DEATH OF A NATURIST (Contains Nudity)

All year the butt-naked brokeback farmer

toiled at one with Mother Earth


using bare hands, tools and tractor in the rank fields


in full view of his burly neighbour.



They exchanged erotic grunts across the air,


thick with the manure-whiff scent of work
,

recalling the Bisto-kid giddiness of youth


and igniting agri-passion in their glistening haunches



They imagined the slop-slap of the love-act


but resisted a daylight rendezvous behind the stacks,


contented to tease the senses with farm-play


until darkness gave them cover for their tryst.



Fate’s hairy hand awaited careless moments,

clandestine in the hay-heap, an impending farce


as one fell back intense in expectation.


a fatal pitch-fork stabbed him up the arse.

FULL STOP

Sometimes
I am an exclamation mark,
other times
a question mark,
I pause as a comma
or even a hyphen
but I keep going,
undeterred,
never an end in myself,
never daunted or scared to keep trying,
never, ever a full stop.

MONDAY LOOKING LIKE SUNDAY

Monday looking like Sunday,

soft blue sky, piercing winter sun

spotlighting the glory of nature's art,

chill in the air but a joy to behold,

a sense of awe.

Today is mostly colour and light
so, slow down the day and delay
the impending arrival of night.

JETHRO TULL HAIKU

On reading that Ian Anderson is touring the UK in April playing Jethro Tull's "Thick As A Brick" album, I resurrect my "Jethro Tull" haiku:

man with magic flute
playing earthy melodies
standing on one boot

SUNDAY LOOKING LIKE MONDAY

Sunday looking like Monday,
rain bombing the pavement,
grey sky, cold as an assassin,
dulls any hope of other hues
getting a look in.

Today is mostly black and white,
so, roll on the day and bring on
the comfort colours of night.

SWEET THOUGHT

Professor Maxwell Cleverclogs
looked up to the stars
and wondered with his furrowed brow
if Martians eat Earth bars.

DEATH OF A POLICEMAN

One moment,
one murderous moment,
and everything changed,
everything,
nothing would,
nothing could
ever be the same again.


The murderer was dead,
easy way out,
the victim lived on
in suffering and challenge,
with courage and defiance,
until that point that few of us know,
that point of no return,
that point when candles burn
to salute the hero, to mourn his fate,
- too late, people, too late.