Forty-Four
War hung lifeless off a page,
colour plates in gloomy hues,
smudged black and white lithos
led maps to slandered enemies.
Playing on grassy bomb shelter banks
we were never lost souls,
always alive with forty-four,
whatever forty-four meant?
Chalk sports day lines
stopped abruptly in winner’s clouds,
and losers dreams.
Between egg and spoon
we swapped war cards
garish, gory but ours.
Twenty years earlier, bombs fell
single file killers
waiting their howling turn
to flatten life’s hopes
and our parents concern,
but we wanted more.
More information, more pictures,
more tales of how we…..
but listening ears were mute.
No soldier, nor mother,
nor airmen, nor father
would utter a stricken word.
Skeletons in cupboards
wailed and wailed.
Then, sudden as flick-cards
after cub’s church parade,
we’d scurry to St. Nicks back room
where our new friend,
old and always rain-coated,
would spill stories,
at first biblical, but then
bulging with fighter pilots
Spitfires and Hurricanes, before
Heinkels and Messerschmitts tangled them
in the air above our eyes,
wooden straight back chairs,
with rear hymn book shelves
hailed a prayer to our slender aged whoops.
We learned all, those few years,
but mostly,
we learned enthusiasm.
Jerry Pike
Tuesday 29 December 2009
Balaclava
Balaclava
1 watch her from the sofa, holding my coffee,
the fire ablaze, an empty bottle of wine.
With nimble fingers she looks across to copy
from a pattern, slowly leads the first soft line
along to its ordained and foretold end
connected back to the needle's metal spine.
The next row follows on like a close friend,
hooked back to the start on pre-arranged hoops,
each curled stitch a little fisherman's bend:
the rest march out one by one like woollen troops.
She goes on like this for an hour while 1 sleep,
but a fault appears dashing her early hopes
and she picks it apart into an unravelled heap
dismissed as a first flawed attempt, a snake
scribbled up beside her, a cartoon sheep.
So she starts again while I get more cake
using exactly the same length of yarn
but with new resolve to make no mistakes
Clicking along, her needles follow the plan,
or should we call it a hidden design?
It's unseen in any single row's narTow span
but will be clear to all when, after we dine,
I'll unwrap it and in mock surprise proclaim it grand
knowing that out in the night, frosty but fine,
my head will stay warm and it will finally be mine.
Peter Keeble
1 watch her from the sofa, holding my coffee,
the fire ablaze, an empty bottle of wine.
With nimble fingers she looks across to copy
from a pattern, slowly leads the first soft line
along to its ordained and foretold end
connected back to the needle's metal spine.
The next row follows on like a close friend,
hooked back to the start on pre-arranged hoops,
each curled stitch a little fisherman's bend:
the rest march out one by one like woollen troops.
She goes on like this for an hour while 1 sleep,
but a fault appears dashing her early hopes
and she picks it apart into an unravelled heap
dismissed as a first flawed attempt, a snake
scribbled up beside her, a cartoon sheep.
So she starts again while I get more cake
using exactly the same length of yarn
but with new resolve to make no mistakes
Clicking along, her needles follow the plan,
or should we call it a hidden design?
It's unseen in any single row's narTow span
but will be clear to all when, after we dine,
I'll unwrap it and in mock surprise proclaim it grand
knowing that out in the night, frosty but fine,
my head will stay warm and it will finally be mine.
Peter Keeble
Sunday 22 November 2009
Casualties
By night the bombs rained down from dreadful skies;
by day his blows assailed her frightened eyes.
By night it was allowed to utter cries;
by day she stifled them for otherwise
their infant and the neighbours would have guessed
and so she hid her bruises, unconfessed.
She knew his rages mainly stemmed from stress.
from weeks of nightly fear and sleeplessness
but he had lost control, continued wild
long after enemies were reconciled.
Now brutalised, he would not be beguiled
and left her penniless to rear their child.
Dorothy Pope
by day his blows assailed her frightened eyes.
By night it was allowed to utter cries;
by day she stifled them for otherwise
their infant and the neighbours would have guessed
and so she hid her bruises, unconfessed.
