A night frost following an early spring
has blighted the magnolia. Now browned,
its petals droop and fall, littering
like yesterday's confetti on the ground.
Where is its glory now, perfection's blush
that stopped me as I walked to gaze and gaze?
That just one silent stroke could do so much
by stealth to spoil its subsequential days!
The man who walks his dog said, "Never mind.
There's always next year to look forward to,"
but what, of course, he could not understand
was that to me the lovely tree was you.
You, darling, cannot bloom in future years.
Your petals a finality - my tears.
Dorothy Pope
Friday 25 November 2011
Coming Home
A piano plays,
warming the edge of thought.
Fuller than a radio, the music carries
the sense of skin pressing each note,
the sense of blood beating each beat,
an embodied song.
This is how you come home,
how you reclaim your space
in our lives.
The piano stops but the music stays,
warming the waiting air.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
warming the edge of thought.
Fuller than a radio, the music carries
the sense of skin pressing each note,
the sense of blood beating each beat,
an embodied song.
This is how you come home,
how you reclaim your space
in our lives.
The piano stops but the music stays,
warming the waiting air.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
Answers On A Postcard
It was near the end of the world,
as I remember,
her sunset flecks written
over speedboat trails
before it was dragged across
the vacant, slurried beach.
She sent me here,
some journey back,
that pastel artist,
straggling up Porth Dinllaen's
rising slipway
under-arm sketches
in turquoise, mauve and black,
kindling mad and moody.
Unknown ships,
we jammed into chat,
on some delirious
boy's canvas.
No Inns, but a suggested out,
I should have caught.
The North-West jaunt, now
had soft beer for spirit,
and a Leica for eyes,
with the end closer than before,
as Aberdaron seawall, mosaiced
to a tomb stone collage
tilting the graveyard for
their nearing slide
splash-less
into the sea-deep.
Jerry Pike
as I remember,
her sunset flecks written
over speedboat trails
before it was dragged across
the vacant, slurried beach.
She sent me here,
some journey back,
that pastel artist,
straggling up Porth Dinllaen's
rising slipway
under-arm sketches
in turquoise, mauve and black,
kindling mad and moody.
Unknown ships,
we jammed into chat,
on some delirious
boy's canvas.
No Inns, but a suggested out,
I should have caught.
The North-West jaunt, now
had soft beer for spirit,
and a Leica for eyes,
with the end closer than before,
as Aberdaron seawall, mosaiced
to a tomb stone collage
tilting the graveyard for
their nearing slide
splash-less
into the sea-deep.
Jerry Pike
Sunday 13 November 2011
Let's Get Lost....For Chet Baker, Jazz Man
Again the ceiling thumped, through black
and whitened flickers of the old,
as step by step, each muted track,
hummed from his lips, to heavens gold
A coil of brass let loose and long.
He played this funny Valentine.
steeped up in drugs, too higher song
that felled so many from their climb.
Those books of substance wrote his dues,
and planes touched down, but barely him
three countries banned him from their news,
but Paris heroed, pretty slim.
Deep down inside Le Chat Qui Pêche
the devils heat cooked up a gas
He never knew which chord to wish,
but hell he’d hypnotised the mass,
The beat set, and its women drooled,
he built them stairways out of smoke
and walking down, each woman fooled,
on green, green grass of home (and coke).
Alfa Romeo, made his day,
unlike in broken sixty-eight,
when caught they knocked his teeth away.
#six months before he proper ate.
Khaki fatigues, pyjama stripes,
accounts from prison, laid no sin.
Outside his own career he swipes
at any way to get back in.
Then loads of Secanol delayed,
he crossed the age of fifty-eight,
and balconies just watched him fade,
out of that Paris jazz debate.
I’m deep in dream for you he’d say,
come let’s get lost, inside my head,
and slicked brown hair, brushed all away
now Dizzy, Miles and Bird are dead.
but when Chet blew, his notes curled up
in smokey blue where moonbeams hide.
And when he sang, all hearts stood still,
the ceiling thumped,
and angels cried.
Jerry Pike
For jazz trumpeter and singer, Chet Baker.
and whitened flickers of the old,
as step by step, each muted track,
hummed from his lips, to heavens gold
A coil of brass let loose and long.
He played this funny Valentine.
steeped up in drugs, too higher song
that felled so many from their climb.
Those books of substance wrote his dues,
and planes touched down, but barely him
three countries banned him from their news,
but Paris heroed, pretty slim.
Deep down inside Le Chat Qui Pêche
the devils heat cooked up a gas
He never knew which chord to wish,
but hell he’d hypnotised the mass,
The beat set, and its women drooled,
he built them stairways out of smoke
and walking down, each woman fooled,
on green, green grass of home (and coke).
Alfa Romeo, made his day,
unlike in broken sixty-eight,
when caught they knocked his teeth away.
#six months before he proper ate.
Khaki fatigues, pyjama stripes,
accounts from prison, laid no sin.
Outside his own career he swipes
at any way to get back in.
Then loads of Secanol delayed,
he crossed the age of fifty-eight,
and balconies just watched him fade,
out of that Paris jazz debate.
I’m deep in dream for you he’d say,
come let’s get lost, inside my head,
and slicked brown hair, brushed all away
now Dizzy, Miles and Bird are dead.
but when Chet blew, his notes curled up
in smokey blue where moonbeams hide.
And when he sang, all hearts stood still,
the ceiling thumped,
and angels cried.
Jerry Pike
For jazz trumpeter and singer, Chet Baker.
Blue
The sky is blue today,
an ocean of it stretching
above my head,
fathoms high
and inscrutable.
It has collected
all the yellows and reds,
holding their light tight
so I can’t see it
like your face
when you hide your heart.
© Jane Upchurch
an ocean of it stretching
above my head,
fathoms high
and inscrutable.
It has collected
all the yellows and reds,
holding their light tight
so I can’t see it
like your face
when you hide your heart.
© Jane Upchurch
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,
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 l3eft 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 dasughter 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,
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 l3eft 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 dasughter you forgot.
Dorothy Pope
Thursday 13 October 2011
In Praise Of Slow
Daydreamers know they only seem
to spin the world who rush and steam-
roller the money making scheme
with workaholic self esteem.
In hammock hung from apple bough
ideas come, it's not known how.
Inventors, poets all avow
the idling minds the one endowed.
with thought. The Newton's, Wordsworth's know
the fruitfulness of going slow,
of gazing, musing, strolling so
let's pause awhile and wiser go.
Dorothy Pope
to spin the world who rush and steam-
roller the money making scheme
with workaholic self esteem.
In hammock hung from apple bough
ideas come, it's not known how.
Inventors, poets all avow
the idling minds the one endowed.
with thought. The Newton's, Wordsworth's know
the fruitfulness of going slow,
of gazing, musing, strolling so
let's pause awhile and wiser go.
