The fishing boats like seeds on morning sea
Floated at a distance  from the shore
The sun’s rise right behind them, poetry

Standing at the window where we see
Ancient practice carried out once more
From fishing boats like seeds on morning sea

In the flowers  outside the window, honey bees
Murmur with the sea  like a small choir
The sun’s rise right behind them, poetry

The scent of  many roses rises free
While rusting in the beach one sees war’s wire
While fishing boats are seeds on morning sea

This  flat coast might give ships entry free
A  place for Nazi troops  and battles  dire
The sun so bright adds  insecurity

I fear that our lost Empire made us liars
Unconscious  of the hatred we inspired
The fishing boats  are seeds on morning sea
The sun may rise  behind them warily

Which is of  greater value to the lone,
They  suffer despite access to the web
A jewelled ring or a sea-polished stone?

Days of love when by the sea we roamed
May mean as much as love shared in a bed
Which is of greater value to the lone?

A home computer and a good smartphone
A thoughtful book forever to be read,
A jewelled ring or a sea-polished stone

Alabaster  mixed with shreds of bone
Found at Dunwich, telling as a rib
Which is of higher value to the lone

As the rounds of running tides brings poems
Let us hold  in memory  what we had
Both jewelled ring and such sea-polished stones

As I blunder, writing poems at home,
I wonder, who shall know such love again
Which can bring more comfort to the lone
A jewelled ring or a sea-polished stone?

From the vulnerable God. this Jesus came
To know and love his creatures here on earth
He has no power; he shares our human pain

The tortured, weak and lost are his, he claims.
For he has suffered, died  without much worth
From the vulnerable God. a Christ has come

In silence and despair and shattered dreams
The souls of those who torture  negates birth
Not all powerful,  yet god shares our pain

While in the nations civilised, insane
Our  greed, our lies, our cruelty are a curse
Through a wounded God. a good man  came

In certain states of mind, prayer has no aim
Deep within the dark, hope comes to birth
God is with us, voiceless  burning, maimed

Cain and Abel, brothers  linked  by death
Today, that murder rises, is surpassed
From the broken god., this Jesus came
Human, suffering,  he too feels this pain.

Your hand is the one for which I ache
The fingers pointed thus the narrow nails
Your hand was the one I used to take

Two in one and one in two me make
Without such love can any heart not fail?
Your hand is the one for which I ache

Nothing in your mind was false or fake
Yet I shall not forever loss bewail
Your hand is the one I wish to take

Should we love all others for Christ’s sake?
I want human touch,my body held
Your hand is the one for which I ache

Oh, happy am I, till from sleep I wake
I reach my hand,remember how you paled
Your hand is the one I lost in hope

At the end you longed for Cleveland Hills
Whitby Cliffs, the kippers and the ale
Your hand is the one for which I ache
Your hand is the one I want to take

The absolute distinction of our tongues
As if a boundary is a metal wall
That idealised separation must be wrong

As we near the edges of our land
The patterns of the speech are free for all
No absolute distinction of the tongues

Before the printing press and written songs
There was no “correct” way for us to call
That perfect separation must be wrong

To bind the bunch of wanderers we’re among
A “received” pronunciation’s forced on all
An absolute distinction of each tongue.

In government and schools the force is strong
In older dialects we cannot wail.
That perfect separation must be wrong

The rulers and their powerful codes   prevail
Their employees write out books in great detail
The absolute destruction of broad tongues,
Like  forceful  separation, is  still wrong

 

I thought my wardrobe adequate or rich
A coat or two, some boots and woollen skirts
But now the shapes have changed, the colours mixed

Am I by shapes and colours quite bewitched?
Will my being out of fashion hurt?
I thought my wardrobe colourful  and rich

The country’s gloomy, nothing remains fixed
Yet with a little fun, we like to flirt
The shapes have changed the colours different mix.

