Tuesday, 10 March 2015


Among these browning blossoms, a revolution 
stirs the surface of this stagnant water.
Or is it just the circle of my eyes?             
There is no touch or whisper of a wind,
there is no movement in these dying leaves,
their stillness - weighted.            

Every seep and current weighted            
in weekly, monthly, yearly revolutions.
Can such prisoners ever leave, 
or are they floaters, drowned by water
their flicker snuffed out by the wind?    
Who can read these eyes?         

Brimming with a multitude of eyes,        
water with their whiteness weighted,   
their stillness calls for the wind,                
their pulchritude for revolutions.                          
None should fear to sink beneath the water      
though their skin be thinner than leaves.            

A blanket generation of dead leaves      
rustles its crinkled lack of eyes  
and hems around the very water
which fattened them till fully weighted,
then pried them off with a half revolution           
as each stem snapped in the wind.         

Fury of an autumn wind                               
shake these empty, helpless leaves,      
rouse them in ghostly revolution,            
a delight to every burning eye, 
else they will stay forever weighted       
and clog the brackish water.      

Rumbling tumult of distant water            
carried in the approaching wind.                            
We can’t have long to wait         
for the bursting of banks and ripping of leaves,                 
when electric fires open their eyes         
in the rain’s lash and the cyclone’s revolution.     

Under the dead leaves,
beneath the stagnant water of your eyes,
is there a revolution?

Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Memories of Margaret

Drizzle at the bus stop
Agro from a man in a cap
Pink trainers brush past

Major savings at the office furniture warehouse
A bike locked in a pool of amber
Its white helmet bobs along Homebase's brick shadow
Across the road, small Rooneys mull over
3D collectors’ cards

News agent’s giving me grief
over Walkers crisps and a posh voice
‘Nah, daylight’s been privatised since Thatcher mate.
Dontchoo know that?
S’pose your mum and dad voted for ‘er.

The sign is neon but the step is stone
Dark, lopsided, abrased
I promise myself, this is the last time
I ever come back.

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

We Leave

We leave these boxes of the mind
your circles and your triangles
Your matrices and graphs we find
as bankrupt as financials

Your spreadsheet mesh is shutting down
Your currencies are paper thin
Your boundaries are banished now
They vanished in a blink

Your sharp lapels are fading fast
The earth shook out your gridlines
Regard your buildings washing past
the lilting twisted pylons

Your chessboard mind recedes from view,
Your cubicles have crumpled
Your margins slipped away from you,
your lines of thought all jumbled

The sunlight’s warped your frame of mind
The stucco’s rent with wrinkles
Your cornerstones and paradigms
are sinking into shingle

Your numbers fail to match the count
You’ve lost the beat, your rhythm’s late
The infinite has looped you round
and tightens like a ratsnake

We leave you in your office blocks
We’re off to see the trees
Goodbye to your atomic clocks
and death to all geometry!

Sunday, 18 December 2011

A threat

There’s no indication
no rhyme and no reason
for the unease you’re feeling.
We’re coming to getchya.

How will you know
the time or the place?
When the sense of your doom
is less than a whisper
Just the deeper chord rumbling
‘We’re coming to getchya’.

In your waking unconscious
you’re running like mad
But you know that we’re faster
We’re coming to getchya

On page or on foot?
the terror progressing
Could be totally abstract
the way that we’re coming.
But of one thing be sure
We’re coming to getchya.

Leaping and bounding,
vertical heights
mean nothing to us.
We’re coming to getchya.

Frantically checking the chessboard scores,
the CO2 and the weather report.
Is it the pharaoh’s curse or the frankenfoods?
Time’s nearly up but if only you knew
our identity. When, where, why and who?
All the better for us.
We’re coming to getchya.

Double entendres or frightened dogs’ whimpers?
Where are the warnings of the dread you can feel?
Which should one fear? The noise or the silence?
Hurry up fast
We’re coming to getchya.

Racking your brain
for the devils you know…
Sorry, too late

Face us
We’re here

Sunday, 3 April 2011

I open windows
Forgotten attachments cloud
over my outlook

Saturday, 20 November 2010

Nature’s Way

Your rose is withered and forlorn
Can nothing save its blackened thorn?
I recommend a cure that will -
Selected works of Kim Jong Il!
A reading every noon and night
Will radically change its plight
And where before the petals fell
New buds will soon begin to swell

Iranian Uranium
Is best for your geranium
And if it’s still a little sad
An hour of Ahmedinajad
Recorded live in Isfahan
And via Turkish Kurdistan,
Is guaranteed to bring it round
And make a difference most profound
But for an even healthier glow
Try ‘Hizbollah’s Magic Multigrow’

Resist the gardener’s common urge
To fault each autocratic purge
In countries whose political slants
Will likely cheer your garden plants
For nature is, beneath the sun
At root, totalitarian
To those who loathe the scorpions whip
And criticise dictatorship
In Pyongyang, Burma or Khartoum
I say…‘Let a hundred flowers bloom’!

Friday, 19 November 2010


This is no womb
And you are
no cherished issue

Your only future lies
out there
To join your brethren
the Sirocco, the Pampero
and the great Typhoon

Be under no illusion
You were never welcome here
And your continued presence
will not long be tolerated

Yet even in your going you must
show caution
For in this crowded city there are some
who would resent your passing
Like thoughtful Telemachus you must
leave quietly!

You have the power
to fuel a conflagration
Yet, I ask you: let go completely
No petty lingering whines
No thundering explosion
You need not make a scene

Hot air is quickly gone
But you have the pneuma
the destiny
if you will only grasp it
to reach the highest heavens

Here in this tense confinement
they show you nothing but contempt
Look at their wrinkled noses
when they notice
just a hint of your presence.

Speed on to distant altitudes
For in swift currents
you can at last be one
with the very furies of the skies.