SONGS OF YOU

This is more a song lyric than a poem.

Songs of you come easy

The words and music make me cry

Songs of you come easy

It’s been so long I wonder why

The years still cast a haunting shadow

Showing you in silhouettes

Still without you where would I

Have found he time to have regrets

For every moment looking back

Two lie wasted on the floor

And though I see your face at times

I can’t pin my hopes on closing doors

Songs of you come easy 

the words and music make me cry

Songs of you come easy 

it’s been so long I wonder why

It all comes down to loving arms

That hold the past and won’t let go

There’s not a lover in the world

Who doesn’t know the way it goes

I’ll hold the pen and let it write

‘Til I run out of things to say

Then I’ll close the book and try

To put all my thoughts of you away

8 x POP MUSIC HAIKUS

PROCOL HARUM
Dancing salty dog
skipping a light fandango
wearing a homburg


ELVIS COSTELLO
Hire the detectives,
man in specs is watching you,
his aim may be true


PAUL SIMON
Boy in a bubble,
rhymin', hearts, bones, Graceland, saints
and water trouble


LITTLE RICHARD
The guy can't help it,
Lucille, Molly shake his room
with a wop bam boom


REM
Nightswimmers in tune,
sleeping sidewinders tonight
dream of man on moon


HOT CHOCOLATE
Sex thing, little miss,
she could have been a lady,
started with a kiss


THE HOLLIES
Pigtails and freckles,
Carrie-Anne at bus stop with 
Jennifer Eccles


RINGO STARR
It don't come easy,
beaucoups of blues, boogaloo,
Thomas goes woo-woo

ON SUICIDE

He seemed so happy, content,
a "together guy" his friends would say,
life and soul, he'd light up a room,
laugh and joke, give you the time of day.


Nice wife, nice kids, nice home,
great job going well, no sign
that something was troubling him,
something that made him cross a line.


Sometimes we can have it all,
physical, emotional and material stuff,
but sometimes something's missing
and having it all is not enough.

BREATH OF A NATURALIST

This is another poem attributed to my creation Hamish Sheaney, possibly spoofing the rural notions of a poet with a similiar name.......

Between his purple lips, a piece of straw,

chewed and sucked, a mulch of tasty-tangs,

in his molars, remnants of a cabbage dinner,

green specks against his yellowed-enamel fangs.

His scrumpy-filmed tongue laps saliva,

ready for the next gob-spit on the dirt,

he aims for a dragonfly sunbathing

and zaps it with a hiss of deadly spurt.

His lunch is cheese and scallions in a bap,

strong pickles and a string of sausage links,

two jugs of rocket-fuel, four-star hooch

and an afternoon collapsed in forty-winks.

He rouses from his nap and yawns with gusto,

belching out a cloud of rancid breath,

all animals overpowered by halitosis

stagger round on the brink-edge-ledge of death.

Between his purple lips, a piece of straw

wilts from the rank aftershock of every breath he’ll draw.

LOST

Shapes and shadows slide
across my eyes in the darkness,
and I yearn for an unhidden moon
to light the path ahead.


I look for clarity in the distortion,
clench my fists for confidence
and shout a warning to the evils
not to mess with sense.

THE HEE-HAW LANTERN

Seamus Heaney wrote a poem called "The Haw Lantern". My creation Hamish Sheaney wrote this poem called "The Hee-Haw Lantern".

In the gloom of the grey, stone cottage

he observes the naked candle flame

burning away, prone to the faintest breeze,

liable to a quick wick snuff-out sneeze.

He needed cover to protect the light,

to avoid the getting-up and relighting chore,

He sat awhile and pondered hard

then headed out the kitchen door.

He looked at his donkey and had a thought,

his old, knackered ass on its backside,

he looked at the head, what an image it made,

a blueprint skull for a lantern shade.

How the donkey died is another tale,

but its spirit lives on in a different guise

now the cottage lighting is a bit more stable

with his hee-haw lantern on the bedside table.