Dorothy Pope
Sunday 2 October 2011
Of Sentimental Value
Just a knife
she said
seeing only
the vulgar plastic of its blue handle
its slim serrated blade.
Not seeing
our first sunlit
together day
under your Italian sky
with bread and cheese
autumnal peaches
warm red wine
wine and peaches glowing
with the salty sweetness
of ur new love,
shopping in Standa
for a knife
to fashion our future.
Just a knife;
but now a symbol
of when out lives
were intertwined
and your smoke swirled
around our youth
fragrant with coffee
icing sugar sweet
like paastries from Motta,
our certainty
lapped with
olive oil and sun.
Now I slice onions
with our knife
under chillier skies.
Sylvia Goodman
she said
seeing only
the vulgar plastic of its blue handle
its slim serrated blade.
Not seeing
our first sunlit
together day
under your Italian sky
with bread and cheese
autumnal peaches
warm red wine
wine and peaches glowing
with the salty sweetness
of ur new love,
shopping in Standa
for a knife
to fashion our future.
Just a knife;
but now a symbol
of when out lives
were intertwined
and your smoke swirled
around our youth
fragrant with coffee
icing sugar sweet
like paastries from Motta,
our certainty
lapped with
olive oil and sun.
Now I slice onions
with our knife
under chillier skies.
Sylvia Goodman
Grub Up
Getting up at three,
I put my shoes on the bed
left a hot tap running
and toothpaste top off,
didn't flush the loo
or replace toilet paper.
Walking downstairs
I floored some rubbish
left the fridge door wide open,
food wrappers everywhere,
and milk on table.
Old dirty plates whispered their pattern
through dried tomato sauce.
I balanced some waste
on an open, overflowing bin,
then wandered out to sit
amongst the two foot grass stems
in the rotting deckchair,
surrounded by wilderness roses,
and multi-coloured pegs
discarded from the line.
I chucked my filthy clothes near
the washing machine
borrowed some money I'd never return
and later, got a lift a few miles
at midnight…
then suddenly
like a whirlwind of remembrance
I looked in the grubby mirror
and realised I was no longer
a teenager.
Jerry Pike
I put my shoes on the bed
left a hot tap running
and toothpaste top off,
didn't flush the loo
or replace toilet paper.
Walking downstairs
I floored some rubbish
left the fridge door wide open,
food wrappers everywhere,
and milk on table.
Old dirty plates whispered their pattern
through dried tomato sauce.
I balanced some waste
on an open, overflowing bin,
then wandered out to sit
amongst the two foot grass stems
in the rotting deckchair,
surrounded by wilderness roses,
and multi-coloured pegs
discarded from the line.
I chucked my filthy clothes near
the washing machine
borrowed some money I'd never return
and later, got a lift a few miles
at midnight…
then suddenly
like a whirlwind of remembrance
I looked in the grubby mirror
and realised I was no longer
a teenager.
Jerry Pike
Minerve
The ghosts of heretics
have gathered tonight
down in the gulley
outside Minerve.
Among them, the Perfect
relive the siege
and how the crusaders
destroyed their one well
then burned them alive
down in the gulley
outside Minerve.
They see once again
Simon de Montefort
that black-hearted monster
deploying one-eyed religion
to get what he thought he deserved
by killing the Perfect of Minerve.
Now visitors wander about
curious to find the site of the pyres,
then go into the caves
and build stone cairns
to remember the victims of the fires.
It is there the truly devout may pray
that the bishops and barons
are safely contained in their own hells
for what they once did
to the perfectly good
who preferred to be left
perfectly dead,
but true to their word,
down in the gulley
outside Minerve.
140 Parfaits (priests of the Albigensian or Cathar religion) were burned alive by Catholic forces after the siege of Minerve in south west France in 1210, part of an internal crusade against supposed heretics.
Peter Keeble
have gathered tonight
down in the gulley
outside Minerve.
Among them, the Perfect
relive the siege
and how the crusaders
destroyed their one well
then burned them alive
down in the gulley
outside Minerve.
They see once again
Simon de Montefort
that black-hearted monster
deploying one-eyed religion
to get what he thought he deserved
by killing the Perfect of Minerve.
Now visitors wander about
curious to find the site of the pyres,
then go into the caves
and build stone cairns
to remember the victims of the fires.
It is there the truly devout may pray
that the bishops and barons
are safely contained in their own hells
for what they once did
to the perfectly good
who preferred to be left
perfectly dead,
but true to their word,
down in the gulley
outside Minerve.
140 Parfaits (priests of the Albigensian or Cathar religion) were burned alive by Catholic forces after the siege of Minerve in south west France in 1210, part of an internal crusade against supposed heretics.
Peter Keeble
Sunday 11 September 2011
Skilled Worker
He spends his days peering
into charmless caverns
shining lamps into damp spaces.
Some may emanate sweetness
others odours redolent of decay
neglected tombs of joyful times.
Ranged in the wet warm darkness
rear up the standing rocks
deep-rooted white in rose-hued beds.
Some crags discoloured
cracked and fissured
teeter in amatanthine gloom.
His silvery instruments
flash and glint reflecting
movement of his twisting wrist.
He probes the noisome depths
casts jets of water, blasts of air.
An adamantine surface
pierced, a bridge in place,
a brace applied. He toils
unchallenged among cavities.
His wordless victim lies
supine and tense, fists clenched
the whole world contracted
to a white coat, a whining drill.
Sylvia Goodman
into charmless caverns
shining lamps into damp spaces.
Some may emanate sweetness
others odours redolent of decay
neglected tombs of joyful times.
Ranged in the wet warm darkness
rear up the standing rocks
deep-rooted white in rose-hued beds.
Some crags discoloured
cracked and fissured
teeter in amatanthine gloom.
His silvery instruments
flash and glint reflecting
movement of his twisting wrist.
He probes the noisome depths
casts jets of water, blasts of air.
An adamantine surface
pierced, a bridge in place,
a brace applied. He toils
unchallenged among cavities.
His wordless victim lies
supine and tense, fists clenched
the whole world contracted
to a white coat, a whining drill.
Sylvia Goodman
Holiday
The sun is a bowl
holding heat on my skin
like love,
soaking into my bones,
into my mood
like balm.
My knots unravel,
my pressures melt away.
I am butter, oozing.
I am apple pie,
peeled and baked and brown.
I have brought all of me
on holiday,
my toes, my tears, my ears,
the whole package
so we can each unwind.
This is meditation,
my mind not chasing plans,
past and future folded away,
just the glorious, sun-filled
present.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
holding heat on my skin
like love,
soaking into my bones,
into my mood
like balm.
My knots unravel,
my pressures melt away.
I am butter, oozing.
I am apple pie,
peeled and baked and brown.
I have brought all of me
on holiday,
my toes, my tears, my ears,
the whole package
so we can each unwind.