I like to take a wander, see the pitch
But I need coats that do not show the dirt
I thought my wardrobe ample, even rich

Some  may say the advertising works
Like an image pistol, adverts squirt
So now by  colours brilliant I’m bewitched

How about I steal a lover’s shirt
And wear his golden tie around my throat?
I am by shapes and colours now bewitched?
I thought my  wardrobe interesting and rich

 

I heard your radio  playing Chopin then
I ‘d put it by your chair, the memory’s clear
I know  I will play Mozart, lovely one

I ache to feel your presence since you’ve gone
The string quintets float to my mind, love cures
I heard your radio  playing Chopin then

We were three but now I am just one
The conjoined part in death must disappear
I don’t know if I’ll  find my heart again

The trinity of love is God  and also man
If we trust then love will reappear
I will play the Mozart strings, what then?

Woman is  the  stranger, overcome
Before we love, we must attain desire
I don’t know if I’ll  find my soul again

We must lay in coal for inner fires
The spirit is eternal, God, Messiah.
I heard your radio  playing Chopin then
I will be by Mozart quintets won

Her smile out-did my wish to be cut off
To hide inside a cupboard or a box
While I drowned in pathos and old wrath

I  had  been by cruel storms well tossed
Measured by the demon’s  ticking clocks
Her smile out-did my wish to be cut off

I had not realised the fatal cost
Of   self-help  by  the odd electric shock
As I drowned in pathos and old wrath

Her smile I let come in,  though I was lost
Wandering in the graveyards of loves locked
Her smile outdid my wish to be cut off

What is it with our nonsense and old stuff
That lets each cell of skin  decide to shut
As we float in pathos and old wrath?

I took my heart and on it I did pluck
The strings  that sang a tune  to mercy’s luck
Her smile outdid my wish to be cut off
So I swam  from pathos and old wrath

 

 

You don’t need to wear a watch today
Your phone’s so smart it tells the exact time
Now it’s time to make the kettle pray.

You won’t need to go to Mass, Sunday
Stay in bed and sleep, is that a crime?
You don’t need to wear a watch today

Don’t buy yourself alarm clocks on E bay
Ignore  appointments, ignore clocks that chime
Now it’s time to make the kettle pray.

Don’t get married, for you have to pay!
Never speak unless it is in rhyme
You don’t need to look at kitsch today

What prayer will the oven think to bray?
Never dream unless it’s your pastime
Now’s the hour to hear the kettle pray.

Rows of saucepans make a sacred shrine.
Where heat and love and care can fast combine
You don’t need to wear a watch today
Come to mine and  make the kettle shy

A child was howling in the Coffee Shop
No-one looked  and no-one intervened
His mother let the hope he had be cropped.

In a cliche, she looked fit to drop;
Demented by the second child, who screamed
A child was howling in the Coffee Shop

The mother seemed about to  fall or flip
Until her friend came with a joyful beam
She  let him make  more noise , yet hoped he’d stop

Gesticulating with  both hands and lips
Her sentences  flowed out  like mountain streams.
A child was wailing in the Coffee Shop

The tears spread wide, until a mop
Was wielded by a waiter sent to clean.
She let his presence,  alien,  interrupt

 

Unrelenting is the care that women warps.
In such lives we  may turn mean and sharp.
A child was moaning in the Coffee Shop.
His mother  wiped his eyes,caressed  his lips.

 

When you come back to me, my dearest one.
When you no longer hide away in dreams.
The golden  sun will rise for  us again

When all my work on earth is  past and done;
When I have felt the pain of what has been,
Will you come back to me, my dearest one?

Without your presence, I feel lost and pained.
But this is not eternal, though it seems.
The golden  sun will rise for me again

The last bell  rings , I’m silent and alone.
I am too simple to make cunning schemes
Will you come back to me, my dearest one?

Human life is brief; we share its pain;
The death instinct, the deadly Faustian themes;
The sacred sun will rise for us again .

I  live in  blackness  yet the angels lean
To shelter with their sacred wings my limbs.
Though  you  had to go , my dearest one,
Though loss may win, I still desire the sun

Dried lavender shows us  death  in mystery
Not disappearance into dark cold  earth
But in new form,eternal come to be

Yet this lavender did not bear its fruit
Left no seeds to show the world its worth
Dried lavender shows what  darkness can allow

 

Cut down  now are the many by the few
So into darkness flows the bloody  truth
Leaves no  tragic fragrance to pursue.

