Give me a feather bed
to lounge the winter in
and a down duvet
to snuggle to my ear.
I hear the snow
will be deep this year
and the dark-eyed nights full of frost.
I will be at home
under wraps,
safe as a cygnet
swathed in swoons of swan down.
I will enjoy the snow
through the curtain, beyond the window,
muffling and hiding my home.
I will hear the rain
tinkling and tickling the trees,
the dark trees
beyond the pool of my light.
I have serious business to undertake,
in my folds, in my feather-nest,
dreaming the spring into being.
©Jane Upchurch
Sunday 5 December 2010
Sunday 28 November 2010
The World's Gone Out
It stole my moleskin trilby
grabbed a beige Mack
by the door
and scooted.
Leaving my dwelling
on the good times
of fourteen across,
pencilled in
and near completion.
I sketched missing links on paper
got out of my brain
slid to the floor
and wandered about,
seeing things as they were
prodding past experiences
into life, and quizzing them
from my new freer perspective.
The world raced on,
and no one to stop me
I chased after it
sneaked through a window
and gazed back blurred
at a congealing mist
that crossed my essence,
as I ran moonward
Dancing unhindered, empty as air
I smiled at the nothing
I’d become.
Joking and talking to people
who couldn’t see me,
I bumped into
another nobody
we hugged
the world stood still
and doffed my hat.
Jerry Pike
grabbed a beige Mack
by the door
and scooted.
Leaving my dwelling
on the good times
of fourteen across,
pencilled in
and near completion.
I sketched missing links on paper
got out of my brain
slid to the floor
and wandered about,
seeing things as they were
prodding past experiences
into life, and quizzing them
from my new freer perspective.
The world raced on,
and no one to stop me
I chased after it
sneaked through a window
and gazed back blurred
at a congealing mist
that crossed my essence,
as I ran moonward
Dancing unhindered, empty as air
I smiled at the nothing
I’d become.
Joking and talking to people
who couldn’t see me,
I bumped into
another nobody
we hugged
the world stood still
and doffed my hat.
Jerry Pike
Community
It is late autumn after all.
the land half dead:
light enough to dig by,
not to find nails in a shed.
So the skies are filled,
brimming with clouds scudding along
beneath a grey gauze background.
Gates and the like
thrash the pitiable trees
steal their last red and yellow coins,
dash them to the ground.
Suddenly a lone bird
beats across the sky;
buffeted sideways,
it recovers, continues.
Hard to know its purpose:
whether searching out food,
or leaving or returning,
is impossible to guess.
For no clear reason,
next day, two trees are full of these birds.
Their pin pricks of noise
swarm in a white racket
with no pattern to our ears.
They gather in order to leave.
On the edges the anxious twitch and jerk
start up into the air,
see their mistake,
flap back down,
wait for the one true message.
They all know when it comes,
all surge up,
circle and wheel
like a stream of black rags
bisecting the air
until, again, instinct or signal
impels them hurtling out of sight.
We should expect no less.
Peter Keeble
the land half dead:
light enough to dig by,
not to find nails in a shed.
So the skies are filled,
brimming with clouds scudding along
beneath a grey gauze background.
Gates and the like
thrash the pitiable trees
steal their last red and yellow coins,
dash them to the ground.
Suddenly a lone bird
beats across the sky;
buffeted sideways,
it recovers, continues.
Hard to know its purpose:
whether searching out food,
or leaving or returning,
is impossible to guess.
For no clear reason,
next day, two trees are full of these birds.
Their pin pricks of noise
swarm in a white racket
with no pattern to our ears.
They gather in order to leave.
On the edges the anxious twitch and jerk
start up into the air,
see their mistake,
flap back down,
wait for the one true message.
They all know when it comes,
all surge up,
circle and wheel
like a stream of black rags
bisecting the air
until, again, instinct or signal
impels them hurtling out of sight.
We should expect no less.
Peter Keeble
Daisy Chain
Daisy Chain
On such an afternoon as this, I sat
in summer grass and made a daisy chain,
my first, aged four, all eagerness, once taught,
to link the little flowers. I see again
that meadow somewhere deep in Warwickshire,
my mother with her dreamy hazel eyes,
contented, sitting separate but near,
I concentrating on my enterprise.
And when she judged it long enough, she did
the tricky job of joining end to end,
then placed it, coronet, upon my head
and with her Brownie box preserved me, crowned.
Unbidden, half forgotten, these thoughts rise
of mother, daisies, learning, childhood skies.
Dorothy Pope
On such an afternoon as this, I sat
in summer grass and made a daisy chain,
my first, aged four, all eagerness, once taught,
to link the little flowers. I see again
that meadow somewhere deep in Warwickshire,
my mother with her dreamy hazel eyes,
contented, sitting separate but near,
I concentrating on my enterprise.
And when she judged it long enough, she did
the tricky job of joining end to end,
then placed it, coronet, upon my head
and with her Brownie box preserved me, crowned.
Unbidden, half forgotten, these thoughts rise
of mother, daisies, learning, childhood skies.
Dorothy Pope
Thursday 28 October 2010
Age
What is the age of a moth,
fluttering in darkness
and counting days in eddies
of light?
A spoonful makes the measure
of life.
The mosquito counts years
in hours,
egg-obsessed,
seizing the day.
The sloth, though,
is born old,
time trickles through its fancies
like water through rock,
feeding secret caverns
of thought.
Trees slow-grown rings
beat time like an ancient clock,
sounding the rhythm of years,
the girth of their growth
gathering the substance of summer.
My growth
is harder to measure,
an invisible garnering of wisdom
and spirit
that can light time,
allowing the turn of the earth
to furnish a rhythm
of fading leaves, stiffening boughs
and fruit.
© Jane Upchurch
fluttering in darkness
and counting days in eddies
of light?
A spoonful makes the measure
of life.
The mosquito counts years
in hours,
egg-obsessed,
seizing the day.
The sloth, though,
is born old,
time trickles through its fancies
like water through rock,
feeding secret caverns
of thought.
Trees slow-grown rings
beat time like an ancient clock,
sounding the rhythm of years,
the girth of their growth
gathering the substance of summer.
My growth
is harder to measure,
an invisible garnering of wisdom
and spirit
that can light time,
allowing the turn of the earth
to furnish a rhythm
of fading leaves, stiffening boughs
and fruit.
© Jane Upchurch
Saturday 23 October 2010
Secret Knowledge
Some talk of the man with a limp and a cough whose shot rang
out from the long-grassed hillock;
of gangstas who drive with no headlights
wasting flashers who they pass in the night;
and wasn't there once a widespread belief,
foretold by Nostrodamus, that temporal thief,
that some sects kill babies every solar eclipse
kissing each other with blood on their lips?
But insights of others can be more esoteric:
of mayhem that swells, chaotic, horrific,
behind souls rushing all at once up to heaven,
saved merely by knowledge of the numeral seven;
of celtic islands where elfin forces
make diamonds and gold from magical sources.
Then there's the man who somehow survives
with his head in a vat and who thinks he's alive
and a secret cabal in control of the rain,
and tell me please, can someone explain
those sightings of Belfast's lost liner
and why no one will talk of the thirty fourth miner?
These are the truths avowed by the few:
if they prove false then the old is the new
and may dragons awake from where they were hurled
and let me fall over the edge of the world.
Peter Keeble
out from the long-grassed hillock;
of gangstas who drive with no headlights
wasting flashers who they pass in the night;
and wasn't there once a widespread belief,
foretold by Nostrodamus, that temporal thief,
that some sects kill babies every solar eclipse
kissing each other with blood on their lips?
