Fall

Let me row to sea my love,

then behind closed eyes

and unrequited sighs,

let me ratify this truce to come

and stitch winter to my skin.

Let me relent to the tide my love,

and when I’m distant

and my touch seems dead,

let me breath in salt from darker waves

and stitch winter to my skin.

Party

Pry words

like stubborn

mussels off my tongue

It’s been this way

from before I

can remember

You see me

seek anchor

wispy plastic bag

in the swell

Wander my way

you lonely island

Sugar on Lemon

You can still just 

about pinch at summer

if you’re nimble

and are able

to sprinkle imagination

sugar on lemon

sun on cold steps

You can still just

about scratch out affection

if you’re sanguine

and are able

to see beyond lost time

sugar on lemon

white wine on ice

I'm a Fool to Want You

I’m a fool 

to want you

I’m a stringless kite

and you’re the sky

The ground doesn’t want me

yet I can’t much fly

I’m a fool

to hold you

I’m a child’s toy boat

and you’re the sea

I’m forlorn on the shore

yet your waves break me

to want a love 

that can’t be true

I'm a buoy on the tide
and you're the moon

I'm pulled by your body
a tethered balloon

Goodnight America

And I think you see we’re reopening NASA, we’re going to space,

bellowed Trump to Duluth, wafting his arms as though ushering the past to catch up.

Duluth replied in chant,

Space Force! Space Force! Space Force! 

Trump nodded on their rhythm, his chin tightening into pockmarks

as the smugness in his face for a moment congregated in a pursed grin.

Space Force!

he barked, quieting Duluth, who could doubtless have carried their

latest mantra through the crisp Minnesota night.

So we have the Army, the Navy, the Airforce, the Marines, the Coast Guard,

but we HAVE the Airforce, now we’re going to have... the Space Force, because it’s a whole...

Duluth saved him from the search of his next word by bursting into rapturous applause;

his left hand however had gesticulated that he was looking for something akin to enchilada.

We need it!

A pink sign reading WOMEN FOR TRUMP bobbed frantically behind him 

as the microphone picked up a satisfied sucking of evening air through gritted teeth.

We need it! As long as we are proud of who we are and what we are fighting for, we will never ever fail.

As the perceived truth and simplicity of the path to a domination of the stars that twinkled above them knitted its way through the crowd, Duluth fell quite still.

There is no place...like our place; there is no place...

like space.

Good night America...

Image by Prosopee [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

Glass Table Soul

I’ve become

susceptible

to soul

the soul that

swings slower

on the peripheries

of disco

breather music

when the

mirrorball

chilled

and couples

calmed and

held onto

each other

their skins cooling
gratefully

on rare sprites

of conditioned air

before the

synths and percussion

took

off again

With a snowy edge

more Curtis Mayfield

and Bobby Womack

than Otis Redding

or Sam Cooke

Unravelling dollars

in starlit corners

on knee-high

glass tables

Al Green

soul

Piano Pedals Sans Keys

See now how

words once

hot from our tongues

forgo spice

and definition,

peeling

from our chests,

where they

are routinely forced,

like plasters

off wet wounds.

See?

Just a

moka spoon

of doubt

wins out,

as surely as

high pressure

escapes to low,

or the moon

manipulates

the damn tides.

I love you

Love you 
Knock

Piano pedals sans keys.

In the Idiomatic Inn

Western Express; wide-brimmed,

dipped dangerously

over stubbled jaw,

he batted open

the swinging saloon doors

with a soft thud and distinct

meow,

and ambled in

to the suddenly shushed place,

swinging

a hefty mottled cat

over his head

like a lasso.

The cat whirled,

grinning through the g-force

and stagnant smokey air,
which curled reluctantly away, 

seemingly unrattled

by the ordeal.

After a few more wild spins,

he altered the angle

and swooped the cat

down for a well-rehearsed

landing on the ale-varnished floor .

The cat sidled up

to his heavy spurred boots

and arched affectionately,

chirruping for a stroke

or perhaps a feed.

The regular cow crew

sat transfixed and

unmoving like

background characters

in a bad bad animation,

colourless in the

smoggy peripheries of
The Idiomatic Inn.

The rogue looked

down passed his pistols

and at his feline friend

before cracking a five-star smile

and blowing away the silence,

There’s more room in this one, Elvis.