 

Into the  sky, an  owl  and a curlew
Rise as if on wires from  central earth
The  heather filled with bees sent fragrance too.

 

The delicate wild flowers will rise anew
May no plodding foot prevent  re-birth
Only  humming  bees and insects see

 

Let no human blast them with a curse
Rather let  us will to love and bless.
The  lavender, the rosemary and rue
Leave a lasting  image   for the few

The dictionary,what an instrument!
Human beings spoke without its need
To gather up our words , define and count

Literacy, slow in its intent,
Began to spread and offer its rewards
The dictionary, what a fine event.

Yet  there are obstacles we must confront
As words  begin to rule and to divide.
So watch  your words , define and  always  count

Sadly language  turns malevolent
When those in power use  sentences  to lie.
This dictionary,what a grave event.

And more when it is used with ill intent
Orders sent to  murder the despised;
Gathering Europe’s Jews for death’s torments.

Elsewhere on our earth  more genocides
Scapegoats suffer,live our  suicide
The dictionary, what it represents:
Scholarship to murder  or  dissent

 

I am interested to see puns and allusions I was unaware of when writing  such as ” what a grave event” can refer to seriousness or to the graves of the dead which cover quite a bit of space in War Cemeteries.And in other places.

And  the last line is a pun on ” we murder to dissect ” I think.

Words rule or divide…. but someone must speak them

Words count.. words matter or do we just count them like abstract numbers?

The empty tomb is here inside my house
Not entire and not destroying all
This space  where used to dwell  my  loving spouse

The consolation is   bitter excuse
The loss of  love, my future state appals.
The empty tomb is here inside my house

As I live, to whom am I of use?
Where is the voice that to my heart will call?
A space  where used to speak  my  loving spouse

There is no resurrection for  our race;
But from the nuclear threat we each recoil.
The empty tomb is here inside my house

How is the world now ruled by the debased?
Are we redeemed  ever from our  Fall?
I miss  exchanges with my thoughtful  spouse

Must we build  more iron  prison walls?
How bitter, Jesus,  is the human  bile.
The empty tomb is here inside my house.
This space  where we  mused,spouse to spouse

 

So dust to dust and ash to ash,oh lord
Let us mourn without more wrath,discord

 

 

 

Radio 3 is playing far away
Volume low enough to suit a mouse.
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

The sun it shines,the wind with shrubs  still plays
I see it from  each window of the house
Radio 3 still playing far away

 

I’m writing with a pen from off E bay
Because the other pen  forgot to bounce
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

Twenty five revisions just today
My mind is like a tiger fit to pounce
Radio 3  is playing far away

I see a denim coat that’s subtly frayed
Bring my mind back to the present joust
I look around the room,I want  to stay

To all the spirits of the house, a toast
For helping when this heart  felt like a roast.
Radio 3 is playing far away.
I look around the room,I think I’ll stay

 

 

 

 

Early in the morning  I’m in bed
What shall I do  with all the time I’m here?
If time could stop,I’d live  outside my head

I hear  the footsteps daily of the dead
I  can see the face I love in tears
Early in the morning , I’m in bed

I need to get a  needle and a thread
To mend the rips  made by my metal tears.
If time could stop,I’d live  outside my head

I want  perspective on the stuff  I’ve read
About the winds of sorrow, how they veer.
Early in the morning , I’m in bed

I feel I am not whole  just glued up shreds
The truth of grief is always in arrears
If time could stop,I’d live  outside my head

The pain of loss is like an iron that sears
Over and again down all the years
Early in the morning , still in bed.
If time would stop,I’d live  without a head

 

 

 

 

Are numbers real  like God  is , though unseen?
Yet numbers do not love or even live.
Is there a place where numbers  make a scene?

We don’t see ten, though we may see ten beans
The abstract must be somewhat like a sieve
Are numbers real  like God  is , though unseen?

I believe in numbers in my dreams;
Though I don’t look  beneath or up above.
Is there a place where numbers  make a scene?