MY BROTHER'S FINGER

My younger brother was playing with a penknife,
an old rusty blade he found on a building site,
when the bastard thing snapped shut, slicing his finger deep,
prompting a panic-scream, tears and a look of sheer fright.


From the site, across the school playground, over the Glen Road,
even a bad detective could have followed his trail of red,
through the bus shelter, down steps, under the pylon,
up the path that led to our back door and Mummy's first-aid.


The finger end was bloody red-raw and dangling,
oddly pointing both straight ahead and downwards, his white
wet face shaking from frequent involuntary sob-sucks
while mother calmed him saying it would be alright.


Today the finger is years older, well-healed but slightly bent,
a  souvenir from a time we played, tumbled and gallivanted.
He does not refer to it. No one seems to notice or care about
the finger's funny shape - like childhood perhaps, taken for granted.

8 SAN FRANCISCO HAIKUS

1
TransAmerica
spike hidden by lowish mist 
- a softer skyline


2
artists exhibit
in the buzz of Union Square
- still life, unstill life


3
people gazing down
from Macy's cheesecake cafe
like eighth floor snipers


4
at John's Grill chophouse
we share Dashiel Hammett's
and Sam Spades dinner


5
City Lights bookstore
quieter now than the howling
of the sixties beat


6 
beggar's cardboard sign -
"I will be honest today,
I just need a beer"


7
Latino band plays
on a cold city morning
- warm tunes and hot licks


8
"Alcatraz never
did nothin' for nobody"
- con reminisces

MEG MARIGOLDS

Old Meg she was a cleaner

washing walls and floors

like her mop she was old and ragged

from a million scrubbing chores.

Her arsenal was a bucket,

a chamois, a duster, a broom

her aroma was disinfectant,

her B.O. could clear a room.

She sang as she washed the tiles

with a frog lodged in her throat

She whistled a piercing tune

with no danger of hitting a note.

Her breakfast was a fag and coffee

her lunch was a coffee and fag

She was skinny as an HB pencil

with her flesh heading south in a sag.

But the work years took their toll

there was no way she could duck it,

old Meg slipped on a skiddy floor

and finally kicked the bucket.

NED THE STORYTELLER

We would go to the old man,
children in awe, to ask him questions
and off he'd go with a story,
true or false, we didn't care.

He had his way with words,
inflections and drama,
whispers and facial expressions,
measured blinks, scary stare.

The bottom step was our place,
where five or six kids sat,
he perched on the top step,
smelly pipe and floppy hat.

Stories of childhood, of school, of war,
told by the man we knew as Ned,
but reality hit us hard one summer,
when we heard our storyteller was dead.

We would go to the steps, children in grief,
and picture the man alert but frail,
he left us suddenly but he left us a gift
a love of language, a love of a tale.

MORNING HAZE

The gauze of dawn

mists my eyes to semi-blindness,

the fine rain drizzle

dims my fading vision,

the window’s condensation

obscures nature’s outlines,

the rough-edged world out there

is blurred and hazy.

I rub my face to no avail

for all before me is vague,

distant, dreek and dim,

hopeless,  desperate and grim.

I should have gone to Specsavers.

PIPER

It was 

in the wind,

on the wind,

of the wind,

a tune playing,

inhaled by the coastline

from somewhere out there,

from the land or from the sea,

a piper playing slow music

inside the ocean’s angry noise,

melody fading in and out

like foreign radio in the sixties,

in the wind,

on the wind, 

of the wind.

ULYSSES THE DAY

Dark humour is not everyone's cup of tea, but I'll give this a whirl......

He can see the blue flame,

the smell is burnt,


winter mugs the autumn


and dead sheep lie scattered.


Out in the snow are doomed lambs,

orphaned, starving to death,


the sound of their

weak cries carried off


by the bluster of winds.





Cold misery enters the room,

slow as a rested fox


to erase home comforts


and strain farmers’ faces.



