The ritual is to put the garbage out My day begins the night before it’s due When I recall the day, I have to count Instead of Mass, we put the garbage out No Confession so no sin,no horrid doubt No neighbours and no prayer,no ancient pew The only ritual left, toss garbage out My mind begins to think about the clue
My brain has turned to liquid and it’s dripping from my ears I need some kind of tampon to absorb this sudden rush Why did noone tell me this is frightful to endure? My brain has turned to liquid and it’s dripping from my ears I think it’s far too late to expect a total cure I’ll never hear the little voice nor see the burning bush My brain has turned to liquid and it’s dripping from my ears Where’s an alcoholic then, to drink the mighty rush
The way to be successful is now clear Deny your shame,humiliate the poor Have no friends or mate whom you hold dear The way to be successful is right here Control your cronies with a hint of fear Tread on the lowly, who can but endure The way to be successful, shed no tears Repress your shame,humiliate the poor
Accidentally tread on someone’s face As you run for president again Make sure their features are unclear,erased Knowingly tread on the human face It’s not evil, it is just bad taste The devil is a clown, we feel no strain Incidentally tread on someone’s face As you run for president again
Every poem begins with a first line After that we choose the space and time The words float in my head till they combine Must a poem begin with its first line? Some are bold and some are more refined Some are free and some have lissom rhymes A poem begins by finding a first line After that we search the Deep Words Mine
My husband has a rubber face,
He’s from a subset of the human race.
Some men have faces fixed and set;
My husband’s face is not like that.
He imitates our politicians,
Just like Rory Bremner can.
Though he has no wig or hair piece,
He can look like anyone.
Some nights I waken for I am laughing
While I am quite sound asleep.
I am dreaming of his mobile features,
Contorted to a different shape.
He is skilled at telling jokes.
And he loves a good cartoon.
If I am feeling flu style blueness
I he can get me up again.
He has a rather noble visage.
He gets attention he abbhors.
In the bar on King’s Cross Station—
I was asked was he a Lord!
He’s a Lord of Fun and Humour.
He’s a Lord at Listening Well.
He’s unique, but so are you,
And all creatures that on earth do dwell
With the Mass in Latin,I believed. The words evoked what no-one could conceive The women in their hats looked like proud queens What was, what is, and what once might have been The men came late,hung over, full of dreams They took no Wafer, drunk from living streams I did not mind confessing made up sins. Nor did I mind beans found in small tins.
Religion gives fresh themes to those obsessed Guilt and sin,but scruples are the best I went to church and told God I was through He said, hang on,I’ll send my Light to you.
Thus it was that I was saved from death I had worshipped Satan in duress. After that I took a job for health I am rich in love, though not in wealth
To me there is a White House of the Soul We shall meet again there when we’re whole A place of beauty, space and coloured light God won’t boast, and neither will the mice
Trees lean over, watchful as we meet The tall ones do not shiver in the breeze Trees can hear the torment in our speech We have flowering cherry in our street But mine died like my lover with great ease Trees lean over listening as we meet
The tree won’t bend too close, it will not reach As panic,worry, horror,nightmares squeeze Trees discern the music in our squeaks
Alas, no tree has mastered human speech But when they can, they coax the honey bees Trees lean over sweetly as we meet
The leaves will rustle,wrestle and may tease Smile for selfies,what’s the word, it’s cheese Trees lean over, wonder, and conceive Yet trees hate noone, nor do they believe
I remember you so well for those eight years The nights you sang love’s lullabies to me I was fearful of the footstep on the stairs
You held me as we paddled in the sea Maybe Blackpool,maybe Morecambe too You told me stories as I sat upon your knee I have some good memories, too few Where are all those days we played outdoors? Who knows if these memories are true? In East Lancs and in West Lancs rain will pour Once you wrapped me in your coat, but then Mam was angry when we reached the door
She told you, you were foolish for a man Why should men be wise, should anyone? That was when your illnesses began
You let me lie beside you in your bed I’d had my tonsils out and felt unwell I talked but don’t remember what you said I didn’t know the meaning of pure hell I guess I learned that when death you befell Come back,Daddy,missing you too well I’m still your little girl, your smiling belle
Now I’m feeling kind of numb on this January day The darkness came down sudden and I feel it’s here to stay Shall I make some tea and pretend that you are here I’m naked like the wood underneath that swish veneer. I’m feeling kinda nothin’ now the melancholy’s gone Should I be doing something that will give me, like, some fun? The silence is not threatening, but neither is it good Did you ever wish that you weren’t made of flesh and blood? I’m feeling so damned stupid for falling on my back My shoulder was in agony and there’s whiplash in my neck The doctor, he injected me, but he said it’s down to luck He may have missed the mark, he says,I wish I’d said,oh feck Apparently the elderly are not in much demand I heard a sorta whisper as my head went in the sand We must keep the silence or we’ll frighten off the young They don’t seem to notice but the cat will lick my hand
I didn’t know how old I was till the clock flew off the wall Isn’t it uncanny what you see before the Fall?
Bring your own God with you, you can’t help it anyway I have heard you singing, don’t tell me you can’t pray We’re strung like beads along a chain, we’re linked with none left out Every time that someone dies, there opens a new mouth Mouth brings voice, the people’s choice, there is no faking Truth Eat and live, speak and grieve, give and so receive Eyes to see and ears to hear,grace may be about Still the Sirens wail and moan, leave them, they can’t count
I am this, the cobble stones Hot tar between the wails and groans Some stones are flat,our stones were round Snap entry to the Underground I am the pools in pavement holes In winter frost you crack my bones On my surface, children prance I am the stage,I am the dance I see you and you see me As your peek with bended knee I am the bricks that built your house I am the mousehole and the mouse Here comes Ginger, the big cat He caught a chicken and a rat Here the coal shed, here the lav That is what our houses had Cold it is if menstrual pain Comes on in the night again Colder still to lose your child To the sewers wizened smile I am the earth on which we grew I am the mystery,I the clue Stand on me,I am your strength I the bowler,I the length Golden children came to dust I the promise,I the cost
Don’t send me an apron forXmas When all that I want is a glove A glove for the oven Its hands must be frozen Let’s drown the old oven in love.
Don’t send me a card on my birthday I cannot remember your name Just bake me a cake I prefer it to steak Don’t limp unless you are lame Don’t change the sheets every week,dear For washing them makes them wear thin Just give me a brush I’ll beat off the fluff Then we can both have some fun
Don’t give me bacon for breakfast God won’t let Jews eat it yet His aversion to swine Is what makes him divine The fig tree is dead I regret