She knew his rages mainly stemmed from stress.
from weeks of nightly fear and sleeplessness
but he had lost control, continued wild
long after enemies were reconciled.
Now brutalised, he would not be beguiled
and left her penniless to rear their child.
Dorothy Pope
In Your Shoes
In Your Shoes
In your shoes, I'd have wondered what I'm like,
as woman now, and how I was at school.
Did you not ever ask yourself, awake
at night perhaps, it I was beautiful
or clever, happy, mother now to boys
who looked like you, as handsome, tall and blond,
or if, for want of funds and fathering. all joys
had come to nothing, not survived beyond
the day you left us, broke? Life was deprived,
of course, but you gave me a legacy
I prize. You left me hypersensitised
to cruelty and worth ? rare gift. I see
right through facades. Not,spared a second thought,
I'm fine - though I'm the daughter you forgot.
Dorothy Pope
In your shoes, I'd have wondered what I'm like,
as woman now, and how I was at school.
Did you not ever ask yourself, awake
at night perhaps, it I was beautiful
or clever, happy, mother now to boys
who looked like you, as handsome, tall and blond,
or if, for want of funds and fathering. all joys
had come to nothing, not survived beyond
the day you left us, broke? Life was deprived,
of course, but you gave me a legacy
I prize. You left me hypersensitised
to cruelty and worth ? rare gift. I see
right through facades. Not,spared a second thought,
I'm fine - though I'm the daughter you forgot.
Dorothy Pope
Tuesday 17 November 2009
The Harder They Come
Into the city for big time spoils,
five three with a ‘bop’ walk,
occasional high heels, to boost,
and that feminine voice.
He walked, talked, jumped fast,
learned to sing mento down town,
Vincent Ivanhoe Martin, fourteen and bad.
He robbed and ran so fast, no one caught him.
1938, Jam Down, Kingston resident’s court
dished him twelve tamarind strokes,
for a vicious attack.
Early 40s, burglary, shop break-ins, wounding.
Then 1945 his war began,
underworld gang monikers pinned tight,
Captain Midnight, Alan Ladd, but mainly
Two-Gun Rhygin.
Every job, he photographed himself,
a showman with two guns, to send the press.
He robbed rich, gave to poor,
Robbin’ da Hood, and the ghetto thanked.
1946, with his gang, got seven years,
that final straw pulled, he escaped in two,
and there on ratchet in his waist,
Johnny Too Bad,
gunned and gunned,
promising twenty nine un-wasted bullets.
1948, holed up in the Carib Hotel,
wearing just underpants,
shot his way free,
killing, wounding, making headlines
Jamaica would never forget.
He wrote regular letters to papers and police,
telling his next move,
how they must improve, and who was
the next nail under his gun’s hammer.
A fugitive in hiding
up Ferry Reef Swamp,
he didn’t have long for fame,
£200 bounty, rode on his head,
povertied people started spilling addresses.
While mum and dad were arrested for fish dynamiting,
his own net closing, he escaped.
Two Greenwich Town fishermen
took him to Lime Cay, but tipped off,
police and army arrived, surrounded,
and, as he always said,
never take me alive,
they shot him to bits.
Thousands went to the morgue,
to see Jamaica’s biggest criminal,
wrapped in blood and sack, but still, their hero
and future star of
The Harder They Come
five three with a ‘bop’ walk,
occasional high heels, to boost,
and that feminine voice.
He walked, talked, jumped fast,
learned to sing mento down town,
Vincent Ivanhoe Martin, fourteen and bad.
He robbed and ran so fast, no one caught him.
1938, Jam Down, Kingston resident’s court
dished him twelve tamarind strokes,
for a vicious attack.
Early 40s, burglary, shop break-ins, wounding.
Then 1945 his war began,
underworld gang monikers pinned tight,
Captain Midnight, Alan Ladd, but mainly
Two-Gun Rhygin.
Every job, he photographed himself,
a showman with two guns, to send the press.
He robbed rich, gave to poor,
Robbin’ da Hood, and the ghetto thanked.
