A Winter Walk
Ram shackle tin sheet shed shack
Distemper white on stone walls
Rain green lead grey slate roofs
Discarded farm machinery in rusty confusion
Landrover panels and tractor wheels
Chain and spring cast iron
Ram hoof barb wire wool tangle
Moss mass fern bank dry stone wall and oak
Fallen tree trunk wood walk
Rain gorged stream rapid rush
Boulder smooth grey cloud sky
Fleece on thorn barb and bramble
Leaf mulch rusty red dead branch bog
Bone white skull and horns
Age old drove and dew pond
Willow ash birch hazel oak and elder
Fresh dug mole hill
Ram shackle tin sheet shed shack
Distemper white on stone walls
Rain green lead grey slate roofs
Discarded farm machinery in rusty confusion
Landrover panels and tractor wheels
Chain and spring cast iron
Ram hoof barb wire wool tangle
Moss mass fern bank dry stone wall and oak
Fallen tree trunk wood walk
Rain gorged stream rapid rush
Boulder smooth grey cloud sky
Fleece on thorn barb and bramble
Leaf mulch rusty red dead branch bog
Bone white skull and horns
Age old drove and dew pond
Willow ash birch hazel oak and elder
Fresh dug mole hill
Murmurations
The humans are murmarating again around Shapwick Heath and Ham Wall NNR a post festive what shall we do now outing - I know, the Avalon marshes - too fast along the bumpy tarmac road across peat moor cars like ants to birds strung end to end on the single track lane a string of festive lights all eager to arrive in time dancing to find a space in the already full parkery and out they tumble the families mingled with the elderly and the serious twitchers in multi pocketed camouflage jackets with expensive optical kit strung from neck and hip and dogs on leads and push chair couples dodging newly scootered boys and girls whose mums bring out bags of left over Christmas cake and mince pies all dressed in their best outdoor gear bright puffer jackets and woolly beanies festive scarves and wellies
The starlings start to appear at first just a few, but then the numbers swell and the human murmuring is hushed as well as all senses focus on the peppered sunset sky a train of expensive lenses attempt in vain to track and capture these transitory moments thousands upon thousands of pixilated dusk dull images of blurry blips in flight not capturing at all the majesty of this awesome sight
The birds all dance an age old dance making patterns in the sky flowing wreaths and flumes mirrored in the mill pond rhyne and the exhaled smoke of a roll up man tugging on a fag maybe dragged along by an over zealous birdie kind hanging in the air mimicking the spectacle out there across the marshes
For me a little knot of knowing as we learn that each season there are more of us and less of them return, still they do their thing, us in anticipation of where the flock might choose to roost this dusk then the milling disappointment as they settle far away and the trickle then flow back to the car and pub or an evening meal and telly in an electrically lit centrally heated nest leaving the starlings to their reeds and rest
Love the skin you’re in
Some women have huge hips and small tits
and are shaped just like a pear
Others have large tits and tiny hips
That isn’t very rare
The secret is to be to happy
In your individuality
You are different, unique
Like a priceless antique
The way you are supposed to be
Some men have huge penis’s
and are really very well hung
others are like a rosebud and have hardly just begun
Some are short and thin and others long and fat
With bits that dangle more or less
And that is simply that
It is indeed the way it is
A reflection of our genes
Be they hers or be they his or somewhere inbetween
It matters more where your skin has been
Where you take it for a spin
Ignore what others might think of you
Just bare it all and grin
You’re wonderful just the way you are
So love the skin you’re in
There should be no more not less of you
You’re a perfect specimen
Imbolc
The seasons turning
Imbolc, time of Bridie
Juniper incense burning
Snowdrops in a flowerpot
A candle’s weak glow
A bunch of daffodil
The scent lingers longer in the cold air
We gather by the stones in ritual
Invoke Bridgid’s embryonic new year
A circle dance within a circle
A megalithic stone circle
An outer ring of oak
An Inner ring of oak dragon folk
And tourists pass us by
Fluorescent pinks and un-natural greens
glowing bright as neon
Sledge and Snow ball
On henge ridge and ditch
A family of three alike as triplets
Brand new suits, boots and red Parkas