This is meditation,
my mind not chasing plans,
past and future folded away,
just the glorious, sun-filled
present.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
Wash My Sins Away
I'd warned her many times
one item, full wash, full spin
noise alone should have
been enough,
but now, banging for drum heaven
the machine's ghost itself departed.
Just Sunday left,
and from my wet window,
today's future looked stormy.
So I loaded the bath,
soap powder, hot water, and
a week's clothes,
hand-washed all, then tried to
wash the soap out, bugger.
As light bulbs go
this idea shone semi-dim
in a stupid kind of way
that had feasibility.
So Your Honour,
I was pegging out clothes
drenched through
in the height of a rain storm,
to rinse them, yes, rinse them.
when she came home
and said the wrong thing.
Jerry Pike
one item, full wash, full spin
noise alone should have
been enough,
but now, banging for drum heaven
the machine's ghost itself departed.
Just Sunday left,
and from my wet window,
today's future looked stormy.
So I loaded the bath,
soap powder, hot water, and
a week's clothes,
hand-washed all, then tried to
wash the soap out, bugger.
As light bulbs go
this idea shone semi-dim
in a stupid kind of way
that had feasibility.
So Your Honour,
I was pegging out clothes
drenched through
in the height of a rain storm,
to rinse them, yes, rinse them.
when she came home
and said the wrong thing.
Jerry Pike
Homecoming
For years I've dreamed of coming home
to Cornwall, place where I was born.
Nowhere, I am both overcome
and quite at peace. those things foresworn
to live in cities, beautiful and wild,
delight and slot back into place
to that self I was as a child.
I know this sand, wind on my face,
the turquoise and the pewter moods
of this west country sea. Red earth alludes
to patchwork fields of memory.
Dear God, what fate caused me to stray?
Now here, how can I go away?
Dorothy Pope
to Cornwall, place where I was born.
Nowhere, I am both overcome
and quite at peace. those things foresworn
to live in cities, beautiful and wild,
delight and slot back into place
to that self I was as a child.
I know this sand, wind on my face,
the turquoise and the pewter moods
of this west country sea. Red earth alludes
to patchwork fields of memory.
Dear God, what fate caused me to stray?
Now here, how can I go away?
Dorothy Pope
Sunday 31 July 2011
Ink In The Veins
I view computers with a luddite scorn.
This generation doesn't know it's born.
The thrill of writing words down never fails me.
It is a cure all for whatever ails me.
A few sheets of blank paper and a pen
to start the day with and i'm fit again
to face the hazards of the world. Don't think
to transfuse me with blood, just give me ink
in an emergency; it pulls me through.
Black's best but at a pinch then blue will do.
My fountain pen connects to hand and brain,
fits in my bag, can't be used on a train.
It snugly feels just like a part of me
and ink flows from the very heart of me.
Dorothy Pope
This generation doesn't know it's born.
The thrill of writing words down never fails me.
It is a cure all for whatever ails me.
A few sheets of blank paper and a pen
to start the day with and i'm fit again
to face the hazards of the world. Don't think
to transfuse me with blood, just give me ink
in an emergency; it pulls me through.
Black's best but at a pinch then blue will do.
My fountain pen connects to hand and brain,
fits in my bag, can't be used on a train.
It snugly feels just like a part of me
and ink flows from the very heart of me.
Dorothy Pope
The Nullabor
Emptiness drifted past the windows
as I watched in vain for kangaroos.
For mile on monotonous mile the train
travelling its arrow-straight track
was all that moved, ballooning
clouds of dust that settled anew
on grey-green scrub and merged
with the red desert sand.
Excited, we stopped at Cook,
sad settlement for fettlers,
where the weekly train brought supplies
and news of the outside world.
We looked at the women
looking at us, expressionless faces,
eyes lacklustre, deadened
by the lifeless landscape.
Back on the train, on the way
to somewhere, our spirits lifted.
Sylvia Goodman
as I watched in vain for kangaroos.
For mile on monotonous mile the train
travelling its arrow-straight track
was all that moved, ballooning
clouds of dust that settled anew
on grey-green scrub and merged
with the red desert sand.
Excited, we stopped at Cook,
sad settlement for fettlers,
where the weekly train brought supplies
and news of the outside world.
We looked at the women
looking at us, expressionless faces,
eyes lacklustre, deadened
by the lifeless landscape.
Back on the train, on the way
to somewhere, our spirits lifted.
Sylvia Goodman
Save Yer!
He leaned through the
Volvo estate's window,
camo strides, shaved head,
life story in cartoon tats
down his sketch book back,
with pit bull and family deaths
by numbered star.
Their lingo, steeped in bro and geezer,
stomped life a while
re-arranging government,
friends and women, at the merest
lash of their leather tongues.
Watching and surmising
I breathed radio talk
awaiting a small selling space
to jump in and leapfrog
today's gossip quicksand,
but the gangland chatter
irked on.
My invisible tattoo's itch
shifted to mental burn,
I grew impatient,
the in-car voices, I thought
inventing them mafia connections
and underground scenarios.
Eventually,
abrasion grooved
my tetchy shoulders
and quitting the phone-in
I strutted for London,
just as stranger A removed
dark green overalls from a haversack
pulled them up to his booming
char of a voice,
and walked criminally
to the driver's seat
in an ambulance.
Jerry Pike
Volvo estate's window,
camo strides, shaved head,
life story in cartoon tats
down his sketch book back,
with pit bull and family deaths
by numbered star.
Their lingo, steeped in bro and geezer,
stomped life a while
re-arranging government,
friends and women, at the merest
lash of their leather tongues.
Watching and surmising
I breathed radio talk
awaiting a small selling space
to jump in and leapfrog
today's gossip quicksand,
but the gangland chatter
irked on.
My invisible tattoo's itch
shifted to mental burn,
I grew impatient,
the in-car voices, I thought
inventing them mafia connections
and underground scenarios.
Eventually,
abrasion grooved
my tetchy shoulders
and quitting the phone-in
I strutted for London,
just as stranger A removed
dark green overalls from a haversack
pulled them up to his booming
char of a voice,
and walked criminally
to the driver's seat
in an ambulance.
Jerry Pike
Holiday
The sun is a bowl
holding heat on my skin
like love,
soaking into my bones,
into my mood
like balm.
My knots unravel,
my pressures melt away.
I am butter, oozing.
I am apple pie,
peeled and baked and brown.
I have brought all of me
on holiday,
my toes, my tears, my ears,
the whole package
so we can each unwind.
This is meditation,
my mind not chasing plans,
past and future folded away,
just the glorious, sun-filled
present.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
holding heat on my skin
like love,
soaking into my bones,
into my mood
like balm.
My knots unravel,
my pressures melt away.
I am butter, oozing.
I am apple pie,
peeled and baked and brown.
