A few from this latest collection at time of writing – completed September 2019.
Safe Haven Pie
The streets are hiding from me.
My feet are tired of running after them.
The most well-known places have moved
Or is it –
I’m hiding cos they’re counting to ten?
is a turn-up for the books.
It looks like I’m lost
unless the signs are giving me strange looks.
The arrows point to words
when you’re jotting things down in a forest.
The pheasant, duck, goose pie in the pub
was very tasty with mash,
And the two pints did the rest.
Body Barges and Soul
The barges are made of ten quid notes
floating on the market.
The feathered cranes loom over the boats
and people walk past people they could have met.
If my soul doesn’t make it, I know my body will.
Photo Without You
cut me out
what would I be?
a pun with linguistic skills
up a secret darkroom hide-out tree?
cut you out
and you’ll see
without someone like you in a photo
is like not having an eye for photography.
In the Dark
Not naming any names
but yours came up
with your top-secret games
leaving me in the dark.
Taking the credit by copying.
Thinking you’re above it all.
But your sneaky plagiarism
is under the spotlight in the dark.
Those dumb animals in the green
aren’t so dumb as they seem.
And have grassed on you.
And your poaching in the dark.
Soon you’ll be nothing
but a shadow of yourself.
Your own ghost giving
the shivers in the dark.
Rock Introvertigo lost interest in being anywhere near there.
As far away as possible didn’t matter.
He was here but didn’t care.
And (like we all know) when you don’t care, you don’t listen to anyone’s patter.
Days weeks years before, he’d had one foot in time’s door.
His body was a woman’s like an hourglass
and he stood still like an iguana staring through every class.
His records span off skimming across the seas
bouncing off the rocks, killing himself laughing by the cliffs
and tasteless psychedelic teas.
I was wondering about me the other day
And it got me to thinking;
What am I doing these days?
It’s been so long since I saw him.
So, I got out all the old photos.
And there I was.
And I chose the best ones
And ignored the ones I didn’t like, just because.
I’d love to hear from me again.
Talk the toss about way back when.
But thought; Best leave it to posterity.
Bet he never thinks about me.
Garden birds are dying out. So, get out while you can.
Because, one day, wood pigeons and the like will be gone.
Those mornings when you woke up to a dawn chorus.
Those small hours when you rolled home flapping and dying of thirst.
You live for poetry and music and art
but you can’t rhyme or sing or paint for toffee.
It hardly crosses my mind how long we’ve been apart
but there’s hardly a day when I don’t think about you and me.
So, this is the message of this poem or song or painting.
Know you’re going to die when the birds won’t sing.
Make the most of a nightingale or sparrow or thrush.
‘Cos once they’re gone, there’s a dark silent rush.