But insights of others can be more esoteric:
of mayhem that swells, chaotic, horrific,
behind souls rushing all at once up to heaven,
saved merely by knowledge of the numeral seven;
of celtic islands where elfin forces
make diamonds and gold from magical sources.
Then there's the man who somehow survives
with his head in a vat and who thinks he's alive
and a secret cabal in control of the rain,
and tell me please, can someone explain
those sightings of Belfast's lost liner
and why no one will talk of the thirty fourth miner?
These are the truths avowed by the few:
if they prove false then the old is the new
and may dragons awake from where they were hurled
and let me fall over the edge of the world.
Peter Keeble
A Different Game
A Different Game
It's Scrabble our late Sunday evening game
but soon it's clear that something is amiss.
She's focused but her playing's not the same.
A four for SAD? She's never played like this.
Unconsciously, she's choosing words not score
we realise, and every tile she lays
in PAIN and SUFFER is one dry tear more.
Another wasted S in LOSS. She plays
out, and in one sense never playing better,
her grief. I test my theory with RAVE
and, sure enough, she uses her blank letter
as a G and turns it into GRAVE
with downwards GONE.
And then the still unshed.
She's lost the game
and weeps a dry-eyed DEAD.
Dorothy Pope
It's Scrabble our late Sunday evening game
but soon it's clear that something is amiss.
She's focused but her playing's not the same.
A four for SAD? She's never played like this.
Unconsciously, she's choosing words not score
we realise, and every tile she lays
in PAIN and SUFFER is one dry tear more.
Another wasted S in LOSS. She plays
out, and in one sense never playing better,
her grief. I test my theory with RAVE
and, sure enough, she uses her blank letter
as a G and turns it into GRAVE
with downwards GONE.
And then the still unshed.
She's lost the game
and weeps a dry-eyed DEAD.
Dorothy Pope
Two For Joy
Oh Look! Three magpies on the lawn!
but now just two, for one has gone.
my thanks go to the thoughtful third,
a generous and gracious bird
which realised it was de trop
and understood it had to go.
it counted round, then off it flew
to leave the magic number two.
i wonder what the joy will be
the birds have kindly brought for me.
No boy or girl, i'm past the age
when children featured, centre stage.
i'd like- it's sweeter far than honey,
a plentiful supply of money.
John Waddell
but now just two, for one has gone.
my thanks go to the thoughtful third,
a generous and gracious bird
which realised it was de trop
and understood it had to go.
it counted round, then off it flew
to leave the magic number two.
i wonder what the joy will be
the birds have kindly brought for me.
No boy or girl, i'm past the age
when children featured, centre stage.
i'd like- it's sweeter far than honey,
a plentiful supply of money.
John Waddell
Small Hope
We walked Small Hope
step by paddled step
skirmishing with seaweed ribbons.
A necktie of laced shoes
lovingly kiss at my nape.
Feet scuff sea
as it sand-ices with froth.
We say nothing,
still fresh stars break silence
from their moorings
to light our steps.
Heads lift briefly, but no sound.
I steal your views a comment
yet our distance stays dumb.
Walking on,
the tides wash carpet
pulls back, to spare us and Moses.
Then biblical fanfares rise
and all manner of your friends
descend on us,
dabbing their aerial feet
into the ready-mix of
old sand castles
and BC life,
till you fly.
Jerry Pike
step by paddled step
skirmishing with seaweed ribbons.
A necktie of laced shoes
lovingly kiss at my nape.
Feet scuff sea
as it sand-ices with froth.
We say nothing,
still fresh stars break silence
from their moorings
to light our steps.
Heads lift briefly, but no sound.
I steal your views a comment
yet our distance stays dumb.
Walking on,
the tides wash carpet
pulls back, to spare us and Moses.
Then biblical fanfares rise
and all manner of your friends
descend on us,
dabbing their aerial feet
into the ready-mix of
old sand castles
and BC life,
till you fly.
Jerry Pike
Tuesday 28 September 2010
A Tree
Shoot pushes through earth, thrusts sunwards.
Root burrows into soil seeking water.
Birth of a tree.
Stem firms to trunk, branches.
Leaves appear.
Roots grasp the world with force.
Tree stands strong.
Leaves fall, leaves grow.
Through centuries tree stands, branches spread;
canopy of leaves shades the ground.
Then, year by year, less shade; branches grow bare,
fall without warning. Tree dries, begins to fail.
Rots from within.
Hollows.
Tree dies.
© John Snelling
Root burrows into soil seeking water.
Birth of a tree.
Stem firms to trunk, branches.
Leaves appear.
Roots grasp the world with force.
Tree stands strong.
Leaves fall, leaves grow.
Through centuries tree stands, branches spread;
canopy of leaves shades the ground.
Then, year by year, less shade; branches grow bare,
fall without warning. Tree dries, begins to fail.
Rots from within.
Hollows.
Tree dies.
© John Snelling
Wednesday 22 September 2010
Family Home, Lincolnshire
and from the summerhouse, the view
is, first, that unmarked area of grass,
where stood the Air Force quarters of a few
of England's Few, that rings with silent laughs,
our chipping green for practice golf. Beyond �
the orchard's gorgeous blossom, later fruit
for village children and the Anderson,
now apple store. Then, topiary in privet
and in box; my sculptor's hands can see
the shape inside the mass. By Perkins'grave,
a clump of perfect daffodils blow free
of London's politicking stress. 1 have
a cherished weekend refuge where 1 come,
say, "Hello, House. Restore me." 1 am home.
written for a friend
Dorothy Pope
is, first, that unmarked area of grass,
where stood the Air Force quarters of a few
of England's Few, that rings with silent laughs,
our chipping green for practice golf. Beyond �
the orchard's gorgeous blossom, later fruit
for village children and the Anderson,
now apple store. Then, topiary in privet
and in box; my sculptor's hands can see
the shape inside the mass. By Perkins'grave,
a clump of perfect daffodils blow free
of London's politicking stress. 1 have
a cherished weekend refuge where 1 come,
say, "Hello, House. Restore me." 1 am home.
written for a friend
Dorothy Pope
Bad Weather Coming
A swirl of grey sweeps up the sky
The sun too soon renounces day
As human traffic hurries by
Intent on leaving work for play.
The sun too soon renounces day
Denying light and warmth to us
Intent on leaving work for play
Who now must queue to catch a bus.
Denying light and warmth to us
Means colds and flu could soon arrive.
Who now must queue to catch a bus?
The ones least able to survive.
Mean colds and flu could soon arrive
To give us coughs and make us sneeze
The ones least able to survive
Could well expire with gasp or wheeze.
To give us coughs and make us sneeze
The winter's cold and wet conspire
And soon the old with gasp or wheeze
Could enter in the heavenly choir.
The winter's cold and wet conspire
To smite the old, and babes in arms
Could enter in the heavenly choir
Too soon reduced to singing psalms.
They smite the old and babes in arms
As human traffic hurries by.
Too soon reduced to singing psalms
They swirl in grey, sweep up the sky.
(C Sylvia Goodman
The sun too soon renounces day
As human traffic hurries by
Intent on leaving work for play.
The sun too soon renounces day
Denying light and warmth to us
Intent on leaving work for play
Who now must queue to catch a bus.
Denying light and warmth to us
Means colds and flu could soon arrive.
Who now must queue to catch a bus?
The ones least able to survive.
