the autumn again

the brown edge of salad
is like autumn
in a way
left to long
prone to decay
kicking, ebbing
fragile the webbing
a modern world
humble in natures wake
how we fade
our salad days
erode
god forebode
the chlorophyll is browning
and it is like autumn
a decade sneaks by
and downing the nectar
kicking leaves
im not ready yet
so say the smoking
but so rapid the approach
how toe lice and roach
encroached us
as though with endless and relentless
predictability
autumn nibbled undeterred
she can never be wrong
and so begins the swan song
of
chain choking
the wrinkled dears
oh my god, look, the years
they steer
stumble
praise threadbare jumbles
of clothes
a life story imprinted
a fixed expression
too late to remove
a zimo-frame
reigns in the fragile
the brains riddled
but spirit perfect ,intact
important
and in fact
when questioned on death
fiddled for a while
then gave thanks
that a full life
of loving
meant everything


Mum, why is life so cruel?

It all began
With the  pace
Of a modern
womb
a Welcome place
Warm
Not so
Sure
Being born
Was the
Right thing to
Do
Squeeze it out of you
Mum was in a factory
I’m sorry
About the stretch
‘son’ you know
I gladly fetch you
From school
But mum
“Why is my kind cruel?”
The tease the tool
the paintbrush fool
covered me
in swathes
I was a canvas, bullied
the early grave of innocence
has hurried
mum
Why the world so cruel?
I painted flowerbeds
They spilled watercolour
Pools
All over it, red
I smiled polite
They scrubbed the white
With soiled paws
I held out a hand
And they broke jaws
In adolescent
crumbling this
creativity in cubes
I recall tumbling in old boxes
Laughing wild
Whilst mother called
The playful child to bed
The cardboard caves
Became early graves
In a pack-house
With paper-cuts
From staccato ruts
Of machinery
Getting old these days

Mum why was the world so cruel?



the imminent

She asked me to hang on
But the slippery reins had gone
leather made its curious mark
Scars where once the passion barked
But whiplash those leashes flail free
No longer tugging on the alchemy
Of our uneasy chemistry
This could never work
And this could never last very long
Familiarity seems
A contemptuous song.
But alas hope spawns
The gritted teeth and finger tips
A precipice of romance
She snaps her nails
Such determination through love
I like the way you hang on
Despite me
I like the way you invite me inside
When weather has turned my tide
such simple words my chords do lack
On hearts we stack
Our  layers of love
And still we hung on
And you the anvil
Shaping the austere
My cold solid function
You forged me
But those malleable rods could never smelt
The heated steel and debate we felt
May never end
Yet we hung on
And sparks can fly
When words do try
To negotiate
The winding road we celebrate
we reached this far
the splintering path of love
And yes she will clench barbed wire
And yes he fell in thorns
Willingly for her
So sad that this shall cease
The inevitable crossroad
The imminent release

Slipping…..


almost empty

the breeze closed the door
and opened this evenings
spaces
an empty house
so unwelcome alive
with clicks
and creaks
the traces and freaks of sounds
that stab at hope
that longing you may return
the nagging doubt of the missing,
gnaws on the edge of a conscious man
slipping
as the chair supports the slumping frame
just there ,in peripheral vision
I thought I caught a glimpse of her
But shadows are playful things, cruel
I'm sure they don't mean it.

Oddly, a comfort scarce
In the corner of this room-
Drawn blinds.
I chose my shadow carefully
Missing you
The whole lonely world is mine
Its purpose vacuum only
Leaves me tongue tied
Talking to myself again
For empty space I tend

I try to do what you wanted me to
That 'time' thing you lend me,
for I am yours to wait
Funny,
It steals, yet your epitaph heals only temporary,
as once hollow holes soon fill.

The carriage clock is almost black now
its faded, pitted brass echoes
Blades of grass, dew chill, it's all so very wild
-I'm sorry about the flower borders love
the painted beds
and potted plants you like
your favourite colour was,
the crisp of cotton white,
brushed skin we loved on summer nights
in that garden
Remember the rain?
Naked smiles those gorgeous times
on tip toes
I always thought that curious to end.
Still, silence calls on yet another evening.
stumbling I found the hall
and paused
clutched photograph in dusty frame
alone
but always yours

Microwave Michael

Microwave Michael wanders aisles
His single lifestyle dictates
There must be plastic on his plate
The digital clocking off
late
he shifts uneasy
In a supermarket state of confusion
Florescent lamp cold
Curled fingers hold wire
Baskets fold handles
By tills
Choices, instant vitamin pills
Sunday roasts
The atrocious toasts
And the ills of
frozen gravy lazy
chicken ready meal for one
mounted upon
Solid state and silicon
Revolving
A white Platter
To the vendor
It does not matter
That he is lonely
Michael has embraced
The furious pace
Of the modern man
And his vacant housewife
Lives only in imagination
Yet is real in desire
Like traditional cooking
And coal fires
No time in the modern age
A missing ring 3rd finger
Clinks bars an imaginary cage
become prisoners
Yet there is no escape
From the bland
4 minute wonder
The mini meal cellophane lid
Is torn,
seeps steam when born
a soggy frown
and a palette worn out
by chemicals
yet sharp for the taste
of something real.
Michael lonely
Cooks
On Full 850w
plastic, microwave meal.