Poems Published!

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.

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.

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.

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-

Of course.

Alabaster or Marble.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.