I have brought all of me
on holiday,
my toes, my tears, my ears,
the whole package
so we can each unwind.
This is meditation,
my mind not chasing plans,
past and future folded away,
just the glorious, sun-filled
present.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
Swimming In Time
A few months ago he was stuck in the Middle Ages
but as muscles toned and bunched,
and he learned co-ordinated breathing
and stopped feeling his lungs would burst,
he worked his way up to Henry VI
then the Reformation,
then Charles I.
Over the weeks he has improved,
forging half way into each new century
then swimming his way back towards its turn
before tackling the fresh open water of the next.
Today, wheezing and spluttering,
he made it into the nineteenth century,
1835 to be precise.
As he improves he hopes soon
to reach the Great Reform Act:
Waterloo would be a memorable victory
before plunging on to the Second World War.
The dates are of course a mnemonic device
and back at home each morning,
drinking tea and sucking mints,
he enters the figures into a spreadsheet
and runs regression lines
tracking progress.
1835 is his best performance so far,
full of grace as well as power:
eighteen lengths of the pool
in thirty five minutes,
just over half an hour.
Given the hold of this historical conceit
it was no surprise when a while ago
recovering from ‘flu
and really struggling to keep going
he half thought he heard Gregorian chanting
and dimly saw through his goggles
cowled figures at the side
disrobing to enter the water,
pale bodies covered in dirt and sores.
Peter Keeble
but as muscles toned and bunched,
and he learned co-ordinated breathing
and stopped feeling his lungs would burst,
he worked his way up to Henry VI
then the Reformation,
then Charles I.
Over the weeks he has improved,
forging half way into each new century
then swimming his way back towards its turn
before tackling the fresh open water of the next.
Today, wheezing and spluttering,
he made it into the nineteenth century,
1835 to be precise.
As he improves he hopes soon
to reach the Great Reform Act:
Waterloo would be a memorable victory
before plunging on to the Second World War.
The dates are of course a mnemonic device
and back at home each morning,
drinking tea and sucking mints,
he enters the figures into a spreadsheet
and runs regression lines
tracking progress.
1835 is his best performance so far,
full of grace as well as power:
eighteen lengths of the pool
in thirty five minutes,
just over half an hour.
Given the hold of this historical conceit
it was no surprise when a while ago
recovering from ‘flu
and really struggling to keep going
he half thought he heard Gregorian chanting
and dimly saw through his goggles
cowled figures at the side
disrobing to enter the water,
pale bodies covered in dirt and sores.
Peter Keeble
Friday 24 June 2011
Reconciliation
A country at war
drops bombs from feral planes
and an arsenal of hate and fear
from the media,
exploding darkness in our hearts
as well as death on their streets.
Afterwards
it is the hearts that take longest
to mend,
sheltering the shrapnel
of hostility.
Moving forward
requires recognising
the humanity and frailty
that link us,
getting down into the dust bath
of forgiveness,
lifting up the open hand
of reconciliation.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
drops bombs from feral planes
and an arsenal of hate and fear
from the media,
exploding darkness in our hearts
as well as death on their streets.
Afterwards
it is the hearts that take longest
to mend,
sheltering the shrapnel
of hostility.
Moving forward
requires recognising
the humanity and frailty
that link us,
getting down into the dust bath
of forgiveness,
lifting up the open hand
of reconciliation.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
In Praise Of Slow
Daydreamers know they only seem
to spin the world who rush and steam-
rollerthe money making scheme
with workaholic self esteem.
In hammock hung from apple bough
ideas come, it's not known how.
Inventors, poets all avow
the idling minds the one endowed.
with thought. The Newtons, Wordsworths know
the fruitfulness of going slow,
of gazing, musing, strolling so
let's pause a while and wiser grow.
Dorothy Pope
to spin the world who rush and steam-
rollerthe money making scheme
with workaholic self esteem.
In hammock hung from apple bough
ideas come, it's not known how.
Inventors, poets all avow
the idling minds the one endowed.
with thought. The Newtons, Wordsworths know
the fruitfulness of going slow,
of gazing, musing, strolling so
let's pause a while and wiser grow.
Dorothy Pope
African Statue
Why does he cry so loud?
Is he homesick living
amoung such gentle greenery?
Does out misted light
leave him stifled-
he whose horizon lies
thirty miles away
where he cannot reach out
to touch the nomad camels?
Is the autumn sky
too fragrant with rain?
He opens his mouth so wide-
is it to catch the sacred drops
so anxiuosly awaited in his country,
so shruggingly dismissed in mine?
Or does he gasp for breath
desperate for the desert air
sullied by sand by unpoluted
by our raucous fumes?
I am not of his world.
The desert camels and the sand
are not for me. Yet
I am uneasy in his presence.
I fear him in his elemental needs.
I have lost his joy in the rain
and the crispness of the clear October light.
The city's rush and rumble overwhelm
and heedless I inhale its exhalations.
I am too much of our world
and he recalls me constantly to his.
Sylvia Goodman
Is he homesick living
amoung such gentle greenery?
Does out misted light
leave him stifled-
he whose horizon lies
thirty miles away
where he cannot reach out
to touch the nomad camels?
Is the autumn sky
too fragrant with rain?
He opens his mouth so wide-
is it to catch the sacred drops
so anxiuosly awaited in his country,
so shruggingly dismissed in mine?
Or does he gasp for breath
desperate for the desert air
sullied by sand by unpoluted
by our raucous fumes?
I am not of his world.
The desert camels and the sand
are not for me. Yet
I am uneasy in his presence.
I fear him in his elemental needs.
I have lost his joy in the rain
and the crispness of the clear October light.
The city's rush and rumble overwhelm
and heedless I inhale its exhalations.
I am too much of our world
and he recalls me constantly to his.
Sylvia Goodman
Reflecting
I wiped someone's life from the picture
not thoughtlessly, or maliciously
just unaware.
The date gave you twenty years
an incomplete sentence
topped with dust.
I drew closer to turquoise
and dark green reflections
paddling through the pier rain
as we looked out.
Four empty deckchairs
held by wind-rivets,
and more than enough fun
for two waxed jackets
golf brolly
and a flask of
piping hot smiles.
Jerry Pike
not thoughtlessly, or maliciously
just unaware.
The date gave you twenty years
an incomplete sentence
topped with dust.
I drew closer to turquoise
and dark green reflections
paddling through the pier rain
as we looked out.
Four empty deckchairs
held by wind-rivets,
and more than enough fun
for two waxed jackets
golf brolly
and a flask of
piping hot smiles.
Jerry Pike
Newcomer
He entered the water like an ancient walrus
and struggled down the ladder at the shallow end
to join me in the slow lane,
wobbling and panting in his fat old age.
Seeing the pot belly and hearing him wheeze
I believed this at last was my time to shine,
and knew as he fell into his feeble breast stroke
I would no longer be the swimming pool joke.
