the time traveller

he wanders back
to the moment he fell
and observes the man he knew
his mind recalls the act
but his eyes see the crime
fresh and undisturbed by time

he unwinds the hours back further
and steps in to confront himself
but he does not know this man
and this man will not listen

as he walks away from himself
he suddenly recalls the stranger he once met
the one with his father's face
and with the eyes hollowed out by pain

for my grandfather

may we both

stand together

silent on memory's shore

admiring the images

and precious things

that will not die

nor fade away

(For my grandfather - Albert Wileman)

a poem in progress

erase that

write it neatly

less hurried

that doesn't work

more emphasis on

no less

I need a ending

not that

too bleak

way too bleak

oh I like that

read it again

just to be sure

ok

are you ready?

you sure?

ok

now let it go

the rose eater

she prefers the reds
they are sweeter than the whites
and silkier than the yellow
sometimes you can see the pulp
washing around her mouth
a whirlpool of crimson
thorns stabbing upwards like shark fins
circling within her thin lips
waiting for the petals
to be shovelled to their deaths

the pianist

beneath Napoleon's hat
the sober pianist
slaughters our requests
Gershwin dies again and again
as his fingers stab the ivories to death
but it is "Summertime"
that finally steers even the barmen to drink

a swaying figure at the bar
lists gently as the boat drunkenly rolls
his foot taps between the missed beats
whilst his hands cling desperately to
his wrecked sobriety
he looks at the ice in his glass
as if it was a Gypsy's crystal ball
searching for the title to the tune
that eludes him
a tune he wants to request
a tune that will die without mercy

as for me
I sit quietly in the corner
praying for icebergs





(On a ferry to France watching a pianist, who was wearing Napoleon's hat, entertain a drunk)

I would fall

I would fall for a whisper
lightly dusted with hope

I would fall for a smile

that I knew was mine

I would fall for a sinner
wrapped within a promise

I would fall for a lie
held within a gentle heart

but I would fall for you
with just a single word
and I would change my course

towards oblivion

I would yield and kneel before you

like the pious and the faithless blind

for you are both the music

and the dance

beer vs mayo

I walked out of the rain
and into the Queen's Arms
I bet I can drink two pints of Guinness
before that woman finishes
her fat french stick
I watch her mayonnaise tears hit the table
as the musics whines
or is it the conversation?
twisted and bleary
pooling on beer soaked tongues
it bangs between the pin ball flippers
and the fruitless fruit machine which chirps
for my attention in the corner of the bar
a colourless man stares at his pint
as if it holds an answer
but what is the question?
does it lie in the optimist's half full
or the pessimists's half empty?
maybe it hides in the froth of the last dregs
like a silent mouthed answer which is lost in a belch
and the dull thud as glass meets bar top
the barman young and also empty
polishes a glass and holds it high
quickly he puts it back
realising that it is the light that is dirty
the barmaid a refugee from her own existence
spills conversation over anything with a pulse
but most are dead here
and even the living are terminal
or tired echoes of better days
I look up from my second empty glass
and see a discarded French stick
with its innards punched out across the table

(Just a quiet observation in a pub on a rainy day...)

coffee, smoke and smiles

embracing a cigarette

and a cold cherry coke

she confessed a young life

to old eyes

whilst dealing out smiles

like cards

until I held nothing but

hearts and aces

(For Emma)

my son, my father

The phone call.

Your grandson asked if that was you who had just called. He asked if heaven had telephones. I told him no and watched as the sadness entered his heart. I explain that you are gone. I explain that you will never return.
“I can’t speak to him?”
“No.”
He looks at me. He cries. He holds me tighter, as if trying to squeeze you from me. And as the tears finally fall from my eyes. How I wish I could make that call for both of us.



2nd February 2010

my war

the cold bit into my face

the hungry surrounded me

and distant guns echoed

but I was doused in invincibility

driving towards my war
with aid to save nobody
but myself

now I only recall

the misplaced children

the soulless grey faces

and fresh graves

graced with unknown prayers

orphans were the currency of my war

the widows with no shadows my receipts

and that romantic war that lived in me

was not a war I could have healed

there was no salvation for a broken soul

just religion tearing flesh apart

(It feels like a lifetime ago now. I took aid out during the Yugoslavian war. My father and grandfather had experienced war so I felt it was my right of passage... in the end it was my grandfather's words that came back to haunt me. He had always refused to talk about his own war experiences instead he would simply say "we have to find better ways to resolve our differences..." War is surreal and an undignified end to human life ..)

Work in progress...  within a world in progress.