Mean colds and flu could soon arrive
To give us coughs and make us sneeze
The ones least able to survive
Could well expire with gasp or wheeze.
To give us coughs and make us sneeze
The winter's cold and wet conspire
And soon the old with gasp or wheeze
Could enter in the heavenly choir.
The winter's cold and wet conspire
To smite the old, and babes in arms
Could enter in the heavenly choir
Too soon reduced to singing psalms.
They smite the old and babes in arms
As human traffic hurries by.
Too soon reduced to singing psalms
They swirl in grey, sweep up the sky.
(C Sylvia Goodman
Down The Garden Path
Come in! Come in! Before our tea,
I wonder- would you like to see
The garden -though it's past its best!
These squirrels aren't they a pest?
They break the flowers and steal my fruit.
If I Just had a gun I'd shoot
them all. 1 would, I'd kill the lot!
My roses- yes, I know- black spot
and mildew they're a sorry sight
A spray? No sir! It isn't right
to fling these Chemicals about.
I'd far, far, rather do without
the flowers, and certainly its true
my flowers are feeble things, and few.
A glimpse now would you 'like to snatch
of my small vegetable patch?
My Runner beans don't do too well -
my pigeons eat them, beans and shell
My cabbages - the cabbage white
had them in tatters overnight.
Mt lettucesa are full of bugs,
and eaten down by snails and slugs.
I wonder, is it worth the sweat,
for all the produce that I get?
Come this way now, and mind the step.
Oh dear; You�ve overturned the skep!
that step is shaky where you fell
you managed up though, pretty well.
just stung by nettles, nothing broken?
Here, let me soothe it with a docken
Lucky that one is growing near!
Don be upset about that hive
that you knocked down -there's none alive.
This winter past I clean forgot
to feed them, so I the lot.
My goodness me! There's still some more!
Where have they slung you,is it sore?
Come on then now the bees are roused
it's time that we were safely housed.
John Waddell
I wonder- would you like to see
The garden -though it's past its best!
These squirrels aren't they a pest?
They break the flowers and steal my fruit.
If I Just had a gun I'd shoot
them all. 1 would, I'd kill the lot!
My roses- yes, I know- black spot
and mildew they're a sorry sight
A spray? No sir! It isn't right
to fling these Chemicals about.
I'd far, far, rather do without
the flowers, and certainly its true
my flowers are feeble things, and few.
A glimpse now would you 'like to snatch
of my small vegetable patch?
My Runner beans don't do too well -
my pigeons eat them, beans and shell
My cabbages - the cabbage white
had them in tatters overnight.
Mt lettucesa are full of bugs,
and eaten down by snails and slugs.
I wonder, is it worth the sweat,
for all the produce that I get?
Come this way now, and mind the step.
Oh dear; You�ve overturned the skep!
that step is shaky where you fell
you managed up though, pretty well.
just stung by nettles, nothing broken?
Here, let me soothe it with a docken
Lucky that one is growing near!
Don be upset about that hive
that you knocked down -there's none alive.
This winter past I clean forgot
to feed them, so I the lot.
My goodness me! There's still some more!
Where have they slung you,is it sore?
Come on then now the bees are roused
it's time that we were safely housed.
John Waddell
Esplanade
Secretly gripping the bench, the four sit
holding that final sea view,
straw hats compressing straw hair
fur-lined windcheaters
and a new Tuesday afternoon pink rinse.
Gulls potter close, pretending to peck food
but they are checking
checking flight readiness of each.
The binocular man in cricket shirt
subconsciously eyes the way too,
with side to side all clears
of the esplanade runway.
Their joint aches and pains
convalesce in a breeze,
as the tide sneaks up
suckling on salt
wanting toes for dinner.
Conversation, consists of;
sea colour, sky colour
sun temperature and youth,
and each time childhood crops up
they all giggle
and the seagulls
creep nearer.
Jerry Pike
holding that final sea view,
straw hats compressing straw hair
fur-lined windcheaters
and a new Tuesday afternoon pink rinse.
Gulls potter close, pretending to peck food
but they are checking
checking flight readiness of each.
The binocular man in cricket shirt
subconsciously eyes the way too,
with side to side all clears
of the esplanade runway.
Their joint aches and pains
convalesce in a breeze,
as the tide sneaks up
suckling on salt
wanting toes for dinner.
Conversation, consists of;
sea colour, sky colour
sun temperature and youth,
and each time childhood crops up
they all giggle
and the seagulls
creep nearer.
Jerry Pike
Musical Ages
When we first met and the radio broke
we’d go to your piano,
and search under the lid of the stool.
The music, written in dots,
I never understood,
but all the words made perfect sense
and we sang those good as gold songs,
wholesome as a white picket fence:
Clementine.
Tiperary
Home on the Range
But soon we were playing thick black vinyl
with jazz, Bach and the blues
on long players we mostly borrowed,
buying rock and roll on forty fives,
entranced by the scratchy pop bubble
and that hit parade you always followed:
54321
Please Please Me
For your Love
Cassettes with flimsy tape took off
but kept snapping:
you were the expert at repairs
spooling with a pencil to find the ends,
joining them up with pink nail varnish
that smelt of pears:
Harvest
Astral Weeks
Blood on the Tracks
The silver CD did for them both,
optical, you said,
nothing to cause friction.
On my own now, more numb than tense,
I dial up a swarm of new tunes
that fly through the air
and make a different sense:
Mercy
Rehab
Poker Face
Oh my darling, oh my darling
It’s a long way to go
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word:
where are you now?
Peter Keeble
we’d go to your piano,
and search under the lid of the stool.
The music, written in dots,
I never understood,
but all the words made perfect sense
and we sang those good as gold songs,
wholesome as a white picket fence:
Clementine.
Tiperary
Home on the Range
But soon we were playing thick black vinyl
with jazz, Bach and the blues
on long players we mostly borrowed,
buying rock and roll on forty fives,
entranced by the scratchy pop bubble
and that hit parade you always followed:
54321
Please Please Me
For your Love
Cassettes with flimsy tape took off
but kept snapping:
you were the expert at repairs
spooling with a pencil to find the ends,
joining them up with pink nail varnish
that smelt of pears:
Harvest
Astral Weeks
Blood on the Tracks
The silver CD did for them both,
optical, you said,
nothing to cause friction.
On my own now, more numb than tense,
I dial up a swarm of new tunes
that fly through the air
and make a different sense:
Mercy
Rehab
Poker Face
Oh my darling, oh my darling
It’s a long way to go
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word:
where are you now?
Peter Keeble
Saturday 21 August 2010
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, if I was beautiful
or clever, happy, mother now to boys
who looked like you, as handsome, tall and blond,
of 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 though,
I’m fine – though I’m the daughter you forgot.
Dorothy Pope
As woman now, and how I was at school.
Did you not ever ask yourself, awake
at night perhaps, if I was beautiful
or clever, happy, mother now to boys
who looked like you, as handsome, tall and blond,
of 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 though,
I’m fine – though I’m the daughter you forgot.
Dorothy Pope
July
Another week of summer gone!
The days are slipping past
The autumn rain comes marching on-
Time runs so fast.
It hardly seems a week or two
Since now was on the hills
And all the gardens shining new
With daffodils.
The phlox, the lilies, that 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
The thought that bleak and bitter days
Creep close behind.
Old Father Time, hang 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 rain comes marching on-
Time runs so fast.
It hardly seems a week or two
Since now was on the hills
And all the gardens shining new
With daffodils.