Joyful, I sped after the wrinkled shoulder blades
lunging and splashing past his weak wallowing
and then swirled ahead, swivelling onto my back,
frolicking carelessly like some aquatic acrobat.
Thus, chortling dolphin to his manatee bulk,
I witnessed with a trickle of dread doubt
how he surfaced like a wounded hulk,
and suddenly broke into a slow, methodical, crawl.
Only then did I see my deluded mistake
as, arms crashing tirelessly through the water
like steamboat paddles, first he surged level,
then left me to splutter in his wake.
Peter Keeble
and struggled down the ladder at the shallow end
to join me in the slow lane,
wobbling and panting in his fat old age.
Seeing the pot belly and hearing him wheeze
I believed this at last was my time to shine,
and knew as he fell into his feeble breast stroke
I would no longer be the swimming pool joke.
Joyful, I sped after the wrinkled shoulder blades
lunging and splashing past his weak wallowing
and then swirled ahead, swivelling onto my back,
frolicking carelessly like some aquatic acrobat.
Thus, chortling dolphin to his manatee bulk,
I witnessed with a trickle of dread doubt
how he surfaced like a wounded hulk,
and suddenly broke into a slow, methodical, crawl.
Only then did I see my deluded mistake
as, arms crashing tirelessly through the water
like steamboat paddles, first he surged level,
then left me to splutter in his wake.
Peter Keeble
Tuesday 24 May 2011
Vanishing Cream
Hocus Pocus, stalk of crocus,
eye of moke that's out of focus,
tongue of lizard, hair of wizard
minced up with a turkey's gizard-
stir the brew and let it stew.
Cook it through till it turns blue.
Round it dance till in a trance
then advance with ghastly chants.
Paste it thinly on our books
so that when she comes and looks
she'll inhale the noxious fume
disappearing from the room.
Dorothy Pope
eye of moke that's out of focus,
tongue of lizard, hair of wizard
minced up with a turkey's gizard-
stir the brew and let it stew.
Cook it through till it turns blue.
Round it dance till in a trance
then advance with ghastly chants.
Paste it thinly on our books
so that when she comes and looks
she'll inhale the noxious fume
disappearing from the room.
Dorothy Pope
Music
What is the source
of music,
where did rhythm and song
have their birth?
Was it the thunder of herds
that mammoth bones copied,
echoing and invoking their percussion
on the tight skin of earth?
Or was it the beat of heart
that fed the tempo
and was lifted itself in return,
a feedback loop of vibration
between bone and body
until the two became one instrument,
dancing the notes of a tune?
Are the ordered ranks of concert audience
that seem so quiet, so still,
an integral part of the orchestra,
playing the melody in each cell,
beating the time with their blood
while harmonies frisson
their skin?
Music, the art
of the Muses,
carrying inspiration on the air
like thistledown
so we each can hear
the acoustics of words,
or the meter of leaves blown by wind.
Music is a listening art
that weaves its timbre and texture
into the day’s creases.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
of music,
where did rhythm and song
have their birth?
Was it the thunder of herds
that mammoth bones copied,
echoing and invoking their percussion
on the tight skin of earth?
Or was it the beat of heart
that fed the tempo
and was lifted itself in return,
a feedback loop of vibration
between bone and body
until the two became one instrument,
dancing the notes of a tune?
Are the ordered ranks of concert audience
that seem so quiet, so still,
an integral part of the orchestra,
playing the melody in each cell,
beating the time with their blood
while harmonies frisson
their skin?
Music, the art
of the Muses,
carrying inspiration on the air
like thistledown
so we each can hear
the acoustics of words,
or the meter of leaves blown by wind.
Music is a listening art
that weaves its timbre and texture
into the day’s creases.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
She
She's smiling there
a figment in oils
toned cream and tan
with high summer shadows.
Four years back
I sketched this swimsuit model
in high heels
aeroplane nose-art fashion,
hands behind head
knee crooked forward
posing on a beach stage,
to cottage and boat applause.
It's complete now, but for a vague
uncoloured face
and costume,
and if i'm really honest,
I know I painted you.
Jerry Pike
a figment in oils
toned cream and tan
with high summer shadows.
Four years back
I sketched this swimsuit model
in high heels
aeroplane nose-art fashion,
hands behind head
knee crooked forward
posing on a beach stage,
to cottage and boat applause.
It's complete now, but for a vague
uncoloured face
and costume,
and if i'm really honest,
I know I painted you.
Jerry Pike
Spring Day In London
Lakes of daffodils in Green Park
cushion the lunching couples
floodlight wedding guests
drifting to receptions at the Ritz.
At the Royal Academy
rugged Aztec gods grimace,
flights of lost humming birds
weave mosaics with effulgent feathers.
Dancers sway and flame
like candles, casual as fire
patterning to music
and a drum's decree.
A peerless sky all day
the city smiling
strangers speaking.
IT'S WAR
Newspapers shriek
minds darken
early bullets whistle
through desert air
Flotillas of planes
converge screaming
on citizens
Sand-blinded soldiers
crouch in tanks
heat stifled.
Fear in the throat.
Is he there?
Sylvia Goodman
cushion the lunching couples
floodlight wedding guests
drifting to receptions at the Ritz.
At the Royal Academy
rugged Aztec gods grimace,
flights of lost humming birds
weave mosaics with effulgent feathers.
Dancers sway and flame
like candles, casual as fire
patterning to music
and a drum's decree.
A peerless sky all day
the city smiling
strangers speaking.
IT'S WAR
Newspapers shriek
minds darken
early bullets whistle
through desert air
Flotillas of planes
converge screaming
on citizens
Sand-blinded soldiers
crouch in tanks
heat stifled.
Fear in the throat.
Is he there?
Sylvia Goodman
Monday 18 April 2011
One Man's Music
is another man's
noise
the beat throbs
through my head
ache
decibels blast
through my brain
drains
thought that withers
as feeling numbs
drums
against eyes closed
to block the pain
in vain
to shut out the
pounding sound
drowns
all while fans
jig and sway
swept away
sing and scream
a din, what a sin
to call it music.
© Sylvia Goodman
noise
the beat throbs
through my head
ache
decibels blast
through my brain
drains
thought that withers
as feeling numbs
drums
against eyes closed
to block the pain
in vain
to shut out the
pounding sound
drowns
all while fans
jig and sway
swept away
sing and scream
a din, what a sin
to call it music.
© Sylvia Goodman
Soundtrack
The edit plus strings
Perform a sleight of hand
Upon your mind.
You think you've seen
Nude Janet Leigh
Slashed a dozen times;
Slow it down and look again
It's Hitch deceiving us once more.
Scorsese pulls a different trick in
'Raging Bull'; Mascagni
Finds beauty in violence,
La Motta smacks seven shades of
slow –mo black and white
from his opponent ,
and we watch wrapped
at the fling and flail of blood.