In civilising peoples it does seem
That  money,tax and counting gave a drive;
To numbers real  like God  in mystic realms

Into mathematics,humans dived
And so the wars and taxes  ever thrive.
Are numbers real  like Jesus thrice demeaned?
Where are numbers  in the  holy scheme?

 

 

 

The moon is mauve like my old party dress
I wore it with  the shoes of purple pink
And silver like the tongues of  merchants blessed

I love you more and more,not less and less
I don’t know how or what you think
The moon is mauve like my old party dress

And yet I’m loth to boundaries transgress,
Even when we view each other’s  strenuous blinks
Is silver like the tongues of  angels  stressed?

I have  garments,radiant, diverse
From red and purple  to a  bluish pink.
The moon is mauve like my old tarty dress

In   my bed, I wear a  woollen vest
A man’s pyjamas and a mother’s wink.
My father sang so well ,I dreamed impressed

My pen is  running out of  golden ink
The queue in Ryman’s left a  quadrilateral blanked
The moon is mauve like my old tarty dress,
And silver like the tongues of  rakes bypassed

In the night, I feel he is nearby.
I sense affection, warmth and care complete
Wholly spirit, body he’s denied

I sense him as a flock of geese fly by
Or land, a god, in one enormous sweep
In the night, I feel he is nearby.

I have, as yet, no face for other eyes.
I wish to freely grieve and freely weep
Wholly spirit, body he’s denied.

A man glanced at me, at my golden  hair
I washed it in the perfume of his deeps.
In the night, I feel he is nearby.

I did not wait for my desires have  fled
Except they visit hopeless in my sleep
Wholly spirit, body he’s denied.

O wait, my dear one, I cannot release
Your soul until my torment  has been eased
In the night, I feel I’m crucified
Wholly spirit, body quite denied

 

 

Recall Japan in 1945
Still fighting  and unwilling to give in
They’d bombed Pearl Harbour then they were surprised

On August 6th an atom bomb arrived
So obviously  they weren’t about to win
Recall Japan in 1945

On August 9th for people still alive
Another little nuclear  bomb  dropped in
They’d bombed Pearl Harbour then they were surprised

For they must have not had any spies
To warn them of their punishment so grim
Outside Japan in 1945

We know most politicians tell  their lies
They play their cards and I don’t mean their SIMs
They’d bombed Pearl Harbour, why they were surprised?

Their foolish entry into global sin
Had reasons which were noticeably slim
Recall Japan in 1945
They’d bombed Pearl Harbour how could they survive?

 

The days of loss seem sharper than a knife
A razor blade, a chopping up  machine
They cut my heart and show me I’m no wife.

Yet I am happy with my writer’s life
A freedom to explore what is unseen
The days of loss seem sharper than a knife

I lose my pen, my phone, I do not lie.
I talk  out loud to silence my own screams
Loss cuts my heart and shows me I’m no wife.

I fail again and sometimes  let words fly
I bake the scones but I forget the cream
The days of loss seem sharper than a knife,

On other days I find the lost and cry,
I ask my fountain pen where it  has been
Loss cut my heart and showed me I’m no wife.

I think I see his shadow where coats lean
Or sunlight on  his spectacles will beam
The days of loss seem kinder than a knife
They warm my heart and tell me I’m his wife.

 

Outside wa house ‘t new umbrellas drip
~Wun is red and wun is pretty beige
They’re  wa sunshades,  t’weather’s hit a blip

If A wer a child A’d sail a ship
Or dash in pools  u’ water in mi rage
Outside wa house ,’t new umbrellas drip ; [Het means the]

Times there were Mam’s moods would get a grip
Then it wer quite hard to re-engage
Hide  wa sunshades,  mother’s hit a blip

Mam we’ clever but she  lost her top
The hint of  h’ mad  sayings hasna wage
Outside wa house ,’t new umbrellas drip ;

Nuns told me off for speaking in my voice
To get to Oxford, I must  Me erase
Now I am a foreigner down here
No self ,no torturer ,no sisters dear