The phlox, the lilies, that 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
The thought that bleak and bitter days
Creep close behind.
Old Father Time, hang on a tick!
Slow down for pity’s sake
Why do you need to run so quick?
Put on the brake!
John Waddell
Rayners Lane, 1938
As we crest the hill we see
that top-hatted brutal block of a box
with its oblong glass of rectitude
and soft curling prow beneath
pointing towards the edge of the world.
it sweeps us up offering tickets
to a future with no misshapen lives
where we can build a peace
and anything can happen.
Peter Keeble
that top-hatted brutal block of a box
with its oblong glass of rectitude
and soft curling prow beneath
pointing towards the edge of the world.
it sweeps us up offering tickets
to a future with no misshapen lives
where we can build a peace
and anything can happen.
Peter Keeble
Birthday
I’m sure someone, somewhere
has a present for me…
and each racing tear
cheering with escape,
glistened her a Birthday chant,
elated as she smiled
through their fall.
The post brought one card,
a month back,
from the mental home,
and it’s spreading feet
clinched the best view
of her tiny, iced room.
Fluttering in-between
window snow flurries,
an elder’s mind grasps at yesterday,
as slowly, a teenage melody warms the air,
rejuvenating some tranquil love affair,
long shackled in the darkroom
of her lonely album.
Around she floated,
bustling on a gust of dreams,
alive and twinkling
from a feast of bygone eclipses
with her Sunday love.
Jerry Pike
has a present for me…
and each racing tear
cheering with escape,
glistened her a Birthday chant,
elated as she smiled
through their fall.
The post brought one card,
a month back,
from the mental home,
and it’s spreading feet
clinched the best view
of her tiny, iced room.
Fluttering in-between
window snow flurries,
an elder’s mind grasps at yesterday,
as slowly, a teenage melody warms the air,
rejuvenating some tranquil love affair,
long shackled in the darkroom
of her lonely album.
Around she floated,
bustling on a gust of dreams,
alive and twinkling
from a feast of bygone eclipses
with her Sunday love.
Jerry Pike
Wednesday 21 July 2010
Returning To...
Return to me my back yard cage of green
I fill the pool and drag a wicker chair
sit shoeless with my robin’s chirping preen
while concentration scribbles what is there.
Around the world and back, within my head
a broom full-swept those corners clear of dark
then down the stairs where judgment makes its bed
into today, as thought whips up a spark.
Inside my hat a honeycomb of sun
brings bright and close, last woven, ochre straws
and through a time-worn space of toppling fun
I spy, my little eye’s, unclosing doors.
Once sky lay ‘cross the floor, a rippled rag
reflecting clouds up to an ethered void,
the crissing, crossing pond waved such a flag
as mother’s words rang back, you must avoid…
Still flies wash under sun, in water’s glance
recorded for posterity, they glide
breathe in and out, no microbes stand a chance
across the rise and fall of God’s keen tide.
But I’ll return whenever heat spares time
set down a wetted course with thankful feet
skip smiling through a dreamy summer’s clime
and dance at rest to heart’s unerring beat.
Jerry Pike
I fill the pool and drag a wicker chair
sit shoeless with my robin’s chirping preen
while concentration scribbles what is there.
Around the world and back, within my head
a broom full-swept those corners clear of dark
then down the stairs where judgment makes its bed
into today, as thought whips up a spark.
Inside my hat a honeycomb of sun
brings bright and close, last woven, ochre straws
and through a time-worn space of toppling fun
I spy, my little eye’s, unclosing doors.
Once sky lay ‘cross the floor, a rippled rag
reflecting clouds up to an ethered void,
the crissing, crossing pond waved such a flag
as mother’s words rang back, you must avoid…
Still flies wash under sun, in water’s glance
recorded for posterity, they glide
breathe in and out, no microbes stand a chance
across the rise and fall of God’s keen tide.
But I’ll return whenever heat spares time
set down a wetted course with thankful feet
skip smiling through a dreamy summer’s clime
and dance at rest to heart’s unerring beat.
Jerry Pike
Family Home, Lincolnshire
and from the summerhouse, the view
is, first, that unmarked area of grass,
whyere stoiod the Air Force quarters of a few
of England's Few, that rings with silent laughs,
our chipping green for practice golf. Beyond-
the orchards georgeous blossom, later fruit
to village children and the Anderson,
now apple store. Then, topiary in privet
and in box; my sculptor's handscan see
the shape inside the mass. By Perkins' grave,
a clump of perfect daffodils blow free
of london's politicking stress. I have
a cherished weekend refuge where I come,
say, "Hello, House, Restore me," I am home.
Dorothy Pope
is, first, that unmarked area of grass,
whyere stoiod the Air Force quarters of a few
of England's Few, that rings with silent laughs,
our chipping green for practice golf. Beyond-
the orchards georgeous blossom, later fruit
to village children and the Anderson,
now apple store. Then, topiary in privet
and in box; my sculptor's handscan see
the shape inside the mass. By Perkins' grave,
a clump of perfect daffodils blow free
of london's politicking stress. I have
a cherished weekend refuge where I come,
say, "Hello, House, Restore me," I am home.
Dorothy Pope
Front Door
Front Door
It swings on its hinges and 1 feel in control
as I usually do this side of the threshold.
In the mirror here in the airlock of a porch
between two doors with pebble thick glass
1 catch a glimpse of my confident self
preparing a greeting of nonchalant surprise;
but then at the blurred hint of someone unknown
standing in wait beyond the outer door frame,
these's a sliver of doubt about what happens next when 1 come face to face with whoever's outside.
For there'u a universe beyond oar safe homes
designed and honed and perfected,
piping in pictures of accepted mankind
along with the water and power and gas.
Likely it's a cold caller, for Mammon or Jesus,
and twice as hard to dismiss on the doorstep
as those on the phone you freeze out
with the push of a switch.
Right now the door is still moving
on its well oiled axis
and that figure before me has yet to resolve.
1 can tell only they're unknown and reflect on
how strange the world that's been left for us is:
I would never expect a monarch with a gun
or a gangster hot on the run,
but before 1 have time to properly see,
Possibilities like these shoot through my mind.
It's disturbing for one who treasures his quiet;
yet each time the bell rings,
1 pat down my cup
blindly trot out m the door like a dog,
not really sure what the question might be,
what 1 will say
or who it is for.
Peter Keeble
It swings on its hinges and 1 feel in control
as I usually do this side of the threshold.
In the mirror here in the airlock of a porch
between two doors with pebble thick glass
1 catch a glimpse of my confident self
preparing a greeting of nonchalant surprise;
but then at the blurred hint of someone unknown
standing in wait beyond the outer door frame,
these's a sliver of doubt about what happens next when 1 come face to face with whoever's outside.
For there'u a universe beyond oar safe homes
designed and honed and perfected,
piping in pictures of accepted mankind
along with the water and power and gas.
Likely it's a cold caller, for Mammon or Jesus,
and twice as hard to dismiss on the doorstep
as those on the phone you freeze out
with the push of a switch.
Right now the door is still moving
on its well oiled axis
and that figure before me has yet to resolve.
1 can tell only they're unknown and reflect on
how strange the world that's been left for us is:
I would never expect a monarch with a gun
or a gangster hot on the run,
but before 1 have time to properly see,
Possibilities like these shoot through my mind.
It's disturbing for one who treasures his quiet;
yet each time the bell rings,
1 pat down my cup
blindly trot out m the door like a dog,
not really sure what the question might be,
what 1 will say
or who it is for.