In the dark of cinemas
I try to find a soundtrack of my own.
Play the tapes again
with the sound turned down.
I leave; blinking in the light,
Ennio Morricone strikes up.
Nothing is as it seems,
and the horror is hypnotic.
N.Elder 2011.
Perform a sleight of hand
Upon your mind.
You think you've seen
Nude Janet Leigh
Slashed a dozen times;
Slow it down and look again
It's Hitch deceiving us once more.
Scorsese pulls a different trick in
'Raging Bull'; Mascagni
Finds beauty in violence,
La Motta smacks seven shades of
slow –mo black and white
from his opponent ,
and we watch wrapped
at the fling and flail of blood.
In the dark of cinemas
I try to find a soundtrack of my own.
Play the tapes again
with the sound turned down.
I leave; blinking in the light,
Ennio Morricone strikes up.
Nothing is as it seems,
and the horror is hypnotic.
N.Elder 2011.
Shanklin Chine
The tide line wallows
Trembles, hustles
Jumping terns
Dab their aerial feet
Into a ready-mix of
Old sand castles
and BC life.
Seaweed everywhere
Like wigs on big heads
Resurfacing after a heavy night
with Neptune
at the Atlantis Highway bar.
Jerry Pike
Trembles, hustles
Jumping terns
Dab their aerial feet
Into a ready-mix of
Old sand castles
and BC life.
Seaweed everywhere
Like wigs on big heads
Resurfacing after a heavy night
with Neptune
at the Atlantis Highway bar.
Jerry Pike
From A Chair By The Window
Thanks be that i am gifter with a garden
that's deciduous, alive with growth
and change, not stiff with static evergreens
but seasonally varying. These trees
ecah day present afresh aas tenements
for busy birds, as quick with leaf and hue,
and underfoot, from snow to crocus,
petalled earth to acorns, leaves then snow again.
This moving and maturing scene unfolds
the years, though imperceptibly, as sure
and certainly as aging ticks the tiny
seconds till a million minutes mount
up incrementally and finally
I find they've moved the present to the past.
Dorothy Pope
that's deciduous, alive with growth
and change, not stiff with static evergreens
but seasonally varying. These trees
ecah day present afresh aas tenements
for busy birds, as quick with leaf and hue,
and underfoot, from snow to crocus,
petalled earth to acorns, leaves then snow again.
This moving and maturing scene unfolds
the years, though imperceptibly, as sure
and certainly as aging ticks the tiny
seconds till a million minutes mount
up incrementally and finally
I find they've moved the present to the past.
Dorothy Pope
Hiatus
The threading pattern of the china beads
along the necklace friends have brought me back
from China is disrupted and this leads
me to imagine why, and who lost track.
Instead of long and round alternately,
at one point, I've two round beads wrongly placed
together and I fancy I can see
how this arose. Two girls, best friends, sweet faced,
work side by side at threading beads by hand.
Sometimes, they liven the monotony
by whispering a confidence behind
their hands like schoolgirls at illicit glee,
then work, still giggling spasmodically,
and having lost the rhythm they had had.
Their heads-together break has given me
a necklace with a flaw. And I am glad.
Dorothy Pope
along the necklace friends have brought me back
from China is disrupted and this leads
me to imagine why, and who lost track.
Instead of long and round alternately,
at one point, I've two round beads wrongly placed
together and I fancy I can see
how this arose. Two girls, best friends, sweet faced,
work side by side at threading beads by hand.
Sometimes, they liven the monotony
by whispering a confidence behind
their hands like schoolgirls at illicit glee,
then work, still giggling spasmodically,
and having lost the rhythm they had had.
Their heads-together break has given me
a necklace with a flaw. And I am glad.
Dorothy Pope
Entropy
In junior school there was a book
that showed legionnaires
filing onto ships for their return to Rome,
deserting us to save their own far away homes.
I saw myself as the boy in the foreground
anxiously watching their departure.
We knew the story: Saxon and Angle raids
to destroy every treasured thing,
probably mixed them up with the Vikings
maiming and burning and raping,
to leave nothing safe or the same.
Now I repeatedly ponder and worry
about the galaxies spinning apart
and the gradual extinction of stars:
that dissolving of structure and order
by the simple arrow built into all things.
By then, of course, there will be no one to see
all the light slowly snuffed out,
no one to say at the end
that enough has been enough.
Peter Keeble
that showed legionnaires
filing onto ships for their return to Rome,
deserting us to save their own far away homes.
I saw myself as the boy in the foreground
anxiously watching their departure.
We knew the story: Saxon and Angle raids
to destroy every treasured thing,
probably mixed them up with the Vikings
maiming and burning and raping,
to leave nothing safe or the same.
Now I repeatedly ponder and worry
about the galaxies spinning apart
and the gradual extinction of stars:
that dissolving of structure and order
by the simple arrow built into all things.
By then, of course, there will be no one to see
all the light slowly snuffed out,
no one to say at the end
that enough has been enough.
Peter Keeble
Toy Box
Looking down
Into the square of a toy box
I see yesterday’s playthings
Chipped and smashed.
Things that brought smiles
Just an arms stretch back
Bright coloured planes
And cars, stirred up
Like suds swished in a sink
Then drained.
I can’t touch them
Too far away
For a foreigner
So I’ll close the lid
To close my eyes
And dream another child of god
Will look in
And stack the building blocks
Back up
To the sky
Jerry Pike
Into the square of a toy box
I see yesterday’s playthings
Chipped and smashed.
Things that brought smiles
Just an arms stretch back
Bright coloured planes
And cars, stirred up
Like suds swished in a sink
Then drained.
I can’t touch them
Too far away
For a foreigner
So I’ll close the lid
To close my eyes
And dream another child of god
Will look in
And stack the building blocks
Back up
To the sky
Jerry Pike
Ghosts
Words
are my trade.
They build bridges of thought
and house dreams
to sublet.
They dig up old ground
like a sharpened spade,
turning it over
to catch the light
and let the birds
take the worms.
They can colour a palette
or pitch a tune,
they can pick out a pathway to heaven.
They are sturdy bags
carrying emotion
to tip into another’s
chest.
They are not ephemera,
chance remarks
cast on the breeze
that will blow them away.
They stay,
vibrations in the air,
ghosts peopling inner rooms
that replay old scripts,
roosting
not laid to rest.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
are my trade.
They build bridges of thought
and house dreams
to sublet.
They dig up old ground
like a sharpened spade,
turning it over
to catch the light
and let the birds
take the worms.
They can colour a palette
or pitch a tune,
they can pick out a pathway to heaven.
They are sturdy bags
carrying emotion
to tip into another’s
chest.
They are not ephemera,
chance remarks
cast on the breeze
that will blow them away.
