Secrets.

And

It’s not in

Post coital

Clumsiness

Or even in

The

Ridiculousness

Of a twisted sock

In-side-out

Pants.

It’s Afterwards

Back in the

Party

When

Holding

His

Hand

You won’t

Meet

My eyes

That’s when

Feel

It:

SINNERS!

To catch a moment

2008-03-28T14:33:00.000-07:00

I’ll never paint a masterpiece

In my poetry,

No Rembrandt – Renoir

No Monet – Matisse.

I might paint a nice

Water colour, posted in

Some village hall.

Someone might say

In passing “Oh that’s

Nice.... He caught a

Moment there”

And I’d be chuffed –

Chuffed to bits at that

That catching of a

Moment.

That’s enough –

Enough for

Me.

POST-IT-NOTES

2008-03-28T13:16:00.000-07:00

She said it over her shoulder

As I dropped her off

At the Nail Bar…

“Lovvvvvvvve Yoooooooou!

She whispered it to

Crumpled head on

My Crumpled Pillow

The morning after the night before…

“I Love You!”

She Sighed it as we

Made Love

Sat over me

Her hair falling into my

Face…

“Oh.. I Love you…. “

She Shouted it

AT ME

During a silly

Fight…

BECAUSE I FUCKING LOVE

YOU!

But the best

The Best:

She was out with the Girls

I’m in with the Telly,

I fetch a Cold Beer from

The Fridge

And on that Beer, A

POST-IT-NOTE

“I love you!”

Silence

2008-03-27T15:51:00.000-07:00

I always loved the silence,

That emptiness - a calm

Moment lost down some lonely

Summer’s winding path.

Where the sky quietly slips

Over the slow pointless

Revolving earth - gently

Embracing land and sea.

I always enjoyed the silence

The pause where the Rabbit’s

Ears come up his - eyes

Alert ready for flight

I always marvelled at

The silent Swifts

Hurtling through those

Skies

Dancing together all

Summer long.

I always love the silence of your face

When that look say’s

Everything and nothing

When I can see the rhythm

Of your heartbeat gently

Pulsing in your neck

I love the silence

Of us together

Lying alone in crisp

Cotton sheets

Soft skin just touching

Time standing so still

The silence of life’s

Afternoon.

Think of me.

2008-03-25T12:57:00.000-07:00

Get ya’self some

Morrison’s classic Walnut

Ice cream

And think of me!

Think of me when you spoon it

Slowly in your mouth

Your lips closing

Around the spoon

Feeling that cold

Velvety sensation

Think of me!

When you get that

Brandy ‘hit’ slowly

Pull out the spoon giving

It that sensual

Lick

Your lips so full and moist

Your eyes doing a

“Yes – Yes – Yes”

Like in that

Film

Think of me!

Luxuriate in that

Creamy sensation

Lay your legs out

On that Couch lick out

The bowl

Stretch your toes and…

Think of me!

Eyes can’t lie.

2008-03-23T13:14:00.000-07:00

She awakes – he awakes

into another lonely

day –

where

the minute hand of every

clock

torments in its

sad turning.

He had entered her -

they shared her warm

velvet intimacy

she gives – he takes

yet afterwards

their both

defeated.

Cold rain beats

down

empty, stale -

heart chambers

echo to a deep

hungering.

Outside you can hear

the loneliness

blowing through

the trees

whistling its barren

strain.

She can’t live this

life in the melody

of some old love

song.

Look at her

beautiful eyes –

they never

lie.

She’s not looking

for

absolution –

just love.

For you...

2008-03-23T08:35:00.001-07:00

Home again....

The warm shadows

Soften your nakedness,

Undulating curves of sensuality,

Sculptured - a Rodin - for me.

I try and keep my breathing quiet

As I sit on the very edge of our bed,

Marvelling in your beauty - drinking

You in - I kiss the back of your calves;

“I love you”

I kiss you softly behind the knee;

“Oh I love you”

I softly glide my hand across the

Whiteness of your thigh

Across your sweet bottom.

You roll over – smiling

- Eyes still closed –

Your hair - all over.

I kiss your sex and you open up

Like poetry.

I mentally grin as I think of

‘Cummings’

“....Your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me...”

As I devour you...

“...or if you wish to close me, I and my life will shut.... ”

You hold my head like a baby

Caressing and guiding me...

“I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;

Only something in me understands the voice of your eyes

Is deeper then all roses...”

And I love the taste of you -

Autumn leafs...

“....Nobody, not even the rain, has such

small hands....”

It’s for you.

.X.

Secret poetry

2008-03-23T06:30:00.000-07:00

If I were ever to leave

a book of poetry

planted – hidden

in some wood

I would not inscribe

it or dedicate it to you.

Each poem may touch

you, be special just -

for you - written only

for you- held only in

your hand - in your

mind.

Inspired only by your

beauty, your sultry

delicious mischievous

smile -

my paramour.

Read secretly yet - aloud

your voice re-capturing

every phrase –word

an oral embrace

remembering – remembering

our acts of love.

Place it back in its

place for other days

other breathless trysts

where fast heart beats

lead to elevated passion

stolen moments to

savour.

I will not inscribe it nor

dedicate it to you my

love-

For your in every line

every heartbeat

every movement

every thought-

my poetry is

you.