World Poetry Day

Today is World #Poetry Day
So here are some of mine from over the last 20 years …enjoy

Christmas at Christchurch

I feel translucent
a man of marble skin
as if dreaming my motions
every step a tread in water
each reach of my hand
a ghost grip touches
but nothing holds and yet
I clutch these stones and
iron spear barricades
as a sea-snail would the bedrock
for this is my folly
to hug close the masonry of charity

I feel nothing
no remorse runs down my arms
to my useless wrists
no rage
twists my mouth into rabid snarl
no pleasure lifts my face
from the footfalls
of those celestial beings
bustling above

not even a soaked black wall
on which I am a shadow
penetrates my deadened hide

I feel grotesque
I am a gargoyle of flesh and bone
sown into the fabric of these
towers with closed doorways
that form broken arch homes
for broken things
but

no longer am I broken
I have embraced
the cold and hunger
of my mouth and my soul
I am free of this place

Yet

here I am still
here for you to see
if you can stomach
to see me

*

Strangely Your

I bare my throat to your fangs
my vixen or vampire
or just one of those lover’s things

Don’t know – Don’t care

If it poisons or cures
you’re crazily mine
and I am strangely yours

You bare your skin to my mirrored eyes
am I wolf or Wicca
or a boy whose hands lust ties

Don’t know – Don’t care

If angel or devil to satin sheets lures
you to be longingly mine
and I strangely yours

We bare souls to emotion
are we deity or demon
or whispers drowning in sexual ocean

Do we know – do we really care

If storm or tide washes us to new shores
despite a world insanity you’re mine
and I – strange maybe – but yours

*

Just Say It

Just say it
if you have something to say

She masks the meaning of her machinations
mixing her metaphors
intertwining innuendo
like lovers locked in lip-service
serving only the cerebral cyber cyphers
that are incomprehensible
to the incompetent voyeur
with his lack of vampiric virtues
and his virtually vacuous knowledge
of the gloomy gothic arts
grotesque yet gregarious
simultaneously strange and familiar
forming as they should part of his own
foundation in fictional formation

Just say it
if you have something to say

Her words are weighty
well-chosen sounds to surround
the sinner with psychedelic scenes
in super cinescope
the graveyard
the gravestone
the graven-faced lady
a grave mistake indeed these
grave analogies
over anxious and under analysed
what is the message
what is the motif in your motive
where is the fire that once fanned
the fighting spirit to be spirited away
in spite of beauty
substance has been substituted for semblance

Just say it
if you have something to say
instead of images behind tired illusions
and incessant alliterations
ironic as they are here
Just say it
If you have something to say

*

Lost on the Brentford Dock Trail

The white marble column is tantalisingly close
with mighty Caesar aloft
no doubt some Victorian folly to amuse
the barge captains on the lazy Thames

but walls and warning signs
have misdirected me here
a simple wooden bench by Brentford Dock

where I suppose many a
defeated tourist has slumped
beaten by mighty Caesar
and private properties alike

*

Writing Under Water

Waiting for that sweet moment
when I break the surface and gasp
a lungful of clean air
when words mean what I want them to mean
when they say what’s in my eyes
and not the lies on my face
the public face worn as a thin skin veneer
exploiting those last moments before
sinking down again
back into heaviness
down to another blank page
washed clean
struggling and writing under water

* * *

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