They stay,
vibrations in the air,
ghosts peopling inner rooms
that replay old scripts,
roosting
not laid to rest.
©Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
Sunday 27 February 2011
A Kind Of Healing, White Plains (NY)
Strange to think how this king
among the local doctors of the suburb
with his oh-so tailored suits
and suites of clean white rooms
and firm and silver haired receptionist
born and raised in the neighbourhood
in contrast to his strange, foreign name
should once have been
that nervy lanky mad school sophomore
flitting between cuckoo wards
in shoestring public hospitals
befriending patients his own age:
especially the most troubled
especially the girls.
He will not want to remember that now,
not now, in his antiseptic senior years,
All in practice,
his life sorted out with the anaesthetics:
wife, house, grown-up kids.
No need to go back
to tear at the scabs with anxious fingers,
no need now
for him to worry
or the long dead
or their next of kin.
Peter Keeble
among the local doctors of the suburb
with his oh-so tailored suits
and suites of clean white rooms
and firm and silver haired receptionist
born and raised in the neighbourhood
in contrast to his strange, foreign name
should once have been
that nervy lanky mad school sophomore
flitting between cuckoo wards
in shoestring public hospitals
befriending patients his own age:
especially the most troubled
especially the girls.
He will not want to remember that now,
not now, in his antiseptic senior years,
All in practice,
his life sorted out with the anaesthetics:
wife, house, grown-up kids.
No need to go back
to tear at the scabs with anxious fingers,
no need now
for him to worry
or the long dead
or their next of kin.
Peter Keeble
Holiday
The family's away.
Hooray] We can play!
Each spider and flea
Feels suddenly free
And becomes acrobatic.
Mice swing from the attic.
Importunate beds
Laugh and stand on their heads.
Yelling pans will beat time,
Slamming doors, clocks that chime
Adding rhythm. In pairs
Waltz Chippendale chairs,
Abandoned, unchecked.
Yet they never suspect
Dorothy Pope
The family's away.
Hooray] We can play!
Each spider and flea
Feels suddenly free
And becomes acrobatic.
Mice swing from the attic.
Importunate beds
Laugh and stand on their heads.
Yelling pans will beat time,
Slamming doors, clocks that chime
Adding rhythm. In pairs
Waltz Chippendale chairs,
Abandoned, unchecked.
Yet they never suspect
Dorothy Pope
Clouds Are My Weather
Today
the sky is filled with cloud,
not a blanket grey
that hugs the sky close
so the air seems dimmed
by the bruise of it,
but a duvet of down
in tumbling clusters of grey
and walkways of white,
clotting and frothing
like foam, like cream,
a sheet of cotton wool
spread overhead
to mop up the spilled sun,
scrunched from its spun silver
like cold candyfloss.
Here the airs meet,
cold and warm sliding past each other,
shivering the water vapour
into dribs and droplets
like frosted breath.
They are the face of the sky,
crumpled and creased today
but tomorrow they may be
new-blown white,
sailing sheep grazing my skin
with cold feet,
or purple and pink pashminas,
the colour of cocktails
in the evening sun.
Tomorrow they may be gone
leaving a baby-blue sky,
sweet-smelling, bare-skinned
and new-born,
bright with light and promise.
Clouds are my measure
of the bounty of the day.
Clouds are my weather.
© Jane Upchurch
the sky is filled with cloud,
not a blanket grey
that hugs the sky close
so the air seems dimmed
by the bruise of it,
but a duvet of down
in tumbling clusters of grey
and walkways of white,
clotting and frothing
like foam, like cream,
a sheet of cotton wool
spread overhead
to mop up the spilled sun,
scrunched from its spun silver
like cold candyfloss.
Here the airs meet,
cold and warm sliding past each other,
shivering the water vapour
into dribs and droplets
like frosted breath.
They are the face of the sky,
crumpled and creased today
but tomorrow they may be
new-blown white,
sailing sheep grazing my skin
with cold feet,
or purple and pink pashminas,
the colour of cocktails
in the evening sun.
Tomorrow they may be gone
leaving a baby-blue sky,
sweet-smelling, bare-skinned
and new-born,
bright with light and promise.
Clouds are my measure
of the bounty of the day.
Clouds are my weather.
© Jane Upchurch
No Bonanza
Past Belle Star’s glazing,
he rides Eastcote
in a High Noon saddle,
his steed steaming off
that long gallop from Northolt.
The tin star gleams obviously
on his fringed shirt.
Dismounting,
he scans bauble filled
display cases
one finger tilting back
that prairie-worn Stetson.
A two pound coin brands hell
into his pocket seam -
he steps in.
Known to all,
The Two Quid Kid
guns this charity shop’s
economy section.
No one dives for cover
or finger-traces their belt.
Only finest cowboy cloth will do.
They disappoint,
‘Sorry Kid, no chaps today.’
Imaginary spurs glint
at the hem of his pinstripes.
Twirling himself and an
invisible six-shooter,
he clicks the ceiling
then high-tails it
back to the trail for another
unrelenting hot-shoe-shuffle
into the Field End sunset.
Jerry Pike
he rides Eastcote
in a High Noon saddle,
his steed steaming off
that long gallop from Northolt.
The tin star gleams obviously
on his fringed shirt.
Dismounting,
he scans bauble filled
display cases
one finger tilting back
that prairie-worn Stetson.
A two pound coin brands hell
into his pocket seam -
he steps in.
Known to all,
The Two Quid Kid
guns this charity shop’s
economy section.
No one dives for cover
or finger-traces their belt.
Only finest cowboy cloth will do.
They disappoint,
‘Sorry Kid, no chaps today.’
Imaginary spurs glint
at the hem of his pinstripes.
Twirling himself and an
invisible six-shooter,
he clicks the ceiling
then high-tails it
back to the trail for another
unrelenting hot-shoe-shuffle
into the Field End sunset.
Jerry Pike
Geriatric Poet
The powers that be at Northwick
Are full of flaws, with few exceptions.
They make their guesses in the dark
And stick to all their misconceptions.
It matters not what tests you passed
Or taks both mental one and pratc-
al. At 91 you must be classed
Asuseless, past it, geriatric.
Yes, that's their mena and nasty tactic
at 90 you are geriatric.
John Waddell
Are full of flaws, with few exceptions.
They make their guesses in the dark
And stick to all their misconceptions.
It matters not what tests you passed
Or taks both mental one and pratc-
al. At 91 you must be classed
Asuseless, past it, geriatric.
Yes, that's their mena and nasty tactic
at 90 you are geriatric.
John Waddell
Saturday 22 January 2011
Life Begins At Eighty
Yes, life begins at eighty. It is true.
You get excused all kinds of nasty chores
like washing dishes. As for gardening you
just say you're far too frail, must stay indoors.
You do feel up to telly food and games,
describing how life was between the wars.
