April

As my train pulls away,
Back to the Solemn South,
Away from home where the tap water clouds from the limestone,
I think of my Grandmother,
As she lies, struggling out her last breaths against the cold Friday morning.

A legacy of elegance and fiery determination,
She leaves behind her three children, eight grandchildren and countless friends
To be once again with her Israel, wherever he waits for her.

Never one for sentimentality,
I doubt she would have liked this poem.
An affirming sense of will and an ageless grace that lives on through those who knew her,
And in the faded photos that litter the table.

A strong, kind woman -
One who commands awe and inspiration in the heart of the young man I have become.

The grey morning light on her cheekbone,
The muffled buzz of the lawnmower across the way,
These things congeal into a stillness,
A moment where time seems to pause and resume with every laboured breath.

She leaves nothing but love and strength.
Her daughter,
My mother,
As strong as anyone I'm ever likely to meet,
Whispers and strokes her hair,
The stark role reversal that old age renders inevitable:
'Go now, Mum, you can go now if that's what you want'.

The settling peaceful flavour of loss colours the air.

I sit on the 13.05 train to Paddington, and as Swindon and Reading fade past
I take the love my Grandmother left behind and tie it in knots,
Folding it down into a place where
Astaire and Rogers silently dance their final routine,
Swaying,
The patter of their heels joining the gentle thump of the February rain.

Peace

The word once written,
Now softly spoken.

Some preach peace through dimension and doctrines,
Of plans for mankind and ways to breed the silence.
Lead us not into temptation, for there lies the storm of a thousand
Sleepless nights.

For every breath quickened by beauty therein lies a remedy for the sickness of the soul.

My girl preaches peace at her fingertips,
Electric promise and every smile turns to thunder on a faraway plain.

Worry to hunch the back of an army of men dissolves before her,
As she ties the concerns of a troubled youth into ribbons and sends them
Flying
From the white cliffs into nothing;
Youth and love perfectly congealed in the space between our skin.

Oak (Falling)

There is an oak tree in an estate near my house
It has stood there for at least a hundred years and probably more
It was there when cars and television were but a nightmare of the troubled and the Cloth still compressed and wounded most minds;
Now it sits with dead arms, amongst the miracle of anguish hewn from concrete and broken promises that teems with life and missed opportunities - a british council housing estate

Standing there silent amongst all that change, saluting a changing of the guard that will never come.
Gotta mean something right?

I believe that once everything you see around you is dust and the world is wind and nothing much else, love will remain.
Nothing romantic,
just strength beyond survival of the fittest and the urge to flee
Our compassion for one another that defies logic and science and will not be quantified

The tree serves no purpose, nor does it effect its surroundings, is not moved by money or possession, yet it stands as testimony to the years that have battered and broken against it and will continue to stand until a new shopping centre is required


Keep close the ones who make you smile



I'm tired

50 Shades Of Beige

You are not right because your skin is too tight.
You talk too loud, shine too bright
You strive for beauty where none exists and fall in love too quick.

The disdain the elderly appear to have for the young is nothing short of dark.
Is it anger at the years that have swept them away or is it just another distraction from the passing of time, like writing to a newspaper or grumbling at skin colour

Maybe I should narrow my mind with a vice,
Knock my teeth out with a hammer,
Rip my hair out with a rake,
Brew my tea for half the time and throw hatred around like I never learned to dance;

I know my life will bring many changes in my manner but ignorance of youth will never furrow my brow, you have my word

The Gardener

Arms crossed, eyes down, cigarette sigh
Thinking of before the war
My armchair time machine is broken
My old arms bear the sores

A tank once rolled at my command
Now i lose fights with the stairs
The TV melts the days to weeks,
And glues irrelevance to my cares.

The cage of age is one sealed tight
My love since flown away
I long to join her, weightless, fair
Yet i wait another day.

Arms crossed, eyes down, cigarette sigh
Thinking of before the war
My armchair time machine is broken
This old heart bears the sores.

Skin

heaven is organic
you grow your own heaven
you nurture it:

leaves spiral as she catches your eye
and never returns it,
vines climb as a night of stars pulls its punches
to your heart beat,
buds explode as the pulse of your firstborn
moves your index for the first time.

beauty is truth, and vice versa

fuck everything else

Manchester

People bustle with city eyes & urgency.
The metropolitan world-worn walk
with the Costa and the iPhone,
armed.
Scaffolding like ivy,
chewing-gum pavement processions
leading A to B,
or somewhere in between.

Comfort in the space between buildings and heads,
apart.
People have been coming here for hundreds of years;
folding beneath the red-brick authenticity,
looking for answers.

Maybe that's just me,
turning to books and bargains to get
my piece of the road.