Archive for the ‘poems’ Category

Center Parcs Longleat

Monday, April 6th, 2009

The pool, providing you can find somewhere to plonk your stuff, is a good place to go when you arrive.

The queue of cars, when it was time to go to the villa, was long and with engines running not particularly environmentally friendly.

The villa, when you finally get there in the car, is a long way from the pool.

It’s a good job we have the car, because 50 camels worth of baggage would have taken a long time to carry the seemingly miles to the villa.

The beer, after we had returned the car, was very satisfying.

The queue, in the Parc Market, was highly frustrating when considering all I wanted was a pack of bacon for breakfast.

The bill, from the Parc Market, did not represent a single pack of bacon.

The rain, on the way to the bike hire place, was somewhat disconcerting.

The rain, when riding the bike back to the villa, was very wet and for those of us with glasses, obfuscating.

The hills, between the bike shop and the villa, were completely exhausting.

The glass of wine, back at the villa, was absolutely essential.

The cuddle with Anne, at the end of it all, was highly satisfying

Center Parcs, Longleat, Easter 2009.

y coliers

Sunday, April 5th, 2009

wyth awr i lawr i lwch,
uffern o le mewn tywyllwch;
eu tynged oedd syched hwch,
diffrwythwyd mewn diffeithwch.

gan alun davies

The boiling anger of Davy Jones

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009

front

What brought about the fury of that dawn?
An ire that kept the harbour’s ships at bay,
And hid the folk of town in narrow streets,
That rose above the battered beach cafe.

The birds unsettled, taunted by the waves,
Though blinding sand the elements’ ordeal,
The sea a boiling mass that overflowed
To crash upon the castle rocks at Peel.

The ocean’s cities in ill-disciplined parade,
Their towering sides, skyscrapers of the storm,
Disordered buildings ranged in disarray
With roads, deep troughs, that met no shape or form.

That Davy Jones had risen from his grave
Seemed certain to onlookers in the spray,
He chose to punish miscreants abroad
Who should have better meant to stay away.

harbour-wall

Then when at last the wind had sung its tune,
The clouds moved on to play to other halls,
And fishermen returned to ply their lines,
From high upon the granite harbour walls.

My eyes are stinging

Friday, March 6th, 2009

My eyes are stinging

And my nose smarts

From the sensory attack

That is the annual chutney cook-in.

The fruit soaks up the spices in vinegar

Swelling with proud absorption,

The spoon stirs until leaving a trail,

Standing in the rich, dark pool of preserve.

Hot jars await the plasma ,

Rubber seals close down the smell,

Weeks of virtuous patience are

Rewarded with palatable satisfaction.

The Trail (He Left Behind)

Friday, March 6th, 2009

Walking along the path
He left a noticeable trail,
It was a smell,
A feeling,
An impression,
A change to the landscape,
Even an attitude.
It was nothing new
But nobody had seen it before.
He left the path behind and
After a while the trail
Began to fade away,
Though the weight of his footfall
Made it last a little longer than
It might have done,
As it did for others.

He left a tip for the taxi driver
And bought a train ticket
With his credit card,
Spoke to the barman,
Sang in the street,
Winked at the girl,
Had an eye test,
Switched the light on,
Painted the garage,
Mowed the lawn,
Picked up a piece of litter and
Put it in the bin,
Had four children
Who left home and
Then he occasionally saw
Until he died…

For Clare at 40

Sunday, March 1st, 2009

What do you get a woman
When she turns forty?
She already has it all,
Good looks,
Lively personality,
Rich and caring husband,
Dutiful children,
Great friends,
A VW camper van,
Exciting tastes,
Stylish wardrobe,
Intelligent conversation,
Great sex drive (apparently),
A mansion near the cathedral.

You get her a poem:

There was a young lady called Clare
Who drove me one day to despair
For try as I might
A poem to write
But damn it the muse wasn’t there

Four Oh

The numbers game,
A milestone we celebrate,
Marching on,
Steadily ticking,
One more goes by,
There’s no going back,
Drip, drip, drip
A watershed
Life changing?
It all begins here!
Live for the moment!
Do it now,
Before bits start falling off.

