Tall chimneys.

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!!!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.