Fake faix fur lined hoods marked and logoed
A hire card parked beside the road
English heritage for Asian travelers
What might they make of this
Huddle of pagan worshipers
Quaint old Englishness
New age and
Age old both
Celebrating this time and place
A sacred space
Bees Knees
You’re the bees knees
The dogs Bollocks
The cat’s pyjamas
The pick of the litter
A big cheese - on toast
A rarebit
The hostess with the mostest
The upper crust
The best thing since sliced bread
Angel dust
Delicious spread
Just my cuppa tea
A speciality
La creme de La creme
A Chicken Supreme
The cat that swallowed the canary
You are a chip off the old block
Barrel, Lock and stock
I would do anything to please
I’m down on bended knees
You’re just the bees knees
You’re the bees knees
The dogs Bollocks
The cat’s pyjamas
The pick of the litter
A big cheese - on toast
A rarebit
The hostess with the mostest
The upper crust
The best thing since sliced bread
Angel dust
Delicious spread
Just my cuppa tea
A speciality
La creme de La creme
A Chicken Supreme
The cat that swallowed the canary
You are a chip off the old block
Barrel, Lock and stock
I would do anything to please
I’m down on bended knees
You’re just the bees knees
River Lea
I wake from a sleep deep as the ocean
Rocked gently by the motion of a boat
and woken by light as shards of glass
dancing across the cabin roof like
frantic yacht race sails at Cowes
bent headlong to round a buoy or
a tinkling chandelier of daggers
in an infinite loop of brightness
as I lie in this isle of white light
snug as a newborn swaddled
in the depths of my duveted berth
as dreams full of cake and old car
ebb away and all is silent
but for a creak of fender on mooring
and a distant moorhen
the more distant chug of tender or tug
but no sound from the sluggish Lea
nor wash as it wends its way
through now trendy Shoreditch
and the dock lands of Greenwich
towards the Thames and the sea
We're Here Because We Care
We’re here because we care because we’re here because we care we’re here because we care because we’re here because we care
Piles
60 years summed up in a single word
Piles
Piles of clothes, a draw full of jeans
Piles of papers, but not the ones I need
Piles of tools, rusting in a shed
Piles of books, I never read
Piles of wood, waiting to be sawn
Piles of weeds and leaves on the lawn
Piles of pebbles and shells from the beach
Piles of wants that are just out of reach
Piles of things that I need to do
Like sorting the garage where the junk has accrued
So I can get to the bikes that are piled at the back
Under mountains of boxes of this and that
A box of shoes not worn in ages
A tin of screws all shapes and sizes
A fridge full of jars that are all half used
Who’s best by date is ancient news
A shelve of once exotic spices
Stockpiled for some culinary crisis
Piles of stuff just getting in the way
That might just come in useful some day
Piles upon piles of plastic crap
Piles of long forgotten tat
And I’d rather not mention the piles in my bum
Piles is what my life has become
Beltane
If I were to believe my eyes
The world would be flat not round
And the sun would rise
Not with the turning of the ground beneath my feet
But as a part of a greater mystery
And the sun would be a God
And today we would celebrate the promise of his return
This Beltane
This May Day
At winter’s end
And we turn our faces to the glow
And know that summer is on it’s way
What might we lose in the flick of a switch
The chirping of the birds in their sex driven urgency to mate
The grass in the meadow you can almost see grow
Buds explode
The nascent leaves like baby dragons wings open out
The brightest of green abundance
The dance of life
The dance of life
Young maidens fair
Represent this turning of the year
In a youthful exuberance
Of hope and prayer
Dancing around the maypole
Tethered with bright ribbons of rope
Chains of daisies in their hair
And love in their hearts
For the life in the very air
Without care that some May day
They will become old and maidenly
The world turns both fast and slow
For young and old
As we all weave a dance in time
Around the poles of life and death
And the earth and the heavens
Dance to a tune we can’t hear
But sense in other ways
The music of the spheres,
Not with our ears,
From where it comes we do not know
Of musicians we see none
Their music fills our lives our dreams
The celestial patterns endless streams
Will continue though we be long gone
The Maypoles,
Once a symbol of defiance,
Banned and burned, rise again,
And we should dance a merry dance