Peter Keeble
Horse Drawn
Horse Drawn
The sadness on the faces of the horses
that stand by the hedge separating
field from A - road, haunts my journey
and looms close in my sleep,
To stand all day and watch the world pass
is not enough to produce the soul deep sorrow that
grows between folds of skin
then spreads to take over the being,
Immovable pain hinting at what
is known, and at what we can only guess,
remains reflected in the rear view mirror.
N. Elder
The sadness on the faces of the horses
that stand by the hedge separating
field from A - road, haunts my journey
and looms close in my sleep,
To stand all day and watch the world pass
is not enough to produce the soul deep sorrow that
grows between folds of skin
then spreads to take over the being,
Immovable pain hinting at what
is known, and at what we can only guess,
remains reflected in the rear view mirror.
N. Elder
Tuesday 13 July 2010
Stepping Stones
She’s wearing
the wrong sort of shoes
to follow her daughter
across the stones.
She hears the water;
a rush of bubbles
concentrating sunlight
filling her eyes
with the excitement
of her child’s.
She then takes off
her fashionable shoes
and steps onto
the first stone.
She absorbs its warmth
through the soles
of her feet;
the first time in years
they’ve felt
anything this gentle.
She walks across
feeling carefully
the surface
of each stone.
She joins her daughter
laughing.
Jennifer Johnson
the wrong sort of shoes
to follow her daughter
across the stones.
She hears the water;
a rush of bubbles
concentrating sunlight
filling her eyes
with the excitement
of her child’s.
She then takes off
her fashionable shoes
and steps onto
the first stone.
She absorbs its warmth
through the soles
of her feet;
the first time in years
they’ve felt
anything this gentle.
She walks across
feeling carefully
the surface
of each stone.
She joins her daughter
laughing.
Jennifer Johnson
Sunday 20 June 2010
The Trouble With...
The Trouble With …
The trouble with love, is
it takes sides
too much to one
too little another.
Many get lost in its maze,
to others, a straight road
interstating, zonk, outta nowhere
into everlasting contentment.
How did love start?
Whose name is on the cup?
Where did national love day go?
Was it a sixties thing?
Women always say, I love you, first, I’m told
their cards well and truly on Valentine’s table
and it’s that thing you’re always
expected to say back,
true or not.
Love has sailed past me, many times
smiling, curtsying and waving wildly
besotted from the chrome rails
of a man-o-war, as it passes
in the opposite direction.
But love IS the word,
nothing comes close,
just love.
Then, the eyes fog
and a rose coloured
short sighted nirvana
prances about beside you
like some gormless
morris dancing
Nancy.
Jerry Pike
The trouble with love, is
it takes sides
too much to one
too little another.
Many get lost in its maze,
to others, a straight road
interstating, zonk, outta nowhere
into everlasting contentment.
How did love start?
Whose name is on the cup?
Where did national love day go?
Was it a sixties thing?
Women always say, I love you, first, I’m told
their cards well and truly on Valentine’s table
and it’s that thing you’re always
expected to say back,
true or not.
Love has sailed past me, many times
smiling, curtsying and waving wildly
besotted from the chrome rails
of a man-o-war, as it passes
in the opposite direction.
But love IS the word,
nothing comes close,
just love.
Then, the eyes fog
and a rose coloured
short sighted nirvana
prances about beside you
like some gormless
morris dancing
Nancy.
Jerry Pike
Rescue
I found the bee
exhausted with days
flung at windows
in the closed room.
It seemed the windowsill
was its last resting place.
One claw?like leg
extended without hope,
it watched me
watching it.
I saw its panting fear,
eyes glittering
pinpricks in black fur.
Could a bee hope?
I offered
a scrap of paper.
Could this be worse than dying
on unyielding paint?
It dared.
And, planted on soft earth
in a window box,
it had not breath
or confidence
to unfurl fulvous wings.
It climbed a mountain
of turned earth
and rested.
I planted a flower.
The bee had flown.
Sylvia Goodman
exhausted with days
flung at windows
in the closed room.
It seemed the windowsill
was its last resting place.
One claw?like leg
extended without hope,
it watched me
watching it.
I saw its panting fear,
eyes glittering
pinpricks in black fur.
Could a bee hope?
I offered
a scrap of paper.
Could this be worse than dying
on unyielding paint?
It dared.
And, planted on soft earth
in a window box,
it had not breath
or confidence
to unfurl fulvous wings.
It climbed a mountain
of turned earth
and rested.
I planted a flower.
The bee had flown.
Sylvia Goodman
Ghosts
Ghosts
Two houses standing empty.
Through dirty panes light breaks,
illuminates bare floorboards.
In the rooms there are no shadows.
On dusty furniture mottled mirrors
reflect nothing.
Not peace but absence.
Once it was different.
Passion, death, tragedy, wrenching grief
tormented this place.
The world mourns those star-crossed lovers.
Do they quietly rest?
Are they at peace?
No.
Through emptiness, in endless silence, go
the ghosts of Juliet and her Romeo.
© John Snelling
Two houses standing empty.
Through dirty panes light breaks,
illuminates bare floorboards.
In the rooms there are no shadows.
On dusty furniture mottled mirrors
reflect nothing.
Not peace but absence.
Once it was different.
Passion, death, tragedy, wrenching grief
tormented this place.
The world mourns those star-crossed lovers.
Do they quietly rest?
Are they at peace?
No.
Through emptiness, in endless silence, go
the ghosts of Juliet and her Romeo.
© John Snelling
Saturday 29 May 2010
Sky Writer
Sky Writer
Our voices met in a bar
whilst knocking back tears.
We fell, quite steeply off the narrow
breaking down a thousand futures
in promises of sand dune mist.
Where love leaned on love,
those mighty fell to earth
down that spiral staircase
to where the low notes live.
I hate love,
it rips vowels from my words
pulls me toward impossibles,
with a merry head
hypnotising me to some cloudy words
scrolled across a vivid blue sky
in biplane ink.
I need a stopper,
to keep emptiness from running in.
It’s far too keen, too energetic,
can’t someone hold it back,
tie its shoe laces together,
handcuff it to a chair
or something?
Jerry Pike
Our voices met in a bar
whilst knocking back tears.
We fell, quite steeply off the narrow
breaking down a thousand futures
in promises of sand dune mist.
Where love leaned on love,
those mighty fell to earth
down that spiral staircase
to where the low notes live.
I hate love,
it rips vowels from my words
pulls me toward impossibles,
with a merry head
hypnotising me to some cloudy words
scrolled across a vivid blue sky
in biplane ink.
I need a stopper,
to keep emptiness from running in.
It’s far too keen, too energetic,
can’t someone hold it back,
tie its shoe laces together,
handcuff it to a chair
or something?
Jerry Pike
It's An Ill Wind
It's an Ill Wind. April 2010
Smug in her luck,
she thought the rest of us
disorganised or lacking.
Our attitude was wrong
Nothing to this life
if you applied your mind.
Bedraggled, tear-stained,
impotently furious,
accusing, aching,
lacking information,
she waited with the rest,
humbled by a cloud
Dorothy Pope April 2010
Smug in her luck,
she thought the rest of us
disorganised or lacking.
Our attitude was wrong
Nothing to this life
if you applied your mind.
Bedraggled, tear-stained,
impotently furious,
accusing, aching,
lacking information,
she waited with the rest,
humbled by a cloud
Dorothy Pope April 2010
Continental Drift
Continental Drift
Firm handshake exchanged,
and an attempt at something like a hug
half done. We left our cars,
and the world they came from,
and began to walk.