1946, with his gang, got seven years,
that final straw pulled, he escaped in two,
and there on ratchet in his waist,
Johnny Too Bad,
gunned and gunned,
promising twenty nine un-wasted bullets.
1948, holed up in the Carib Hotel,
wearing just underpants,
shot his way free,
killing, wounding, making headlines
Jamaica would never forget.
He wrote regular letters to papers and police,
telling his next move,
how they must improve, and who was
the next nail under his gun’s hammer.
A fugitive in hiding
up Ferry Reef Swamp,
he didn’t have long for fame,
£200 bounty, rode on his head,
povertied people started spilling addresses.
While mum and dad were arrested for fish dynamiting,
his own net closing, he escaped.
Two Greenwich Town fishermen
took him to Lime Cay, but tipped off,
police and army arrived, surrounded,
and, as he always said,
never take me alive,
they shot him to bits.
Thousands went to the morgue,
to see Jamaica’s biggest criminal,
wrapped in blood and sack, but still, their hero
and future star of
The Harder They Come
I'm sorry
I'm Sorry!
I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today,
the signs are not really auspicious.
Life's burdens and bothers will get in the way,
so I'm sorry. 1 can't write a poem today.
It's no use complaining, for try as 1 may
the verse turns foul and factitious.
I'm sorry. 1 can't write a poem today,
the augurs are far from auspicious.
I'm sorry 1 can't write a poem today.
It's no use your being suspicious.
1 know that you think you have only to say,
but I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today.
1 long for a lyric, like flowers in May,
but my powers are entirely fictitious,
so sadly 1 can't write a poem today,
although you may well be suspicious.
I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today.
My mood is too surly and vicious?
The sun is too dim and the clouds are too grey,
so I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today,
Please leave me in peace, then, and just go away!
I'm giving up being ambitious.
1 really can't write you a poem today.
I'm lazy ? and surly and vicious.
John Waddell
I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today,
the signs are not really auspicious.
Life's burdens and bothers will get in the way,
so I'm sorry. 1 can't write a poem today.
It's no use complaining, for try as 1 may
the verse turns foul and factitious.
I'm sorry. 1 can't write a poem today,
the augurs are far from auspicious.
I'm sorry 1 can't write a poem today.
It's no use your being suspicious.
1 know that you think you have only to say,
but I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today.
1 long for a lyric, like flowers in May,
but my powers are entirely fictitious,
so sadly 1 can't write a poem today,
although you may well be suspicious.
I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today.
My mood is too surly and vicious?
The sun is too dim and the clouds are too grey,
so I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today,
Please leave me in peace, then, and just go away!
I'm giving up being ambitious.
1 really can't write you a poem today.
I'm lazy ? and surly and vicious.
John Waddell
Saturday 24 October 2009
Dinking
Summer seventy-two’s racking
had nursery blue uprights, block board shelves,
and prayed to the far wall,
waiting to swallow its daily snacks.
Back door bell, a screech of wood to floor
and lunch stepped in.
Three hundred Vincent singles,
a hundred Popcorn, and two hundred
Whiter shades of pale, almost Dulux,
all for London’s jukeboxes, June was good.
Shame we hadn’t ordered them dinked.
So the hand stamp, bang, bang, banged
six hundred times, making their holes fit
Seeburg, Rock-Ola, Rota-Rolla
even that superb, rare AMI Deauville!
As we fed each shelf, split each order
we grooved to the latest hits on our Garard 301
jammed in a one-phone office,
behind Shepherds Bush shopping centre.
Python Lee Jackson, In a broken dream, led the way
Metal guru, Lady Eleanor, Rocket man,
we just didn’t care.
And on special days,
after thousands of vinyl dinks
we’d celebrate in our Wimpy bar,
before a brisk, diving browse
through the first Argos.
Jerry Pike
had nursery blue uprights, block board shelves,
and prayed to the far wall,
waiting to swallow its daily snacks.
Back door bell, a screech of wood to floor
and lunch stepped in.
Three hundred Vincent singles,
a hundred Popcorn, and two hundred
Whiter shades of pale, almost Dulux,
all for London’s jukeboxes, June was good.
Shame we hadn’t ordered them dinked.