We’ll drink here!

one more

So

one more poem

perhaps

hopefully there’s

time

there are

reticent stirrings
and what might have been
a call for coffee

but I’m the only

one up

Erykah Badu

Mamma’s Gun

quietly

and the velcro-ish
rise and fall

of passing cars
on the wet road

outside

So

what do you want to be

what have you got to say

yesterday I

chiselled one 

into sobbing

splinters of cosmos

irreparable

So

why would this

one trust me

after that

soft hands
soft

it’s true for

almost everything

yet so easy

to forget

Wilbury Road

Returning

from the dentist

I passed them

walking

up Wilbury Road

She was old

draped in a

heavy dress

inching forward on

a quad base

walking stick

He was tall

middle-aged

ponytailed

and affectionately

stooped

A raised right hand

helping in spirit

perhaps preempting a fall

her son I guessed

As they stood

my only option

was to walk

between them

and their conversation

Head down

I gargled an apology

through polished teeth

which I’m

not sure they heard

Nobody whistles from building sites anymore 

she said

No

he replied on a chuckle 

that’s now classified as rape

Pebbles

Pebbles from 

the beach look

like gemstones

when they’re

wet

I fall for them

every time

The illusion

wears off

at some point

in my pocket

when

I make the short

walk home

I remember

a waking dream where

I finally held

a Rubik’s Cube

and

even carried it for

a few enchanted steps

before it

dissolved from

my gentle grip

I was five

Now

at forty four

I’m sprinting up the road 

Mabheleni Dam

I flick this rod

swishing through

the evening air

the fly kissing

the meniscus

I know there

are poems in here

I see their

darting

bright flanks

reflect the

setting sun

and others have

caught such

giants here

As the water cools

my hips

I think of

Robert Johnson

selling his soul

for the blues

I wade in

over my head

for a time

but nothing down

there makes any

sense at all

just noise

Patience 

I hear my father say

as I feel my breath run low

The poems choose you my boy 

The Shore

How will we

try to reason

                       this wretched

                       lapse in empathy?

What will plaques

on beaches read

                       when today's

                       consigned to history?

What endless fields

for the nameless dead

                       will admonish us

                       to never more?

What poppies or poetry
will remind us of

                                                                           the migrants

                                                                           on the shore?

00:05

Curled into opposing
fallow crescents.

The lamp on my side

of the bed:

on as a

lighthouse

for passion asea

perhaps.

As I think

myself into
insomnia,

as time slows
while the clock
speeds up,

I hear your

breathing become

slow and honest,
slow and honest.

On Leaving Home

I think of the clocks

that tick for no one

and the toaster

still giving off heat

I think of the guitar my son plays

strings still reverberating

warmly through empty air 

since his incessant practice of

Wish You Were Here

and puzzle on who the eyes

in photographs follow now

that we’re not there

I think of our daily diaspora

out the door beyond the gate

each on our own
in the places where we go

and I wonder what ghosts

we’ll bring home

i thought of a town

i thought of a town

where the homeless

are swept up

to make way for

tax-funded

royal weddings

only being allowed

to return to their

haunts once

the carriages and

bewildered horses

have paraded past

where their

flattened boxes and duvets

would undoubtably sully the day

what a town

what a nation

what a world

i thought of a chapel

where marauded wealth

is displayed

that time and inheritance

is supposed to have

absolved

where the lord’s favour

could not be more clearly

channeled by man

absorbed by pallid

smirking faces

and the stiffness of position

what a chapel

what a church

what a god

Five-Twenty

Early this morning,
I sat beside a ghost

on a bench, his bench,

looking out at

what I now know

to be the Channel.

In loving memory of...

My back obscured his name.

Unopened peonies
in a milk bottle

to his left let it

be known that he was still

missed and loved.

26^thFebruary 1974 - 4^th...

He grew younger,

stared ruefully at the

ebbing tide;
for some time 

we listened together

to the applause of rolling stones.

For a husband and father we’ll...

As I counted my blessings
and sighed at the transience
of the things that matter,

I felt him register

my presence for the

first time, although

the ocean held his gaze;
his skin less opaque
in the five-twenty glow.

A friend to all who...

The Namib

"All good things..."

You crack a  half smile.

All good things indeed.

I’d been trying

not to notice the peripheries,

where the blooms were browning,

and the sand once again

had begun to hiss

and devil.

"You always fear the end of things before they even start."

I wonder what in

our nature makes us

settle for such peaks

and troughs,

as the writhing spines of

doomed tilapia in our dwindling lake

begin to cut its surface

to shreds.

"I can’t handle you when you’re like this;

you really should get help."

