where art collides

The green wall of summer,

Birds in evening chorus in the park,

New growth ripples along the hedge,

The light remains,

Though sense says it should be dark.

Rays filter through the canopy,

A rose commends its lovely presence,

Its colour in delicate harmony,

Without the wall,

Pink beauty conferred with deep fragrance.

When was the last time you used a phonebox?

Freedom is going out without
your mobile phone alone.

When was the last time you used a phonebox?

Only the strongest constitution
can take this liberation.

When was the last time you used a phonebox?

Blow a raspberry to the Blackberry,
real men don’t need email on the move.

When was the last time you used a phonebox?

The phone goes ping, ping. Someone’s poking me.
Oooh, a text. Who can this be ?
A thought, a plan, or maybe just a wave, which
I save, because it has enriched
My day. Then I send back my reply, and try
To be witty, and clever, but mostly it’s meant
To return their compliment.

Nothing exists outside these four walls,
The light is reflected on the windows and
All is black beyond the glass.
My access to the external world
Is a mobile phone which is used
To send text messages,
And Facebook.
It is a virtual world.
I finish a bottle of red wine
And have nothing but my thoughts
And the tick of the clock on the kitchen wall.

I see a random symmetry
As the drops hit the puddle
And concentric circles grow
Until they collide and are consumed.
Cares vanish as the rings fade,
Geometric self-hypnosis,
Walking in the gentle rain.

Bank Holiday. As if they need one.

Weekend.

Like we used to have.

Peat on the fire, as the lady cools.

Some camping, but

I’m not there, I’m not invited

Into the front room.

Why there?

It might rain, so be safe

And sanitised.

Is that a sneeze I hear?

Will we live Tref?

Should we stock up?

Let loose the 21st Century’s dogs of war.

Telegraph the news abroad.

He died, young,
Though many have gone before,
The shock remains,
As if for the first time.

The community, silenced,
In unexpected grief,
Left thinking,
Pondering their own mortality.

We’re on the Tesco stage at the Millennium Centre tomorrow.

Singing some songs that as yet I haven’t seen and don’t know.

I’ll be standing at the back doing my best as anyone would,

I really hope I don’t do an impression of John Redwood.

Not cricket. He said.

Don’t care. Said Mr Turner.

What am I to do between 5 and 7?

Not my concern, you’re not sitting here,

We don’t like you’re demographic and its lack of money.

But my listeners. But my games, my lines. My life.

Commercial radio is no place for cost cutting,

Just people cutting and Mike has gone.

Beware all those who plan careers

In this, the people marketplace.

You’re young once only

And then only briefly.

In Italy this week
A loving God
Who is all powerful,
Killed off a couple
Of hundred people
In an earthquake.
They must have been
Evil, presumably?!

The bell tolled,
The faithful went to prayer
And their Leader sent a message
“Assuring us of his spiritual nearness,
Sharing the anguish”.

The bereaved I’m sure,
Would be comforted,
That the souls of the departed
Were fine,
Presuming they were
Good Catholics and
Regularly went
To confession,
The dead that is.

Some mercy was shown –
Survivors were found
Pleased that their names
Were not this time
On the celestial roll call.

The dead, Sofia, Carlo,
Anna, Francesco
Fictitious and fleeting,
Will be remembered for some years
By a plaque, itself destined
For destruction by some future
Wanton act of the same God.

Well,
We listened with amusement.
We enjoyed the later banter.
The elder male grandchild was on.
He held the crowd.
He shouted clear.
The description was crisp and the cola was tasty (so we hear).
Then we heard the sirens.