Sat by the blue flame lamp,

irritated by fumes,


he observes the shotgun,


another winter choice

–
to pull the trigger


or have another crack at James Joyce

PURE SENSE OF FUN

There was meaning in the crunch and slosh of snow underfoot,
a particular remembrance of a deep white winter
when this ten-year-old boy witnessed a wow of excitement,
unable to see paths, gardens, roads where they were before
overnight layers of flakes buried the whole neighbourhood,
adults complaining things were bad, kids seeing only good.


Cold hands, frozen toes, risks of chilblains, all part of the game
in this brilliant-white landscape, a brand new playground to explore - 
snowball fights, falling over, stamping footprint patterns, enjoying
a pure sense of fun as if there would never be anymore.

ENOUGH

In a world 
of too many words and too many people,
of too many opinions and too many arguments,
of too much suspicion and too much hatred,
of too much lying and too much betrayal,
of too many deaths in too many wars,
I wait for the last breath in the last moment of the last day,
knowing I've met all the people I need to meet,
loved all the people I need to love
and said all I need to say.

HOLIDEITY

God went off on holiday
to a secret holy land
leaving His instructions
for me to take command.


No sooner had he disappeared
when all the trouble primed
and erupted all together
in chaotic pantomime.


I dried the sea
I blackened white
I flattened hills
I lit the night.


I dropped the moon
I stopped all fun
I fused the stars
I froze the sun.


On His return from holiday
from His secret holy land
God said: "Who can I turn to
to help me understand?"

THE LAST POST-IT-NOTE

The last
post-it-note.


Don't forget to
remember.


XXXX

CLOSED DOWN FOR WINTER

This is more a song lyric than a poem.  I have a long-held ambition to hear Willie Nelson singing it, hence the country music use of the word "don't" rather than "doesn't" in the chorus.

It started out as summer love,

warm days and loving nights,

picnic fun and country walks,

feather kisses and dizzy heights.

Riding horses across the fields,

wind blowing our cares away,

stetson hats to shade the sun,

on every one of our summer days.

But now it’s over, we’ve drawn the line,

summer’s gone and the sun don’t shine,

what are the reasons who and how,

we’ve closed down for winter now.

Once this room was light and air,

sunbeam rays played on the chair,

we would talk all afternoon,

'til we witnessed the evening moon.

Now the room is dark and cold,

young love is now feeling old,

windows locked and shutters down,

and I look like the saddest clown.

But now it’s over, we’ve drawn the line,

summer’s gone and the sun don’t shine,

what are the reasons who and how,

we’ve closed down for winter now.

SNAPPY SERVICE

Waiter, waiter
said the alligator
there's no humans in my stew
I'm sorry 'gator
said the waiter, waiter,
but we only had a few

Waiter, waiter

said the alligator

this really will not do

I reserved one only yesterday

a male 'bout six foot two

Waiter, waiter

said the alligator

please do as you are told

get undressed and braise yourself

I'd like you casseroled

CONSIDERING WAR

The eleventh hour of
the eleventh day of
the eleventh year of
the twenty-first century,
much to regret,
lest we forget.


So.....


We live and learn?
No, we don't.


The devil looks after his own?
Yes, he does.


All's fair in love and war?
No, it isn't.

History repeats itself?

Yes, it does.

Attack is the best form of defence?
No, it isn't.


Forgive and forget?
Hmmm.


War,
what is it good for?

WAR SCENE

Soldier A advanced ahead,
his rifle cocked and straight.
Soldier B approached him on
the day of someone's fate.


Face to face, unblinking eyes,
looked cold and hard and deep,
knowing one was close to death,
to everlasting sleep.


Their instinct training shoot to kill
failed to lock and load
for who would shoot the other first,
on this God-forsaken road.


But call it panic, fear or guts,
a deafening shot was heard, 
a soldier fell on a rubble street
while another stood and stared.


Soldier A and Soldier B
both barely seventeen
sent to war and a devil's choice
in a miserable battle scene.