Looking through you now,

watching the resigned desert dwellers

slowly depart like sad ships,
abandoning us
and our faded ephemeral turn

to begin another migration.

"Whatever.
I love you less."

You pour sand from your wineglass,

pick up your dancing shoes

and take your place amongst the fish bones

on the cracked lake bed,

as my thoughts turn to seeds

and next year’s rains.

but

This voice may not soar

anywhere near as high

as Obama’s did before he 

realised it would take 

more than hope to

fix America. 

It may not sinfully splash 

unfurled hair over

already scrunched bed linen as an

acoustic-era Leonard Cohen’s

no doubt could. 

It doesn’t hammer out from

the keys, construing

sense and magic 

off the streets through the window 

like a drunken Bukowski’s,

nor does it poetically chase

reason and absurdity 

amidst shadows 

as Camus’ 

through Meursault

in The Outsider,

but

Dear Lyd

Dear Lyd,

Let me preface this

by telling you that

despite my Catholic immersion

as a child,

I’ve turned out an unbeliever

as you and Jungle were.

And I think you had a role

to play.

I’d challenge priests,

Sunday school teachers

and obsequious lay ministers

to tell me that you would go

to hell when you died,

having listed the litany of your traits;

you were and still are

the best person

I have ever known.

Jordan Peterson makes

the argument that we

are Christians, whether

we like it or not,

conditioned by Judeo-Christian values,

rather than simply human ones.

I think of you when watching

him, with his legs crossed

and fingers stabbing at the air;

he’d dissolve in one of your hugs;

he’d be certain of the supernovas in humanity.

I know I was.

I’ve named my daughter after you

You two missed each other

by nineteen years,

a cosmically insignificant period;

I like the idea of floating so far from

the Earth that the time between the pair

of you seems to touch

and you can meet before my oxygen runs out.

Even so, there are clues of you in her;

she’s kind

and I’m certain she has your laugh.

Then there are also the famous Leah-Lyd hugs;

that’s where I feel you most.

She hugs with every heartstring

just as you did Lyd.

It’s because of her in fact

that I have to end this now.

She’s pointing out the beautiful day outside

and that she’s still in her pyjamas.

I’ll give her a kiss from you.

Rest in peace,

Roy

Romance Killer

Seventeen years married today;

you’re still at work;

Leah-Lyd and I

basking in a recent tradition

of eating Marrocco’s ice cream

on the beach in

what now truly feels like spring.

She’s bubbling around

on my lap with her back to me,

facing the sea and

spinning her cone,

trying valiantly

though in vain to

lick up the melting

vanilla ice cream.

I’ve just had a message

from Luc-John;

he’s going to Muay Thai

this evening with Ben,

which puts paid to my

hopes of a meal with just

the two of us.

He’s doing really well.

“So you’ll be coming to dinner with us, Nonsense,”

I say to Leah-Lyd

who affords me an unsurprised nod,

not breaking from her drama

with the ice cream

or even for that matter,

turning around.

“The ultimate romance killer,” I sigh.

She gives a little jolt

and I feel a few drops of

ice cream land on today and tomorrow’s

work trousers.

Leah- Lyd turns from the cone,

squinting in the four o’ clock sun

and searching out my eyes

through my sunglasses.

“Why will there be Romans there, Daddy?” she asks.

Sugihara and the Dead Girl

Sometimes as I teach,

the lesson I'm trying to convey crystallises I think

more profoundly for me than it does for my students.

Today we were covering an article about Chiune Sugihara,

a Japanese diplomat in Lithuania during World War 2.

He issued more than 6000 visas for Jews

who had fled Poland allowing them to escape the encroaching Nazis,

and to enter Japan where they would be able to wait out the war,

decently treated by the Japanese.

Just before I tried to teach this lesson,

I had looked at one of the most affecting photographs I've ever seen;

of a drowned girl, hopelessly just below the clear calm surface of the Mediterranean.

I could tell from her proportions that she was about the same age as Leah-Lyd. (three)

She was in colourful, hopeful clothes;

African Sunday bests is what they brought to mind.

By most accounts, Chiune Sugihara

was someone who shied away from the fame his heroism had won him.

In fact, he may have died in obscurity

were he not sought out by one of the thousands he had saved.

A year before he died in 1986,

he made a speech where he shed some light on his motives

for putting his and his family's safety aside to help the refugees in Lithuania.

He said,

"It is the kind of sentiment anyone would have when he actually sees the refugees face to face, begging with tears in their eyes. He just cannot help but sympathise with them."