So the hand stamp, bang, bang, banged
six hundred times, making their holes fit
Seeburg, Rock-Ola, Rota-Rolla
even that superb, rare AMI Deauville!
As we fed each shelf, split each order
we grooved to the latest hits on our Garard 301
jammed in a one-phone office,
behind Shepherds Bush shopping centre.
Python Lee Jackson, In a broken dream, led the way
Metal guru, Lady Eleanor, Rocket man,
we just didn’t care.
And on special days,
after thousands of vinyl dinks
we’d celebrate in our Wimpy bar,
before a brisk, diving browse
through the first Argos.
Jerry Pike
August
Another week of summer gone
The days are slipping past
The autumn rains come marching on
Time runs so fast.
Hardly seems a week or two
Since snow was on the hills
And all the gardens shining new
With daffodils.
The phlox, the lillies, they attend
the summer's grand parade
now linger to their tattered end,
and roses fade:
And while I bask in summer’s rays
There’s gnawing in my mind
And through the bleak and bitter days
Creep close behind.
Old father time hold on a tick!
Slow down for pity’s sake!
Why do you need to run so quick?
Put on the brake!
John Waddell
The days are slipping past
The autumn rains come marching on
Time runs so fast.
Hardly seems a week or two
Since snow was on the hills
And all the gardens shining new
With daffodils.
The phlox, the lillies, they attend
the summer's grand parade
now linger to their tattered end,
and roses fade:
And while I bask in summer’s rays
There’s gnawing in my mind
And through the bleak and bitter days
Creep close behind.
Old father time hold on a tick!
Slow down for pity’s sake!
Why do you need to run so quick?
Put on the brake!
John Waddell
Housewife
With busy needle, thimble, treadle,
she turned bed sheets sides to middle,
let down hems, inserted lengtheners.
Pockets made patch elbow strengtheners.
Every inch of her back garden
grew successions of abundant
vegetables, fruit ? delicious,
picked to eat with Same?day freshness.
Plums Preserved in lines of bottles,
jams in jars and onions pickled,
serried rows on shelves in pantry
testament to her. No entry.
In a book ever recorded
how she worked.Quite unrewarded,
just the striving for perfection
gave her ail her motivation.
Surely there's nobility
a true, though quiet celebrity,
when such a woman daily tries
with little means to reach the skies.
Dorothy Pope
she turned bed sheets sides to middle,
let down hems, inserted lengtheners.
Pockets made patch elbow strengtheners.
Every inch of her back garden
grew successions of abundant
vegetables, fruit ? delicious,
picked to eat with Same?day freshness.
Plums Preserved in lines of bottles,
jams in jars and onions pickled,
serried rows on shelves in pantry
testament to her. No entry.
In a book ever recorded
how she worked.Quite unrewarded,
just the striving for perfection
gave her ail her motivation.
Surely there's nobility
a true, though quiet celebrity,
when such a woman daily tries
with little means to reach the skies.
Dorothy Pope
Sita in the Modern World
Sita in the Modern World
Many years after, several thousand in fact,
after Ravana was reborn in the hierarchies
of capital and its politics of jealousy,
once more she finds herself isolated by his power.
Knowing Rama to be busy and Lakshmana useless,
she fends off snorts and dismissive shrugs
not by tapping unseen powers
nor by retaliation with an icy gaze
nor some verbal rejoinder,
though all these are at her disposal.
No, she greets attacks of this sort
and the ritual of the gang’s hostile chorus,
with the quiet understanding
that is her steady and unflinching purpose.
Maybe somewhere there is a vault
hidden beneath dark arctic wastes
where busy clerks record each snide snub
for posterity in careful, cautious ledgers.
If so, she knows nothing of these
fault finders and would care less;
future reckonings of right and wrong
before crestfallen villains in the dock
are no concern of hers at all.
So, sitting patiently in her neat suit,
she lets the insults flow on as they will,
comes through their buffeting like a statue,
unchanging and resolute.
Perhaps from time to time she permits
brief inner visions of herself as superhero
winking to an imagined camera
as she speeds on through the air.