Around the greed of the self centred, corporates oligarchs and political Spin
Shout out our truth to power
In defence of this precious Jewel of green and blue,
Morris dancers shake your sticks, your garlands of yellow bloom,
Rattle your bells in the face of all
May the spirit of May transform this world,
The meek inherit the earth
May we continue to dance the dance
Generation upon generation
Celebrating the turning of the earth
And the seasons of the year
Time To Change
God is dead, the flock has dwindled
The vicar at the door is feeling swindled
The new religion is consumerism
Today’s cathedral is the shopping mall
Sunday morning the bells still calling
But the crowds flock to the carboot Stall
A bargain to make a life worth living
Though the thrill of the new so quickly palls
Seeking Meaning in some shiny new thing
paid for monthly Obsolete in a trice
Adverts to get you green with wanting
The latest fashion and the coolest device
Containerfulls of shrink wrapped stuff
Shipped and trucked and stored and packed
Two for one, as one’s not enough
On poundstore shelf and clothes store rack
Fast fashion for a fast generation
Fast food for fast folk on the go
Fast drugs for acid indigestion
Pain killers and coffee shots in an endless flow
Jetplanes crisscrossing the stratosphere
Aprés ski and aprês sol
Instagram a selfie lol
Business class to NYC
For PowerPoint and corporate coffee
Fomo - Fear of missing out, not fitting in
Is the ad exec’s raison d'être
The Creed is greed and the mantra spend more
We’re all taken in by the ad man’s spin
We are all on the most colossal bender
To spend is on the main agenda
We are because we shop
in hock to the money lender
And no incentive to ever stop
On a shopping spree that’s a never ender
All the stuff that isn’t bought
Ends up going from tender to tip
In this wasteful wanton world of commerce
Where consuming is the holy writ
We strip the earth of all resources
Pollute the sea the land the air
To feed this needy greedy nation
Millions of years in the creation
A time of destruction and devastation
The end is getting very near
A cancerous canker of growth
We’ve cooked our goose, burned our boats
Pillaged raped and burned our earth
This house of cards will fall about us
Like dominos in endless rows
No longer in an equilibrium
A tipping point we’ve gone beyond
Our growth driven graph ridden linear path
Can no longer sustain so many of us
Mother Earth is telling us so
Earthship mother is saying no
It’s Time to change or it’s time to go
Grim Reaper
He heaved a huge scythe and reaped bitterly
The Dance of Life
The yurt and the circle dance it contains are one and the same
a circle within a circle
walls weaving in and in in visual harmony with the dance
the woman’s lodge as a moon, ripe like a pregnant belly
pale and full, round and round
and arms reach gracefully for the sky
in salutation to the light of life
as bare feet step gently step directly on this circle of earth
the circle that the yurt has drawn on the field
Enclosed, safe, nourished, held
As warm and snug as a long slow hug
Nestled nested perfect egg
All creation in a simple circle dance
Round and round
A slow rhythmic pulse
The gentle beat of drum and heart and feet
Bare feet step gently on the earth
Scents
A sudden whiff of days long past
Drifting woodsmoke in the haze
Morning sunlight and breakfast making
with camping gas and paraffin
And the heart quickening odour of old canvas tent
As if the essence of childhood summers
Might be distilled and bottled like scent
The distant squeals of children
Delighted and excited as gulls
And the muffled chatter and chuckles of passersby
Indistinct like a rumbling shoreline of pebble and wave
With only an occasional clear word caught
And brought my way on a waft of gentle wind
The smells of childhood so deeply engrained
To surface maybe once in half a century
Caught by surprise I am transported back momentarily
To another time and place
An island half a world away and nearly a lifetime ago
Intense aromas such as Fresh ground coffee
Home baked bread turpentine and wax polish
These are easy to hold
But this sudden camping memory is more subtle
Strong
But only half caught
And already gone
Although thought moves on to the smell of my dad
Though defying description
And he no longer alive
But this idea of the smell of him
Lingers on in my memory
And holds me as a child in time
An Epistle
To you my grandchildren
I am deeply sorry
To be of this generation
That is stealing your birthright
To be one of the thoughtless