Hours drifted beneath a big sky,
the sun warmed us, we moved
and meandered in
and out of conversation.
And we wound our way back
to the spot where we'd begun.
It didn't matter what time it took,
what counted was that we reached our end.
We took the elm tallest of the forest's trees
as an anchor. At our furthest point
we had its crown fixed firm upon
horizon.
And it was as we walked across fields
that you recalled the first line of your book,
'The stories of entire continents
cannot be adequately told in
single volume histories."
You smiled at how it took so long
to find those opening words, And while
1 am sure that you are right in what you say
1 don't think it half so hard to capture a continent
as it would be to set down
what has passed between us.
Things must have changed,
or so 1 believed,
thoughts ill bred in a welter of silence
would cloud the air and touch still waters.
But instead we picked up the beat
and went on -
orbiting each other.
The elm remained rooted
and we made our way towards it
when far off it was easy.
Yet as we approached the tree began to vanish.
Neil Elder
Firm handshake exchanged,
and an attempt at something like a hug
half done. We left our cars,
and the world they came from,
and began to walk.
Hours drifted beneath a big sky,
the sun warmed us, we moved
and meandered in
and out of conversation.
And we wound our way back
to the spot where we'd begun.
It didn't matter what time it took,
what counted was that we reached our end.
We took the elm tallest of the forest's trees
as an anchor. At our furthest point
we had its crown fixed firm upon
horizon.
And it was as we walked across fields
that you recalled the first line of your book,
'The stories of entire continents
cannot be adequately told in
single volume histories."
You smiled at how it took so long
to find those opening words, And while
1 am sure that you are right in what you say
1 don't think it half so hard to capture a continent
as it would be to set down
what has passed between us.
Things must have changed,
or so 1 believed,
thoughts ill bred in a welter of silence
would cloud the air and touch still waters.
But instead we picked up the beat
and went on -
orbiting each other.
The elm remained rooted
and we made our way towards it
when far off it was easy.
Yet as we approached the tree began to vanish.
Neil Elder
An Answer To An Aphid
An Answer toan Aphid
It was, a sparkling summer's day
When I went out, intent to spray
My rose, with garden pride invested,
Which was with greenfly thick infested
But I went to Pull the trigger
I heard a tiny voice, no bigger
Than gnat's or flea's- in fact so small
There hardly was a voice at all
"Keep off" it piped, your nasty stuff
Which kills a thousand with one puff.
To think we here before the Druids -
Are poisoned now with noxious fluids.
Give over your one-sided war.
What do you think a rose is for?
Can you not see its foremost use is
To supply us with its juices?
The swelling buds we like the best,
But we can manage with the rest
There was a time - gone, many a year,
Long, long before you men were here
When greenfly rights were uncontested
We sucked the juices unmolested
Except by these pernicious thugs,
The hover-flies and ladybugs
No surely you can grant a place
For our most ancient, humble race
You cannot surely be so mean
Come on now be more eco-green
Our sins (if any) please forgive.
Put down your spray, and let us live!
It touched my heart this piteous plea.
I'd half a mind to let them be.
But when I saw my rose's fate,
Its buds and leaves in such a slate,
I felt my heart again to harden.
I said "You've done too much to pardon!"
And aimed the spray, and with one shot
I polished off the **** lot.
Interactive poetry. The reader is asked to supply the missing word(s)
John Waddell
It was, a sparkling summer's day
When I went out, intent to spray
My rose, with garden pride invested,
Which was with greenfly thick infested
But I went to Pull the trigger
I heard a tiny voice, no bigger
Than gnat's or flea's- in fact so small
There hardly was a voice at all
"Keep off" it piped, your nasty stuff
Which kills a thousand with one puff.
To think we here before the Druids -
Are poisoned now with noxious fluids.
Give over your one-sided war.
What do you think a rose is for?
Can you not see its foremost use is
To supply us with its juices?
The swelling buds we like the best,
But we can manage with the rest
There was a time - gone, many a year,
Long, long before you men were here
When greenfly rights were uncontested
We sucked the juices unmolested
Except by these pernicious thugs,
The hover-flies and ladybugs
No surely you can grant a place
For our most ancient, humble race
You cannot surely be so mean
Come on now be more eco-green
Our sins (if any) please forgive.
Put down your spray, and let us live!
It touched my heart this piteous plea.
I'd half a mind to let them be.
But when I saw my rose's fate,
Its buds and leaves in such a slate,
I felt my heart again to harden.
I said "You've done too much to pardon!"
And aimed the spray, and with one shot
I polished off the **** lot.
Interactive poetry. The reader is asked to supply the missing word(s)
John Waddell
Suitcase
Suitcase
You see it in the O~fam shop window
You see its palchy red, its gilded locks
Gasping for losty lost keys.
You cannot hear its travellers tale,,
No Desdemona you to its Othello
Yet it has seen icebergs in the Antarctic
And felt the tropical sun burn through
Its tawdry fabric.
It's pitted from the rains that battered it
On oceans from Pacific to Atlantic
In many an airport it has been flung and tossed
Weighed down with bags and trunks
With prams nod skis.
Once left lonely on a Caribbean quay
Its owner unconcemed, unknowing it was lost.
In numerous hotel rooms it has resided
Pushed under dusty beds
Surplus, redundant
Till suddenly its value reinstated
It's packed again, a new journey started.
Now in a ~~indow, fledged round with refugees
From lofts and garages, unwanted books
Old pictures, glasses,
The case's travels Just ill history
The very thing for your trip to Southseal
Sylvia Goodman
You see it in the O~fam shop window
You see its palchy red, its gilded locks
Gasping for losty lost keys.
You cannot hear its travellers tale,,
No Desdemona you to its Othello
Yet it has seen icebergs in the Antarctic
And felt the tropical sun burn through
Its tawdry fabric.
It's pitted from the rains that battered it
On oceans from Pacific to Atlantic
In many an airport it has been flung and tossed
Weighed down with bags and trunks
With prams nod skis.
Once left lonely on a Caribbean quay
Its owner unconcemed, unknowing it was lost.
In numerous hotel rooms it has resided
Pushed under dusty beds
Surplus, redundant
Till suddenly its value reinstated
It's packed again, a new journey started.
Now in a ~~indow, fledged round with refugees
From lofts and garages, unwanted books
Old pictures, glasses,
The case's travels Just ill history
The very thing for your trip to Southseal
Sylvia Goodman
Sunday 2 May 2010
Tiger, Tiger
Tiger, Tiger
They're burning down the pubs now,
all accidents I'm told,
No petrol cans at twilight
or matchbook fronts unfold,
The George and Dragon bought it,
they paid by breathless fire
The White Hart stumbled closely,
no arrows of desire.
The Rat and Phoenix mingled,
no feathered tales arose
Just carpet cleaned by fireman,
within a smoke of prose
1 watched some sparkling ideas,
unleashed upon Tithe Hill
So sadly on the ground now,
its history lies still.
Their names live on in guide books,
"The Admiral was there!"
Half-Nelsoned into dying,
not aleing, but by flare.
They never catch these Guy Fawkes',
who load the powder high
And whisper to the death of night,
your history's goodbye.
Jerry Pike
They're burning down the pubs now,
all accidents I'm told,
No petrol cans at twilight
or matchbook fronts unfold,
The George and Dragon bought it,
they paid by breathless fire
The White Hart stumbled closely,
no arrows of desire.