But these are small aberrations
in her unswerving mission to bring care
to the tormented butterflies hidden all about her.
Peter Keeble
Many years after, several thousand in fact,
after Ravana was reborn in the hierarchies
of capital and its politics of jealousy,
once more she finds herself isolated by his power.
Knowing Rama to be busy and Lakshmana useless,
she fends off snorts and dismissive shrugs
not by tapping unseen powers
nor by retaliation with an icy gaze
nor some verbal rejoinder,
though all these are at her disposal.
No, she greets attacks of this sort
and the ritual of the gang’s hostile chorus,
with the quiet understanding
that is her steady and unflinching purpose.
Maybe somewhere there is a vault
hidden beneath dark arctic wastes
where busy clerks record each snide snub
for posterity in careful, cautious ledgers.
If so, she knows nothing of these
fault finders and would care less;
future reckonings of right and wrong
before crestfallen villains in the dock
are no concern of hers at all.
So, sitting patiently in her neat suit,
she lets the insults flow on as they will,
comes through their buffeting like a statue,
unchanging and resolute.
Perhaps from time to time she permits
brief inner visions of herself as superhero
winking to an imagined camera
as she speeds on through the air.
But these are small aberrations
in her unswerving mission to bring care
to the tormented butterflies hidden all about her.
Peter Keeble
Friday 25 September 2009
Bad News
Today you said that you wished you were dead
and told me you just could not bare to face
today at school or any other place,
insisted you would stay moping in bed.
Then I found the crumpled letter you’d read;
I could see how this cloud of an ink stain
hid everything but the arrows that rained
down from the sky on your kind-hearted head.
At last I understood your hopelessness
in the harsh, curtained-off, late autumn gloom
but knew that you’d come to your senses soon
reminding yourself of your new pink dress:
then gusts of sea air would clear out your head,
you’d know from your tears you could not be dead.
Peter Keeble
and told me you just could not bare to face
today at school or any other place,
insisted you would stay moping in bed.
Then I found the crumpled letter you’d read;
I could see how this cloud of an ink stain
hid everything but the arrows that rained
down from the sky on your kind-hearted head.
At last I understood your hopelessness
in the harsh, curtained-off, late autumn gloom
but knew that you’d come to your senses soon
reminding yourself of your new pink dress:
then gusts of sea air would clear out your head,
you’d know from your tears you could not be dead.
Peter Keeble
There But For...
It wasn’t Winnie the Pooh
humming quietly to himself,
just a fragmented childhood
simpering to the surface.
He maybe didn’t know
the Inca words he mumbled
with their sprigs of hope
and splashes of gold,
tumbling down his Mayan steps
straight out of Raiders…
He listened
though to what we didn’t find out,
he looked pin-sharp
definitely not one slice short.
His grey gushing moustache
dazzled with Santa Claus charm.
In fact, almost every angle
tainted him Mr proper bloke,
king of the normals,
yet still he shuffled
some micro-waltz for one,
spinning and spinning,
a lone dervish,
on the crowded
pavement of life.
Jerry Pike
humming quietly to himself,
just a fragmented childhood
simpering to the surface.
He maybe didn’t know
the Inca words he mumbled
with their sprigs of hope
and splashes of gold,
tumbling down his Mayan steps
straight out of Raiders…
He listened
though to what we didn’t find out,
he looked pin-sharp
definitely not one slice short.
His grey gushing moustache
dazzled with Santa Claus charm.
In fact, almost every angle
tainted him Mr proper bloke,
king of the normals,
yet still he shuffled
some micro-waltz for one,
spinning and spinning,
a lone dervish,
on the crowded
pavement of life.
Jerry Pike
Novembere Rain
November rain came slanting down upon
the streets of Harrow town,
and very probably it fell
upon the Pinner streets as well.,
and, maybe, - how was 1 to know?
on Paddington and Pimlico
or even all the country over
from John 0' Groats' House
down to Dover,
But anyhow in Station Road
the drains and gutters overflowed.
A river flooded down the street,
and 1 was soaked from head to feet.
And now I'm shivering and sneezing,
and sometimes hot, and sometimes freezing.