Soldier A was dead and gone,
soon home in a long black hearse.
Soldier B survived to fight,
both a blessing and a curse.

ROADKILL

"I've never bought dog food in my life,"
said the old car park attendant. "No need.
All the ingredients are there on the road,
so she's never been denied a bloody good feed."


He told me of his three-mile journey to work and back,
stopping whenever he saw a dead pheasant or fox,
swiftly out of the car with a shovel, a fine art,
a quick scoop of the corpse into a plastic box.


Back to his kitchen to boil or roast,
freezer packed with home-cooked ready meals,
a dog that had no reliance on a tin-opening owner,
feasting on animals killed by vehicle wheels.

A LIGHT BUFFET Of 4 POEMS

I enjoy some of Spike Milligan's potty poetry and I reckon he influenced my own writing of silly, fun verse. Here are four light poems to brighten a grey, drizzly morning:


LIME ERIC
I like lemonade I suppose
sucked through the end of a hose
but I have my troubles
with dozens of bubbles
tickling the end of my nose


A MOOSE TAKE
There once was a tired moose
who relaxed in his comfy hoose
he kicked off his shoose
sipped pineapple joose
and watched the nine o'clock noose


BRINETEASER
It's alright for you
said the fat sardine
you enjoy the sea and sand
but when I swim
I run the risk
of being caught and canned


AHA
I know I put it somewhere
said God to his friend called Jim
I cannot find the morning
then it suddenly dawned on him

BAD NEWS

Even as they are telling me, I half-listen,
choosing to believe one word, ignoring another,
shutting out the bad news, eyes open to anything
that will give me a sign that none of it is true,
but they keep talking, talking about you.


I had watched the news without a second thought,
no reason to connect you to the carnage,
it was just news and scenes of a near-empty road,
zoom-shots on blue lights, yellow coats, cars crashed,
somewhere prayers answered or hopes dashed.


This morning, a hug, a goodbye kiss,
now a life to realise the person I'll miss.

THIS WAS A MORNING

This was a morning that refused to be taken for granted,
a morning of pleasant chill, blinding sunshine, birdsong
and colours in the trees to widen the eyes with wonder,
every head turn a new picture, slight movements, soft rays,
one of those peaceful mornings, a rare day of days
in a world of worry, of anguish, of guilt and wrath,
a morning not taken for granted on a woodland path.

BREAKFAST AND FURIOUS

I sat down to breakfast,
bacon, egg and toast,
pot of tea and orange juice
and the morning Daily Post.


But all at once I jumped ten feet
frightened for my life
when the egg let out a scream of "Oi,
watch where you put that knife!"


Then the bacon laughed and laughed and laughed
and began to dance a jig,
singing "I wish I was at home again
on the backside of a pig."


The teapot lid was banging,
the crusty toast began to cuss
but the orange juice let out a pip
to quieten all the fuss.


I came down from the ceiling
chaste and unaccusing
vowing to give up fatty foods
for something more ameusling.

8 HAIKU POSTCARDS FROM A TRIP TO SCOTLAND

1

spontaneous smiles,

border signpost welcomes us

to new scenery

2

near Ecclefechan

our boys collapse in giggles,

tickled by the name

3

empty sky except

cloud wisps, birds, aeroplane tails,

we pass Lockerbie

4

approaching Glasgow

we drift into the accent,

blind to our insults

5

M8 grey rain-spray

denies us countryside views

near Edinburgh

6

old town vantage point

looking down on Prince’s Street,

we feel history

7

posing at Mons Meg,

camera points, a split second,

tourist free background

8

leaving for home now,

looking through the back window,

our vanishing joy

NOAH SURRENDER

Noah's neighbours had had enough
of noise and smells and animal stuff.


They canvassed hard for lists of names
to put a stop to his beastly games.


The local council slapped a ban
to scupper the ark and this animal man.


The neighbours rejoiced at this common sense
and the neighbourhood became less tense.


But courage remained in Noah's blood,
he had work to finish before the ....drip...drip...plip...plop...