Pretending to be deaf or daft are claims
which never tall to silence crashing bores.
Come lunch-time, you can log it to the table
then aver that indigestion gives you pause.
A large postprandial brandy gets you stable
before the most uninhibited of snores.
At half past three, you rouse for tea. You've found
that exercise is best kept to the jaws.
At eighty you're so proud to be around,
you think you're due a big round of applause.
Dorothy Pope
You get excused all kinds of nasty chores
like washing dishes. As for gardening you
just say you're far too frail, must stay indoors.
You do feel up to telly food and games,
describing how life was between the wars.
Pretending to be deaf or daft are claims
which never tall to silence crashing bores.
Come lunch-time, you can log it to the table
then aver that indigestion gives you pause.
A large postprandial brandy gets you stable
before the most uninhibited of snores.
At half past three, you rouse for tea. You've found
that exercise is best kept to the jaws.
At eighty you're so proud to be around,
you think you're due a big round of applause.
Dorothy Pope
A Winter Birth
Feeble foal spilled into frosty morning
Patient mare melts icicles m they form
Strangely the stables had no warning.
White tipped grass and glinting frost
Sun shines fierce from its blue awning.
Grey church tower lit with ice
Black trees powerless against its burning.
Mare unsurprised, quiet and calm
Foal twists his neck to see her, yearning
For the warm cocoon lost in his borning
As hunger strikes, shaky legs grow firm
With milk he feels his first strength churning.
The mare accepts, then walks on ahead
Unmoved, resigned to a new life's dawning.
Sylvia Goodman
Patient mare melts icicles m they form
Strangely the stables had no warning.
White tipped grass and glinting frost
Sun shines fierce from its blue awning.
Grey church tower lit with ice
Black trees powerless against its burning.
Mare unsurprised, quiet and calm
Foal twists his neck to see her, yearning
For the warm cocoon lost in his borning
As hunger strikes, shaky legs grow firm
With milk he feels his first strength churning.
The mare accepts, then walks on ahead
Unmoved, resigned to a new life's dawning.
Sylvia Goodman
My Blue Car
My blue car
broke down on every cue,
still I loved it.
Then the day of its sale
something strange happened
I burst into tears.
I liked it, but not that much.
Then it struck, four years
I’d owned it and the
three biggest loving influences
of my life, had passed away.
I couldn’t reverse down that motorway,
open a door and let them back in,
they were all now fixed
in the rear view mirror.
Three sudden goodbyes
via casual nod.
All gone in six months.
The church of uproar
sang with hundreds
all three sat high in near by pews
still to print out their vacant spaces
in my stamp book life.
I heard no bell ring
but angel’s wings whispered past.
We four still talk, or I do to them
much inside my new blue car.
So happy memories move on,
new owners, well…
one’s a hundred miles north
with three others
hitching the unmapped road
that careers through heaven.
Jerry Pike
broke down on every cue,
still I loved it.
Then the day of its sale
something strange happened
I burst into tears.
I liked it, but not that much.
Then it struck, four years
I’d owned it and the
three biggest loving influences
of my life, had passed away.
I couldn’t reverse down that motorway,
open a door and let them back in,
they were all now fixed
in the rear view mirror.
Three sudden goodbyes
via casual nod.
All gone in six months.
The church of uproar
sang with hundreds
all three sat high in near by pews
still to print out their vacant spaces
in my stamp book life.
I heard no bell ring
but angel’s wings whispered past.
We four still talk, or I do to them
much inside my new blue car.
So happy memories move on,
new owners, well…
one’s a hundred miles north
with three others
hitching the unmapped road
that careers through heaven.
Jerry Pike
Greeting Or Meeting
Walking down the street
through quiet air
and happening to meet
a neighbour
(when younger I shied
from the formality
of greeting)
we threw each other
a ‘good morning’
and a smile
(the phrases used
seemed conventions
without meaning)
and carried on our way
with contentment.
I didn’t realise back then
that simple words
could act as bowls
to carry blessings.
‘Isn’t the weather awful’
wasn’t an invitation
to complain
about the rain,
but to join in human
solidarity,
to share an experience,
to let another in,
to wrap an arm around
in greeting.
Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
through quiet air
and happening to meet
a neighbour
(when younger I shied
from the formality
of greeting)
we threw each other
a ‘good morning’
and a smile
(the phrases used
seemed conventions
without meaning)
and carried on our way
with contentment.
I didn’t realise back then
that simple words
could act as bowls
to carry blessings.
‘Isn’t the weather awful’
wasn’t an invitation
to complain
about the rain,
but to join in human
solidarity,
to share an experience,
to let another in,
to wrap an arm around
in greeting.
Jane Upchurch
www.janeupchurch.co.uk
The Wooden Universe
This world is like the rest.
The trees with unseen gnarled branches
have elbowed out all rivals
or smothered them under vast blankets of green.
As we skim the leaf tops
there is nothing but this swaying sea of foliage.
Look at it again, for there is nothing else to see:
we must begin to wonder why we came so far,
hurtling through the dark,
if every destination is the same:
green leaves staring blindly up at their star.
If this is all there is and this is all that trees can do
they might as well be dead.
Even the music we play to stay sane,
strumming guitars or a single clear alto,
cannot lend this arid horde the least spark of panache.
Unfeeling, unthinking, unblinking,
they just go on at being green
for as long as they are seen.
How we crave some variety:
a clearing with a dwelling,
a column of smoke,
sign of some small flash of thought:
but there is only the living desert,
this self-replicating verdant virus
that chokes all planets that we visit.
And now one thought has grown into my green hell:
that like these pointless swaying trees
we are lucky accidents,
dull cellular machines,
who fool ourselves that we possess
some restless magnificence,
some meaning, beyond a tree or leaf,
or our blurred dream of green.
Peter Keeble
The trees with unseen gnarled branches
have elbowed out all rivals
or smothered them under vast blankets of green.
As we skim the leaf tops
there is nothing but this swaying sea of foliage.
Look at it again, for there is nothing else to see:
we must begin to wonder why we came so far,
hurtling through the dark,
if every destination is the same:
green leaves staring blindly up at their star.
If this is all there is and this is all that trees can do
they might as well be dead.
Even the music we play to stay sane,
strumming guitars or a single clear alto,
cannot lend this arid horde the least spark of panache.
Unfeeling, unthinking, unblinking,
they just go on at being green
for as long as they are seen.
How we crave some variety:
a clearing with a dwelling,
a column of smoke,
sign of some small flash of thought:
but there is only the living desert,
this self-replicating verdant virus
that chokes all planets that we visit.
And now one thought has grown into my green hell:
that like these pointless swaying trees
we are lucky accidents,
dull cellular machines,
who fool ourselves that we possess
some restless magnificence,
some meaning, beyond a tree or leaf,
or our blurred dream of green.
Peter Keeble
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