Father to Son. March 24th, 2016
If within us there’s a gene for rhyming,
And one, perhaps, for a subtle timing,
A third that bends to philosophical,
A fourth that tends to metaphorical,
We are the clothes of a similar cloth,
The same good stirring of the same warm broth,
A sharing of letters, a similé,
Spelled out forever in our DNA.
The Football Writer’s Love Song. March 27th, 2015
Dip those boots in ink, you men,
And write your names on this green page,
Surnames only, first names when
I leave the box, the wooden cage,
And see you in a one-to-one.
You feign to be the put-upon,
No eye-to-eye with this old sage,
A few rushed words and then you’re gone,
A moment shared on this great stage,
Post match you’re still as fleet and fast!
But what a game! And at the last
The floated pass that took an age
To meet the stretching player, passed
The stretching hands that failed to gauge
The cursive loop from foot to head.
It left the opposition dead,
Their story on the spike, unread.
Full stop. New game, fresh ink, new stage,
Dip those boots, we turn the page.
Wobbly Webley March 27th, 2015
A wobbly Webley in my fist.
“Hold it steady….” instructed Bert.
“Aim along it. Oh, you’ve missed.”
At least the blackbird wasn’t hurt.
Not so the others lying prone,
Neatly cratered through the breast,
The pellets slicing flesh and bone.
Top shot, top shit, Bert aimed the best.
What kind of man, I thought, was this,
Who spread the seed then hid and waited?
Preferred a slap to a loving kiss
And left the birds so cold and cratered?
The birds and I were creatures trapped
By the need for seed and daily bread;
But could my childish mind adapt
To this, the black and feathered dead?
My hindsight gives me perfect aim
To kill the thoughts that Bert gave me.
He lived a life of hurt and shame;
I live by kindness. Long dead he.
Sunday Bells. March 18th, 2015
There’s sadness in the Sunday bells.
Happy those they bring together,
for me the sound of ringing tells
me I’m alone. Unseen tether,
it ties me to this silent room.
Friends outside enjoy the weather,
while I’m the boy locked in a tomb.
My comics are my closest friends,
Desperate Dan please help me now.
I know just how your story ends
but write a new one, show me how
you come to life and set me free,
burst the door with a mighty POW!!
to play together, you and me.
But that’s not how the story goes,
an ending that can never be.
The shadows lengthen, silence grows,
and all my friends gone home for tea,
while deep within me sadness gels.
Look in my window, you would see
I’m weeping with the Sunday bells.
Clint L♥Z Kim 16/07/06 (Love Letters) May 2nd, 2013
Carved into the rough wood
Of this plain wood bench
By the carving river –
Clint L♥Z Kim 16/07/06
You took minutes, perhaps,
To scar the wood with your love.
Perhaps you laughed and kissed
As the river laughed and plunged,
Kissing the lucent air with its laughing spray,
Carving its own name into the land.
It has taken the river 12,000 years,
My dear Clint and Kim,
A few minutes, geologically, you might say,
To incise its love on the land.
But as the river flows
From the time of ice that gave it birth
Will tears flow for your lost love?
I hope not.
You loved and laughed
In that eternal moment as the river chuckled by,
Caressing its lovely stones,
Unnoticed by you, unaware of itself,
Held, like lovers, in the purity of being.
Last Whale, Dreaming April 25th, 2013
The intelligent eye in the living cliff
Passes you by and dreams that if
There are those men who love all life,
No harpoon gun, no flensing knife,
No factory ships where whale gore drips,
There lives, perhaps, another me
And that one day he may just see
The fountain breath that says that death
Has failed to close this other eye
That passes by and by and by.
One final chance for us to live,
To love, to touch, to sing, to sieve,
To feel our voices fill the ocean
Far from any ship’s commotion,
And in a last spumescent sigh
In silent seas together die.