The Rat and Phoenix mingled,
no feathered tales arose
Just carpet cleaned by fireman,
within a smoke of prose
1 watched some sparkling ideas,
unleashed upon Tithe Hill
So sadly on the ground now,
its history lies still.
Their names live on in guide books,
"The Admiral was there!"
Half-Nelsoned into dying,
not aleing, but by flare.
They never catch these Guy Fawkes',
who load the powder high
And whisper to the death of night,
your history's goodbye.
Jerry Pike
Born By The Sea
Born by the Sea
1 leave my isolated rock
Ahead of an advancing tide
and, dripping, print the sand then dust
It off and, sandal?shod, go on
Revivified.
The sea restores me always with
Its heaving tonnage, greeny deeps
And restless, rhythmic, boom splash drag back
Lullaby. 1 synchronise
To healing peace.
Emerging energised, 1 think
Of continental people vastly
Far inland and wonder if
They feel a nameless yearning for
An unknown sea.
Dorothy Pope
1 leave my isolated rock
Ahead of an advancing tide
and, dripping, print the sand then dust
It off and, sandal?shod, go on
Revivified.
The sea restores me always with
Its heaving tonnage, greeny deeps
And restless, rhythmic, boom splash drag back
Lullaby. 1 synchronise
To healing peace.
Emerging energised, 1 think
Of continental people vastly
Far inland and wonder if
They feel a nameless yearning for
An unknown sea.
Dorothy Pope
The Vibrant and the Dying
The Vibrant and the Dying
My mind twists between the vibrant and the dying.
She, bright daughter, flying in
Glowing, exuberant, epitome of life.
And he, grating off the shards of eighty years
Scarcely able to recall he is a grandfather
For few of flying out. His mind
Coils around corners of the hereafter
Scented with hospital smells
Bumping into nothingness
Seeking some light,
fearing the Light And the Dark, and the void.
She lands, smelling sweetly of sunshine
And joy in a tumble of luggage.
He, reluctant, makes his way empty handed
Towards the gate to eternity,
Waving feeble farewells before boarding.
She may just catch the final flutter.
My heart twists between the vibrant and the dying.
Sylvia Goodman
My mind twists between the vibrant and the dying.
She, bright daughter, flying in
Glowing, exuberant, epitome of life.
And he, grating off the shards of eighty years
Scarcely able to recall he is a grandfather
For few of flying out. His mind
Coils around corners of the hereafter
Scented with hospital smells
Bumping into nothingness
Seeking some light,
fearing the Light And the Dark, and the void.
She lands, smelling sweetly of sunshine
And joy in a tumble of luggage.
He, reluctant, makes his way empty handed
Towards the gate to eternity,
Waving feeble farewells before boarding.
She may just catch the final flutter.
My heart twists between the vibrant and the dying.
Sylvia Goodman
Daily Political Poems on Twitter the funny ones
Daily Political Poems on Twitter the funny ones: Peter Keeble
30 March 2010 (the baby boom vote)
We've romped over the plains
of the fin de steels years,
a horde of Gauls
reaching you on oar zimmer frames
to demand you look after us all.
7Apri12010
Forget about that wretched moat,
uphold the status quo
just focus on the glamour show
and don't forget to vote.
7 April 2010
Election Cycle: Disillusion, dissolution,
desperation, obfuscation, reelection,
prevarication, disillusion
9 April 2010 (MacLennan withdraws as Labour
candidate following rude tweets)
It's easy to deride the emails of McBride
and sweet to expose MacLennan's tweets:
a trend for Labour Scots to tie themselves in knots?
10 April 2010 (Tory tax break to married couples)
Oi Dave You marry cos you good bloke
or you good bloke so marry?
Praps torys snort coke to be posh
or is it they posh so snort coke?
12 April (The election campaign hots up)
They paddle faster in the pedalos,
working up a froth before the tidal wave
can catch them in its trough
along with all their peccadillos.
13 April (Publication of party manifestos)
Line the manifestos up
see how they run
the red the blue the yellow and the green
and all the colours under the sun:
hit do they mean?
17 April: (Icelandic dust, the pathetic fallacy reversed)
Look into the sky's limitless jade:
particles of sand and glass hide unseen
like a forgotten debt waiting to be paid.
Twitter is a social network site whose entries (known as tweets) are restricted to 140 characters, including spaces & punctuation. To see the rest of Peter's tweets and fillowfuture ones put Twitter Peter Keeble into Google.
Peter Keeble
30 March 2010 (the baby boom vote)
We've romped over the plains
of the fin de steels years,
a horde of Gauls
reaching you on oar zimmer frames
to demand you look after us all.
7Apri12010
Forget about that wretched moat,
uphold the status quo
just focus on the glamour show
and don't forget to vote.
7 April 2010
Election Cycle: Disillusion, dissolution,
desperation, obfuscation, reelection,
prevarication, disillusion
9 April 2010 (MacLennan withdraws as Labour
candidate following rude tweets)
It's easy to deride the emails of McBride
and sweet to expose MacLennan's tweets:
a trend for Labour Scots to tie themselves in knots?
10 April 2010 (Tory tax break to married couples)
Oi Dave You marry cos you good bloke
or you good bloke so marry?
Praps torys snort coke to be posh
or is it they posh so snort coke?
12 April (The election campaign hots up)
They paddle faster in the pedalos,
working up a froth before the tidal wave
can catch them in its trough
along with all their peccadillos.
13 April (Publication of party manifestos)
Line the manifestos up
see how they run
the red the blue the yellow and the green
and all the colours under the sun:
hit do they mean?
17 April: (Icelandic dust, the pathetic fallacy reversed)
Look into the sky's limitless jade:
particles of sand and glass hide unseen
like a forgotten debt waiting to be paid.
Twitter is a social network site whose entries (known as tweets) are restricted to 140 characters, including spaces & punctuation. To see the rest of Peter's tweets and fillowfuture ones put Twitter Peter Keeble into Google.
Peter Keeble
Tuesday 23 March 2010
Deconstruction
Deconstruction
1 watched a feather dancing on the air
that otherwise was quite invisible
for 1 could neither see nor feel nor hear
the slightest movement of the atmosphere
and freely thought of this in my mind's eye
both a puppet moved by unseen wires
and a ghostly spirit in the ether
and many other contradictory things
prescribed to me by language and society;
but never as what it was just like
which most of us have hidden from our sight sight:
now we have all been cast adrift by capitalists
who deny shared feelings and fraternity,
we fail to see the alienation of our humanity.
Peter Keeble
1 watched a feather dancing on the air
that otherwise was quite invisible
for 1 could neither see nor feel nor hear
the slightest movement of the atmosphere
and freely thought of this in my mind's eye
both a puppet moved by unseen wires
and a ghostly spirit in the ether
and many other contradictory things
prescribed to me by language and society;
but never as what it was just like
which most of us have hidden from our sight sight:
now we have all been cast adrift by capitalists
who deny shared feelings and fraternity,
we fail to see the alienation of our humanity.
Peter Keeble
Diction
Diction
The horrible chocolate lashes my tongue
A diction too far.
Flags outside point skyward,
dithering hems print sound waves
across the Western Ave.
A coffee cup, filled with sugar, milk and truth,
writes rings in an honest saucer.
Cigarette smoke lurks,
its subconscious laid down
on the flaws of youth.
Nicotining taste buds from memory
Begging on its knees
To take me back
into the fold of smokers
by the front door,
their minimalist fire brigade
burning up the carnival
of a frozen spring.
Jerry Pike
The horrible chocolate lashes my tongue
A diction too far.