My handkerchief is soaked right through.
A-tish A-tish! A-tish! Atchoo!
John Waddell
the streets of Harrow town,
and very probably it fell
upon the Pinner streets as well.,
and, maybe, - how was 1 to know?
on Paddington and Pimlico
or even all the country over
from John 0' Groats' House
down to Dover,
But anyhow in Station Road
the drains and gutters overflowed.
A river flooded down the street,
and 1 was soaked from head to feet.
And now I'm shivering and sneezing,
and sometimes hot, and sometimes freezing.
My handkerchief is soaked right through.
A-tish A-tish! A-tish! Atchoo!
John Waddell
Sunday 16 August 2009
Turning
Turning around
I look out way past yesterday
streamlining my head
for tomorrow’s possibles.
Now these clothes, they grew into me
I’d swear I never bought them
had them wrapped and under-armed
removed those plastic tags
and stacked them
vertical in the wardrobe.
But the mirror tells me I did.
My Dad would’ve worn those
beige shorts, un-ticked deck shoes
an hour from a boat, two from the sea.
But I have them on, comfortably,
easily chilling into couldn’t care less.
Funny how you remember, or I do
tastes of childhood,
spring grass, mud, glue,
match heads, raw macaroni,
cooking chocolate, blood, newspaper,
quite a surprise we ever grew up.
I survived poking my fingers
into the live socket,
the guy who tried to drown me
at a scout pool,
that edgy man who
dragged me to the floor and put
his broken glass to my throat.
Everyone has them,
the breakdowns too,
yet many go unnoticed,
and from expanding life
as far from my father
as it would stretch to, I rest here.
Quoting his sayings,
blinking his eyes
and wearing his
bloody deck shoes, mind you
licking butter and sugar
from this cake bowl,
these pumps feel
real good.
Jerry Pike
I look out way past yesterday
streamlining my head
for tomorrow’s possibles.
Now these clothes, they grew into me
I’d swear I never bought them
had them wrapped and under-armed
removed those plastic tags
and stacked them
vertical in the wardrobe.
But the mirror tells me I did.
My Dad would’ve worn those
beige shorts, un-ticked deck shoes
an hour from a boat, two from the sea.
But I have them on, comfortably,
easily chilling into couldn’t care less.
Funny how you remember, or I do
tastes of childhood,
spring grass, mud, glue,
match heads, raw macaroni,
cooking chocolate, blood, newspaper,
quite a surprise we ever grew up.
I survived poking my fingers
into the live socket,
the guy who tried to drown me
at a scout pool,
that edgy man who
dragged me to the floor and put
his broken glass to my throat.
Everyone has them,
the breakdowns too,
yet many go unnoticed,
and from expanding life
as far from my father
as it would stretch to, I rest here.
Quoting his sayings,
blinking his eyes
and wearing his
bloody deck shoes, mind you
licking butter and sugar
from this cake bowl,
these pumps feel
real good.
Jerry Pike
Desert Tableau
Weary and hot just after dawn
aboard a train in Rajasthan.
half asleep, I raised the blind
and saw a village judder past
with barely more than twenty huts
scattered over empty sand.
A scrawny dog ran
towards the blank horizon,
purposeful as Larkin's bowler.
What thoughts,silent and faint
flickered through its simple mind?
Who saw that it arrived?
Peter Keeble
aboard a train in Rajasthan.
half asleep, I raised the blind
and saw a village judder past
with barely more than twenty huts
scattered over empty sand.
A scrawny dog ran
towards the blank horizon,
purposeful as Larkin's bowler.
What thoughts,silent and faint
flickered through its simple mind?
Who saw that it arrived?
Peter Keeble
Highland Clearance
They came at dawning
down the glen,
ill-tempered, yawning
lowland men.
They spoke a tongue
1 could not catch,
then flame was flung
into our thatch,
And still returning
in my dreams,
1 smell the burning,
hear the screams.
John Waddell
down the glen,
ill-tempered, yawning
lowland men.
They spoke a tongue
1 could not catch,
then flame was flung
into our thatch,
And still returning
in my dreams,
1 smell the burning,
hear the screams.