Four Oh.

The Bag

Sunday, February 22nd, 2009

Save the planet you bastard,
Said her eyes,
As I asked for a bag
At the checkout.
She was right of course,
Though I did need
To carry the food home,
So I took one and left.

The Sorrel Horse In Barham

Friday, February 20th, 2009

The train to Norwich stops at Ipswich,
Which is where I mean to go,
Once alighted catch a taxi,
Sorrel Horse in Barham ho.

Liverpool Street is very busy,
With commuters homeward bound,
None are destined though for Barham,
Sorrel Horse, so sweet the sound.

No bitter pill awaits in Barham,
Bitter beer that makes me smile,
Draught pulled pints of pure enjoyment,
Satisfaction Sorrel-style.

There’s a meal to match the finest
Mother ever could prepare
Freshly cooked and plenty of it
Sorrel Horse it draws me there

When the sun sets over Barham,
There’s a place that’s free from sin
Warm your back, the fire beckons,
Oh Sorrel Horse, most welcome inn.

Fat woman in hotel restaurant

Tuesday, February 17th, 2009

There was heavy breathing
In the lift
Going down
For breakfast.
She was texting
And it seemed to me
The effort was
Making her breathless.
It came as a surprise
To see her on cereals
But then she appeared
In the line
For the full English buffet,
Urging her
Equally sizeable
Male companion
To take more
And then I saw her go
For a second helping,
A large one.
I walked to my meeting.

The quiet coach!

Tuesday, February 17th, 2009

The quiet coach,
The crunch of crisp packets,
The rustling of newspapers
And the murmur of conversations
Would almost drown out the noise of
Any mobile phone!

The Pyrex Challenge

Tuesday, February 10th, 2009

Revealed in a moment of passion,
The bowl of secrets, for her
A life-changing perfection,
In pyrex, the brightest reflection
Of a woman’s ambition,
Waterproof, a watershed in life’s expectation
‘though lacking in clear explanation
Of the reason for this deep devotion.
The gauntlet laid, in anticipation
Of a suitably poetic reaction.

A tale of two churches

Monday, February 9th, 2009

The Sunday homage,

Split between God and mammon.

The body of Christ and

The bread counter at the supermarket

The bell calls the faithful to prayer

Whilst the tannoy announces reductions at the deli

Money changes hands as

The collection plate circulates

And the clubcard accrues points

St Peter in Eastgate Church and Tesco

They both want your soul.

WIND

Sunday, February 8th, 2009

Howling, raging, battering,

The wind still blew on,

Fierce, gusty and strong,

The wind still blew on,

Calm, quiet and peaceful,

The wind had stopped blowing,

Raging and howling,

So all was quiet and sunny.

 

Jamjar of Apostrophes

Monday, February 2nd, 2009

jamjar of apostrophes

On the mantelpiece, gathering apostrophes, stands the jamjar
Never seeming to get full despite
A steady stream of infilling punctuations
That claim to be the real thing,
Though they may simply be
Misplaced commas.

Whence it came we know not
Nor the jam contained
Within its glass rotunda,
Spread out on bread
And washed, long since,
From the sweet of communal consciousness.

Unlikely as it is, in the jamjar
Gathers the dust of failed scribes
And victims of progress,
Sentenced to be read by others
In the twilight of expression,
The false dawn of a new age.

As it slowly fills, so dies the light…

Tree Forty Four

Tuesday, January 6th, 2009

Spheres of silver, or gold, or red, or blue,
Or one of those with glittery powder sprinkled on and glued.
Glimmering and glinting with reflected light
From Christmas tree lights all bright and sparkly and white.

Old favourite angel, looking down
At silver snow slopes of tinsel cosily draping round
The rich, deep green, bowing branches.

Ragged, ripped ends of chocolate-coin foil, all spent,
Mountains of scrunched-up wrapping paper rent
Asunder all too soon in one long-awaited, ecstatic moment

Dumped, decaying, municipal-machine-mulched,
Tree Forty Four, short-lived, for sure
Ends up in the butchers shop on the floor.