Who flew high
Drove fast
Bought new
Consumed without heed of tomorrow
To you my grandchildren
My heart aches that I can’t pass on this world as it should be
Pristine and perfect as a new born baby
The sparkling of the stream
The gentle breeze of a summer day
Clean and fresh and full of wonder and beauty
To you my grandchildren
I am truly troubled that I can not give you a teeming sea
Plastic free
A clear blue sky
The honey bee
For you my grandchildren
I weep that you can’t see the stars in their profusion for light pollution
Hear birds sing for the cacophony of the machine
Breath without fear of asthma
Eat without fear of allergy
Feel the sun on your skin without fear of cancer
To you my grandchildren
I am deeply saddened
Deeply apologetic
Deeply sorry
To pass on an earth so ravaged
To love you I must do all I can to repair the damage
Hand on the gift of life as it should be
Not even as it was handed down to me
I am deeply ashamed
And must take the blame
To you my grandchildren
I can only hope dream and pray that all will be well one day
When I am long gone
When the world has moved on
And belongs to you
My grandchildren
And your grandchildren too
Chickchicken
Chick chick chick chick chick chick chicken
Peck peck peck peck peck peck peckin’
On soya bean feed from the Amazonian zone
Lush green virgin rainforest gone
Like a Brazilian shaved bare of all vegitashion
Raped by men chasing profits no matter what
Mile upon mile upon mile of fast cash crop crap
To feed our need for a fast hot snack
Getting our chops around a factory chick chicken
Rich pick pickings
Every bite a golden nugget for those at the top
Not such fun for the birds of the flock
At the bottom of the pecking order
Who’s flesh is poultry chicken feed
Late night fast food finger lickin’ Fodder
Sating our munchies on legs that never had a run
Wings that never flapped
Hens who’s party wasn’t fun
Cocks with no crow
No where to go
Confined in cages for their short life long
A breast that never nurtured a new generation
Pecking their kin out of boredom and frustration Billions of chick chick chick chick chickening
It’s sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sickening
Tim things
An avuncular Tim Holding
Larger than life
Rotund and hirsute
Jocular and chummy
Reminiscing
Memories of Jungle Jim
Watercolour paintings and the school hymn
A wedding, dimly remembered, 1964
Although It had been Tim and Carol before
Since upper fourth or even form three
A school romance
And now just Carol and her memories
Bemused, a lifetime of tools no longer used
A accumulation of machines all three phase
Long ago days
Before the cancer bit
A lemon yellow Citroen, a model T bus
An Art gallery
A bronze foundry
Workshops and sheds
All larger than life
As was he
And all these tools, that knew his hands well
What will become of them now?
Woodworm and rust
Dust to dust
And all are/our memories
Crepuscular
Jet black
Regular as clockwork cat
Climbs from the foot of the bed
To nudge a pillowed head
In the liminal pre-dawn
A body clock says
it’s time to be fed
Pawing lips and nose
Purring in the ear
Exploring with a half retracted claw
Nibbling on an exposed finger or toe
This is the way the game goes
We hunker down cover up
Try to Ignore the bloody cat
But then the phone alarm
An ersatz dawn chorus
Wakes us
Tweets and twitters
Increasing in volume
To fully dispel the other realm
The cat leaps for the door
A Pavlovian response
leads the way
looks back owl eyed
weaves an impatient figure of eight
Through bare legs on the loo
Mews her urgent need for food
Then as we sip
Our morning tea
the satisfied cat returns
Seeking sleep hot thighs
to lie like a pelt on the quilt
A full stretch sphinx
The mini minx
A soft muff of purring fur
Legs pinned to the bed with this lump
of lead heavy bellied cat
Till Messages mails and calendars read
weather and news reviewed
It’s time to leave the feather bed
to the jet black cat
Who returns to her nap
Spread on the bed to doze and slumber
One eye on the garden window
One ear cocked to the downstairs door
Curled up in a tight black ball
23 hours in 24
Mess
Fuck it’s a mess
I’m depressed
Stressed and messed up
It’s a humongous fuckup
We should be blessed
But our carelessness
Has brought us here
To the edge
So many to feed
So many in need
Breeding like rabbits
Because that’s what we are
Mammals, animals
Like a plague of locusts
Eating everything in our path
And greedy with it
It’s a mess
Just too many of us
Saying fuck to all the rest
Is this the best we can do?