John Waddell
Saturday 8 August 2009
Closing My Eyes
Closing my eyes
an aeroplane dances to the fore
a backdrop breeze
pastes it there
while splayed out voices
surround me
in compulsive chat.
I hear the sun
talking things up
bullying people into smiles
they never owned.
A pit bull, panting for air
serrates the atmosphere.
There are no solos here,
except the mad lad
who grins alone.
Drinking up their ecstasy
by the pint
I Sauté my emotions in beer
like a holiday maker
beached and calm.
About me, groups in cliché
plod out memories
and problems,
and louder problems
as each cider sinks,
and they are talked-out
assassinated,
then removed
to that bottom office draw
by the biscuit tin.
Removing my glasses now
the world creeps closer, realer,
even the blurs look touchable,
till at last I’m slipping along
not quite centre stage
just off
piste.
Jerry Pike
an aeroplane dances to the fore
a backdrop breeze
pastes it there
while splayed out voices
surround me
in compulsive chat.
I hear the sun
talking things up
bullying people into smiles
they never owned.
A pit bull, panting for air
serrates the atmosphere.
There are no solos here,
except the mad lad
who grins alone.
Drinking up their ecstasy
by the pint
I Sauté my emotions in beer
like a holiday maker
beached and calm.
About me, groups in cliché
plod out memories
and problems,
and louder problems
as each cider sinks,
and they are talked-out
assassinated,
then removed
to that bottom office draw
by the biscuit tin.
Removing my glasses now
the world creeps closer, realer,
even the blurs look touchable,
till at last I’m slipping along
not quite centre stage
just off
piste.
Jerry Pike
Wednesday 5 August 2009
Plane Panic
Know your weakness, know its horror,
know the dried out mouth and terror.
Buckle up and breathe more slowly,
watch the fields recede beneath your
trembling feet with staring eyes and
pray for safety in the upper
air as surging engines stumble
flattening out above the cirrus.
Placid for a while at least now
seek forgetfulness in epics
set in Rome or other eras
bound to that, our earthly surface.
Start to cower as we descend,
falling leaden to the planet,
plunging at the roofs and tarmac.
Now, beside yourself with shaking,
hyperventilate, deny this
sharp decline and screaming danger
begging that the shuddering hull and
wheels at last return you safely,
silent, certain, grounded, flightless.
Peter Keeble
know the dried out mouth and terror.
Buckle up and breathe more slowly,
watch the fields recede beneath your
trembling feet with staring eyes and
pray for safety in the upper
air as surging engines stumble
flattening out above the cirrus.
Placid for a while at least now
seek forgetfulness in epics
set in Rome or other eras
bound to that, our earthly surface.
Start to cower as we descend,
falling leaden to the planet,
plunging at the roofs and tarmac.
Now, beside yourself with shaking,
hyperventilate, deny this
sharp decline and screaming danger
begging that the shuddering hull and
wheels at last return you safely,
silent, certain, grounded, flightless.
Peter Keeble
November Rain
November Rain
November rain came slanting down
upon the streets of Harrow town,
and very probably it fell
upon the Pinner streets as well,
and, maybe, - how was 1 to know?
on Paddington and Pimlico,
or even all the country over
from John 0' Groats' House down to Dover.
But anyhow in Station Road
the drains and gutters overflowed.
A river flooded down the street,
and 1 was soaked from head to feet.
And now I'm shivering and sneezing,
and sometimes hot, and sometimes freezing.
My handkerchief is soaked right through.
A-tish! A-tish! A-tish! Atchoo!
John Waddell
November rain came slanting down
upon the streets of Harrow town,
and very probably it fell
upon the Pinner streets as well,
and, maybe, - how was 1 to know?
on Paddington and Pimlico,
or even all the country over
from John 0' Groats' House down to Dover.
But anyhow in Station Road
the drains and gutters overflowed.
A river flooded down the street,
and 1 was soaked from head to feet.
And now I'm shivering and sneezing,
and sometimes hot, and sometimes freezing.
My handkerchief is soaked right through.
A-tish! A-tish! A-tish! Atchoo!
John Waddell
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