Flags outside point skyward,
dithering hems print sound waves
across the Western Ave.
A coffee cup, filled with sugar, milk and truth,
writes rings in an honest saucer.
Cigarette smoke lurks,
its subconscious laid down
on the flaws of youth.
Nicotining taste buds from memory
Begging on its knees
To take me back
into the fold of smokers
by the front door,
their minimalist fire brigade
burning up the carnival
of a frozen spring.
Jerry Pike
Sunday 28 February 2010
On Becoming Gregorz Harluk
On Becoming Gregorz Harluk
Hot chocolate, drinking chocolate
hot chocolate, drinking chocolate
chanted Gregorz, in Russian
from that inner advertising space
reserved for catchy commercials.
It felt good, no question
as my new persona
swept into minus five
icing hair, casting me back.
to those Western Siberian days.
Not sure Wembley was ideal
for new life, but I felt younger,
despite forgetting my DOB.
The expected mug shot, not required,
I could be anyone,
I gleamed with tomorrow’s whirled imagination.
A doll’s nest of new choices, each more exciting
I could do, I could try, I could be, but mainly
this dodgy leisure centre card
would give us an extra squash court
for those tricky nights
when your breath freezes
to the walls.
Jerry Pike
Hot chocolate, drinking chocolate
hot chocolate, drinking chocolate
chanted Gregorz, in Russian
from that inner advertising space
reserved for catchy commercials.
It felt good, no question
as my new persona
swept into minus five
icing hair, casting me back.
to those Western Siberian days.
Not sure Wembley was ideal
for new life, but I felt younger,
despite forgetting my DOB.
The expected mug shot, not required,
I could be anyone,
I gleamed with tomorrow’s whirled imagination.
A doll’s nest of new choices, each more exciting
I could do, I could try, I could be, but mainly
this dodgy leisure centre card
would give us an extra squash court
for those tricky nights
when your breath freezes
to the walls.
Jerry Pike
Recorder Scales: C major
Recorder Scales: C major
Confident, I take up the recorder again,
discover the smooth plastic on tongue and lips
evokes once more that dusty, sunlit classroom;
five of us struggling in a clumsy finger war,
getting them, contorted, into twitching place.
As I recall we never knew if we were right,
being asked to play songs from a century before.
Becoming interested, I hunt down the book ,
and open it, study the patterns on staves,
gather instinctive old muscle memories
forgotten like the dots that jump about the page.
Every note of me concentrates until quite soon,
dimly, I see how I’ll never get the thing right,
caring now more about the memory than the tune.
Peter Keeble
Confident, I take up the recorder again,
discover the smooth plastic on tongue and lips
evokes once more that dusty, sunlit classroom;
five of us struggling in a clumsy finger war,
getting them, contorted, into twitching place.
As I recall we never knew if we were right,
being asked to play songs from a century before.
Becoming interested, I hunt down the book ,
and open it, study the patterns on staves,
gather instinctive old muscle memories
forgotten like the dots that jump about the page.
Every note of me concentrates until quite soon,
dimly, I see how I’ll never get the thing right,
caring now more about the memory than the tune.
Peter Keeble
My Violin
My Violin
My Fiddle may not be a Strad
but still its tone is not too bad
It’s not too coarse, nor yet too thin,
the music of my violin.
My father for a modest fee
purchased the instrument for me,
with hopes his evenings would begin
with music on my violin.
Its former owner practiced till
he knew it was beyond its skill,
no hours of practising would win
sweet music from the violin.
No, really? Must you go so soon?
Please wait until I play a tune
That’s sad and suitable to fin-
ish up with on my violin.
John Waddell
My Fiddle may not be a Strad
but still its tone is not too bad
It’s not too coarse, nor yet too thin,
the music of my violin.
My father for a modest fee
purchased the instrument for me,
with hopes his evenings would begin
with music on my violin.
Its former owner practiced till
he knew it was beyond its skill,
no hours of practising would win
sweet music from the violin.
No, really? Must you go so soon?
Please wait until I play a tune
That’s sad and suitable to fin-
ish up with on my violin.
John Waddell
In Hiding
In Hiding
In our waking
we saw the sun
through cracks and slits
in our days
we smelled sour dust
and waste
and misered out
our scraps of food.
And all the while
the hunger gnawed
and the fear clenched.
In our sleep
we heard the crunch
of boots on gravel
in our dreams
they searched for bicycles
and babies
for anything or anyone
that could be hiding
And all the while
the hunger gnawed
and the fear clenched.
We woke each day
and found our sleep
was waking
and our dreams
reality.
Sylvia Goodman
In our waking
we saw the sun
through cracks and slits
in our days
we smelled sour dust
and waste
and misered out
our scraps of food.
And all the while
the hunger gnawed
and the fear clenched.
In our sleep
we heard the crunch
of boots on gravel
in our dreams
they searched for bicycles
and babies
for anything or anyone
that could be hiding
And all the while
the hunger gnawed
and the fear clenched.
We woke each day
and found our sleep
was waking
and our dreams
reality.
Sylvia Goodman
Thursday 21 January 2010
An Old Soak
An Old Soak
His criss-cut frown
an ink seagull
v-ing through those
four feet between us.
Flat faced
with a square jaw,
he stared.
I stared.
No chickening
no shaping
eye to eye solidity.
Black blink-less irises filled
each sharp angle crevice,
persistent, throbbing.
Awaiting a back down
the water cooled.
His bulbous nose
static through steam.
A motionless
charade of glaze
on that fractured
bath tile of a face.
Jerry Pike
His criss-cut frown
an ink seagull
v-ing through those
four feet between us.
Flat faced
with a square jaw,
he stared.
I stared.
No chickening
no shaping
eye to eye solidity.
Black blink-less irises filled
each sharp angle crevice,
persistent, throbbing.
Awaiting a back down
the water cooled.
His bulbous nose
static through steam.
A motionless
charade of glaze
on that fractured
bath tile of a face.
Jerry Pike
Reconciliation Statue, Coventry Cathedral
Reconciliation Statue, Coventry Cathedral
1 don't remember when 1 noticed it first,
acceptance, creeping up like Mr Wolf.
1 had thought my senses 'frozen by the past.
Indeed, before 1 was caught by its stealth
I'd sworn to never fall for its sly charm
preferring anger to assert the self,
for how could we forget the storm
of bombers in the skies of Coventry,
the startling deaths and alarm; the fear
they'd build their sign here, in this city,
for victims to read, entering their charnel house
with the terrible lie, Work sets you free?
But it seems those who thought everything lost
can now face each other without despair,
consoled although their hearts have long since burst.
Look at these figures with a blank stare
to see a melting of the inner frost
and come to know the hatred they have nursed
has gone, and they are now no longer cursed.
Peter Keeble
1 don't remember when 1 noticed it first,
acceptance, creeping up like Mr Wolf.
1 had thought my senses 'frozen by the past.
Indeed, before 1 was caught by its stealth
I'd sworn to never fall for its sly charm
preferring anger to assert the self,
for how could we forget the storm
of bombers in the skies of Coventry,
the startling deaths and alarm; the fear
they'd build their sign here, in this city,
for victims to read, entering their charnel house
with the terrible lie, Work sets you free?
But it seems those who thought everything lost
can now face each other without despair,
consoled although their hearts have long since burst.
Look at these figures with a blank stare
to see a melting of the inner frost
and come to know the hatred they have nursed
has gone, and they are now no longer cursed.
Peter Keeble
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