Fuck it’s a mess
What this world needs
Is a little less greed
A little more sharing
A little more caring
A fair share for all
Enough for our needs
Less of the greed
He Thing
It’s a he thing
Like a doggie sniff
To catch a whiff of quim
The private parts
Hidden between she thighs
Forbidden to prying eyes
Even the gloriously naked
Bathing in the alltogether
Stripped bare for the swim
That enticing triangle
Is all that can be seen
A mound of curly hair
Even a pube shaved bare
Shows just a wrinkle
A crevice
Without legs akimbo
The folds of pearly pink skin
To which manfascination clings
Remain hidden and in the imagination
Fannyland, even to label these labia
Needs a pseudonym
We try nonchalantly to keep our gaze elsewhere
As if we didn’t care
Whistle in the air
We wouldn’t dare get caught in a stare
While the mind’s eye wanders down under there
To under where this lowest uncommon denominator
Drags our eyes like iron filings or flies
And I can only Apologise
That the swells and curves of pimply flesh
Uncovered from their normal dress
On which we woeful males Obsess
Is the cause of such political incorrectness
That this inbuilt masculine trait
This genetically engineered twist of fate
Is my doubly twisted DNA
Perpetually hunting for a mate
Banshee
The wind can not be seen
But it’s deafening today
Screaming where caught by twisted iron sheet
Ripping through the trees
Stripping the leaves
A wild combing, thinning out and baring,
Howling up the valley like an express train
Screeching on corners
Wailing like an angry lost thing, a Banshee
Bemoaning the end
The soon to be dead
The craw of a crow snatched
Like the moment an umbrella blows inside out
Flapping wildly in the squall
Scraps of birds in funeral black
And the flame red leaves shower down to scatter And lift again in swirls
Like the dresses of wildly dancing girls
Halloween and Samhain
That time of year again
To remember the dead
But no quiet of graveyard this
No whispering words
The power in this invisible air
Neither can the dead be seen or heard
But they are surely there
Cheap Words
Words are cheap
So throwaway
It’s deeds that speak
Not rhetoric or hearsay
Strings of promises
Impossible to keep
An ex banker with an election
In his pocket
So he thinks
Lies and half truths flow
Like effluent from a sewer overflow pipe
Just so much tripe
Quick as shit off a shovel
Water off a duck’s back
A sickening sight
As they dodge and weave
And insincerely apologise
When they overstep a mark
Slippery as an eel
Wriggly as worm
Slithery as a snake
Oily as oil
Snake oil salesmen
It’s all a game
And we are the game
The shooting season is open
And the arrogant sods
Fire off
Pie in the sky
Taking aim at you and I
Capture our vote
It sticks in the throat
Makes me gag
The lies
Make me choke
And stretch my eyes
I vote for truth
humanity
Civilisation
Compassion
And Equality
And not the old school ties
Monied
Privileged
Arrogant
Egoistic
Narcissistic
Nasty
Right wing
Lies
In These Dark Days
In these dark days
Know that light will return
Though Rain thrums on roof
And drips down misty panes
And heavy clouds press in
We do believe in spring
Life and death go hand in hand
Dancing round forever
And when we gather together
With warmth in hearth and heart
We shall brave this storm
All shall transform
Everything changes
But Love goes on and on
And Nero Fiddles
Nero fiddles, Rome burns
Civilisation ends, dark times return
The animals going, gone - we fiddle on
The ice, going, gone - we fiddle on
Flocks no longer flocking
Swarms no longer swarming
The titanic sinks, the band plays
As if in those more innocent days
We saw this happening
Steamed full ahead
We see this happening
Steam full ahead
To reach a point of no return
The forests burn
Too late to shut the stable gate
Too late
The manger is on fire
And we lay our new born down
And the wise men fiddle on
Fiddle on, though the forests have gone
Fiddle on, fiddle on, singing a swan song
As they prance and gyre
Around the pyre
Grey Day
Might I then personify a winter day?
My heart as grey and dreary
Cold drafts through every shake do make their way
And heaviness weighs down such to make me weary
Wet and cold each dark morn the wind bleak moans
I don't recall when last the bright sun shone
From within it’s midst this season reaches deep as bones
To chart the lows and isobars of each depression
In every joint I feel my years
A face glimpsed briefly in reflection
A white haired old man, an unknown stranger turns
A photo from long ago is stranger still
Though that this facsimile will long outlive me
As unreal as the summer day that is a long gone distant memory