#Haiku(s)

Elfin sleep steals time,
gifts languid dreams in return:
Morning: thoughts scurry.

Snow melts to grey-green:
sleighs falter on grassy banks:
pics are Facebooked.

Snow is delightful
When it’s white and fluffy crisp:
Grey slush, icky-yuk

a rat’s black squeal, shrill:
pinks the empty night scene as
lovers’ knees tremble

These mercies granted,
Though small, shine brightly: bringing
Light to emptiness

Mom’s hug, needle’s nick.
Mommy kiss me better quick.
Soaring, now I fly.

pop, stop, pop, stop, pop.
triplets born with bloodied plop:
tea, toast, sunshine, hugs.

The vase lies empty.
Fetid water, deathly green.
Lilies in an urn.

A lone desert rock
Alone in the desert sun
Turns to desert sand

Taken for granted;
Eyesight, play dough, life itself:
She’s gone. A letter left.

Sugared kisses bless
tumbling poker dice with luck:
Free booze, crumpled tux.

gloopy water-weeds
snag soupy ageing thoughts as
toothless smiles resist

the thrill of the chase:
bloodless, scent-ragged, protest-less…
a red fox runs free

breathe in, dive, splash, swim
water weeds tear my pale skin
grey clouds burst: rain falls

Oars dip, rip water
Weeds grip like biting serpents
Swans, white, nonchalant

Gin fizz in tonic
Lemons dance on my tongue
Brainwaves chaotic

The past, history
The future is uncertain
Today, chaotic

Play the lottery
Check numbers anxiously
Overdrawn again

My mind is a beach
Summer sun kisses my hot skin
Rain falls in cold drops

wind whips empty trees
the unspoken winter rage
leaves crunch underfoot

She whispers the word
the unspoken word he craves
their lovemaking done

My mind’s eye drama
starring in my flicker book
cawing crow soars free

Cold eyes beckon me:
Warm oiled hands feel me flutter fly
Neon sign glows red

dreaming of Summer
and lazy afternoon naps
by my sleepy river

 

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Me, me, me, me, me, me

It’s Thursday morning.
I’m getting noticed on LinkedIn.
I have sore ankles.
I have a runny nose.

In Jakarta, soft bodies are
Blown apart in the name of Islam,
Then hurriedly pieced together
Like an unholy, unearthly jigsaw
For tortured families to bury.

My fingers are sore too.
And I have a headache.
I’m tired and weepy,
Old and sick and selfish.

In Syria, children starve
In hungry bomb sites
And black flagged streets,
Brutish echoes of Biafra and
The cruelty of war.

I’ll have a bacon roll for brekkie,
Watch test cricket on the telly,
Nice and snug in my personal bubble,
Gently stroking my beardy stubble.

This world is terminally ill. Fractured.
Angry with itself. Viciously vindictive.
Life is cheap like disposable razors.
An orange line, haunted vacuous eyes,
Throats waiting to be cut.

And MY ankles still hurt.

I’m not into bondage

I’m not into bondage.

Perhaps….if it was bundage
with icing and cherries
and melting choccie fondant:
not golden showers
and towers of power,
then….I might be persuaded.

Imagine the scene, if you will.

In a seedy backstreet kitchen,
strapped to a counter with
string made of sherbet and
pelted with Pâte à Choux
by a sou chef called Herbert:

Perhaps….that could work.

Oh the merrimentous fun to be had
with a well baked strawberry flan
sprinkled with toasted almonds and
topped with gooey, oozing marzipan!

All fur coat and no snickers!

Then. The inevitable book with
TV to follow, recipe sampling
(always spit, never swallow)
and celebrity love ins with fellow
celebrity chefs in a small kitchenette
in a lay-by near Eccles.

What a life I would lead!

Or….

I could settle for an iced yum yum
and a cold sausage roll from Greggs.
Watch Celebrity Masterchef, make a
brew, take the weight of my legs.
And dream of cream pastries bursting
with promise and a perfectly crispy
frangipane lattice.

The Skylark

The eerie, early morning mist
hung like a grey veil
across the harsh moor.

In places it shimmered,
it’s skin cut by weak,
sleepy shards of yellow sun.

A skylark called
and the wretched silence
was magically broken.

A mythical skylark, hidden
in the folds of the moor
and comforted by the mist.

The skylark sang again.
I lit a cigarette and peered
skyward, hoping for a glimpse.

Then, the rain fell.
Soft, plump, wet drops.
The boggy ground groaned.

The skylark fell silent.
I hunkered in the lee of an
old stone wall. Cold. Soaked.

The skylark didn’t sing again.

Seasons and 1970’s clackers

As
an exhausted Winter yawns
post Christmas sprouts
and liqueur choccies dribble

Spring sits in the wings
clinging to a pair of 1970’s
plastic clackers

(so delightfully kitsch)

While Summer,
oiled and glistening,
wolf whistles
at beach babes in thongkinis

“Cor Blimey!!”

And
rodentesque Autumn
squirrels gather their nuts

(despite the music hall
innuendo)

And
then as days shorten
and night smothers light
we settle down for Winter
once more.

A roaring fire,
a cosy, dozy couch.
A legs akimbo pose.
A glass of red in hand.
Mulling over Christmas
as it comes and goes
and Spring breathes new
life into all once more.

(1970’s plastic clackers kitschly clacked)

Marooned Moments.

I
can’t find
my childhood memories.

The memories
I want to relive.

Locked out
without the code,
I rely on the
memories of others.

And
their collective recollections.

Yet.

They’re
always
there,
on the tip
of my mind:
Shooting flares,
signalling frantically
with semaphore flags
and morse code blinks

as
they bob along
in my leaky mental boat
before disappearing
with a sad goodbye
over my mental horizon.

Adrift
in a turgid
sea of
marooned
moments.

Abandoned
until
dementia
brings them
home again.

I am flesh and blood.

I am flesh and blood.

Pink
and
red
and
vulnerable.

As soft as clouds,
as hard as granite,
as daft as a brush,
as wise as an owl.

Skin
and
bone
and
thoughts.

I am flesh and blood.

Tears
and
laughter
and
sadness.

With memories
With dreams
With ambitions
With loves.

Lips
and
kisses
and
lovemaking.

I am flesh and blood.

Fragile
and
ageing
and
dying.

Like every man before me
Like every man to come
Like all of us
Like everyone.

Peeling
and
raw
and
selfish.

I am flesh and blood.