78

I am long on the biscuit they say.
My knees only do this so many times love.
I’m not a 78, my hips move
as they will - as they can…
and baby they can… and they will.

I don’t know where I’ll be off too
in the next few months.
I hope you are with me.
I hope you’ll see these times as I do.

I’ve laid my mark on music,
met the A-List set in my day.
Carly knows that I know who was vain,
when they asked for more cowbell
history says I obliged.

My ear in the studio
is legend to a few.
My tongue on the record
sent smiling executives home.

I’ve got a sloop and a dream,
lined up in the harbor.
All that is missing
is you and some Smackwater Jack.

… for David

 

September's Eyes

I’ll sip upon these august days
as a sustenance for winter.
They hold the light
unlike July,
they hold the gold
before the scythes cut into autumn,
before the hidden tears cry
in November’s eyes.

Labor Day came twice,
hard with pent up earthy passion,
then soft as a kitten
sidling up to a warm stone hearth.

I’ll sip on these August days
as our dreams thirst for color,
as summer leaves the tears
to September’s eyes.

 

Uprooting

I passed a farmer on Tumby Ln.
She helped me to Tatteshall,
to the west of Coningsby.
The sky grew in its usual threats,
another bluster from Lincoln,
more humorless rain.

I stood still in the rural English air
listening for the breath
of my ancestors,
taking in the tattered brick
of worn cemetery plots,
the grease of this land,
the damp churlish scent,
its imprint on my taproot.

I was Downstairs again…
watching hooded migrants and lady’s maids.
I was down-hall
from the drink and posh revelry.
I could smell the fresh baked bread,
the warm porridge and jams.

Love with your Own Heart


Leave your eyes open
in these soft August mornings.
Let the sunlight touch your hands,
settle warm upon each lid,
soften the adhesives,
re-dressing each wound,
glistening as it peaks again
from furtive smiles.

Leave your eyes open
to these days of tear lit grins,
the unbridled shadows
of this un-chaperoned life,
live in shackle free days,
walking, speaking,
consuming, existing
loving free.

Breathe your own breath.
Speak your own mind.
Love with your own heart.

Serenity at Dawn

My fingers deep in your hair,
my mouth on yours
skulls connected
to the skin between our knees.
Breath guttering the candles,
the room rising from mocha to lilac
Sol’s eye searing
just beneath shale cliffs of cloud,
winking out just
as our grips met the shore,
as we glisten, breathless,
complete and serene.

Incomplete

Some days the hunger
growls too much,
the gnaw grows too apparent,
the skin seems to move,
my hyde comes alive.

Some days
the landscapes rolls,
perceptible flaws
in its carpets and tiles
with the lifetime warranty.

Some days his sax makes me bleed
and its all I want of my skin.
Some days sin with you
turns my mind to jelly,
my dreams to bone,
the eyes of my days
pecked by the gulls,
laid blind by the sea.

Some days the hunger
leaves me quiet,
at peace with my diet,
while I thirst for you
always incomplete.

 

Watered Down

I’ve watched the rain take lives
sideways and inside out.
Too close to the river,
too reliant on luck,
stupid decisions,
pets trembling
tempers sparking,
patience at the edge of murder.

I don’t know how I’d cope
with my life six feet deep in river,
in the sewage,
oily sludge standing.

in a river still milling,
a river still stealing our dreams.

Out of Order

Ibis and egrets come to peck the pastures
to stab the mudflats for protein, tiny frogs,
to harness the insects for flight.

For every cow there must be five,
for every evening there are squadrons in the air
returning to rookeries
up and down the briny coast.
You can hear their wing-cuts
slicing through the thick summer air.

A fish hawk took a baby otter today.
each parent was frantic,
looking up and back
looking down for the pup…
up and back
twenty minutes of disbelief.
There were plenty of fish.

Sometimes there are plenty of fish.

The River's Cold Blue Smile

The river tore something here
beyond the floorboards,
the rusted nails, or the high-water stains.
You can sense the helpless anxiety,
the talons rending sanity
as the babies wailed,
as the wallpaper darkened
as slats in the walls drew apart
tearing like wicker and thatch.

Trees lay akimbo
like tinder gathered by a giant.
Great thickets, swathes of their branches,
trunks two feet across in scrambled heaps.
Remainders, mere suggestions of homes
snagged on mighty roots.
Deep-soil eyes, dead panes
that stare oblivious to their lot.
Lives left rinsed of every belonging,
reminders caught
feet about the current.
A child’s dolly, a broken frame,
it picture rotted or gone,
a crucifix caked and blind to the August sun.

The river tore something here.
Most folks are gone this time.
Not missing or dead, but never coming back.
There’s no fault in surrender,
no fault in asking God for a reason why.
There will be no answer,
‘cept the river’s cold blue smile.