Wednesday 14 December 2016

Just Went Away

Just Went Away

You didn’t say – just went away
and killed the dream that filled my day.
I really thought I knew you well
but deep inside you planned to flee
and didn’t tell. You gave no hint
about the end, like, ''I don’t need
you for a friend.'' Neither said we
didn’t care but suddenly you
were not there...

I can’t dismiss you
with a sigh. It matters that you
say, ''goodbye…''
So smile, and blow a
kiss before you go. Never run
away and leave your friend to grieve.

Friday 23 September 2016

Birdman

Birdman

Bold Dewi Jones would leave his home
first thing every morning,
and trot him down to Towy Wood
just as day was dawning,
and there he filled his Tesco bag,
five pence from any store,
with chickweed celandine and seed
and other weeds galore.
Then he fed them to his finches
to peck at in the cage,
while he ate his Kellog Cornflakes
and read the sporting page.

When Dewi was a kid at school
he hadn’t many toys,
and on the farm out in the sticks
there were no other boys,
so the woods became his playground,
a bird his childhood friend,
and he played a game with finches
he prayed would never end.
Their songs were short machinegun bursts
that echoed through the wood,
and Dewi, in green camouflage,
would stalk like Robin Hood.

A grown-up now, he made a frame
that lay beneath a net,
and then with trails of wild bird seed
a crafty trap he set.
That’s how he caught his lovely birds,
cunning if not clever,
and neighbours came along to praise
Dewi-boys endeavour.
Yet we all new that in the wood,
birds sang like heaven’s choir,
while, in the confines of the cage,
finches were much shyer.

Now Dewi’s wife, religious was,
chapel every morning,
in Aberystwyth born and bred,
should have been a warning.
Though pleasant to the roving eye,
pretty as a flower,
like milk upon a summer’s day
she curdled and went sour.
“It’s wings God gave,” his wife would scream,
“so birds can rise and fly;
and nature gave them songs to praise
the wonders of the sky.”

One day while on his morning rounds
bold-Dewi had a stroke.
“An awful thing,” the village said,
“for such a lovely bloke.”
No muscle could the birdman move,
eyelids would not flutter.
The voice that once trilled, “Sosban Fach,”
not a word could utter.
We don’t know why God struck him down,
spite – or was it pleasure?
What e’er the Lord was dishing out,
Dewi got full measure.

Now Dewi’s sitting in a chair,
just staring into space,
and carers who come twice a day,
pour soup into his face.
His wife just up and left him,
no fuss or angry words,
just said, “I hate to see you there,
caged up like your birds.”

Thursday 15 September 2016

Liaison

Liaison

She waits by the stream as she promised
she would, “If the Big House feels safe and
the going is good.“ She smiles with her
eyes, gives a tilt of the head and we
sink to the ground with the moss for a
bed. She’s the fount of the magic of all
woman kind, music and poetry come
flooding my mind. Her skin is the
breath of the newly mown hay. She
lights up my life as the sun lights the day. With
bodies so tense that we feel they must burst, our
mouths fight to quench an unquenchable thirst.

Limbs all entwined we just lie by the stream
reliving what’s gone in a beautiful dream.
She says, “I must leave with the world wide
awake. You know I can’t linger, there’s too
much at stake.” She floats over the field like
the midsummer breeze, until lost to my
view in the shade of the trees.

Wednesday 7 September 2016

LIAISON

Liaison

She waits by the stream as she promised
she would, “If the Big House feels safe and
the going is good.“ She smiles with her
eyes, gives a tilt of the head and we
sink to the ground with the moss for a
bed. She’s the fount of the magic of all
woman kind, music and poetry come
flooding my mind. Her skin is the
breath of the newly mown hay. She
lights up my life as the sun lights the day. With
bodies so tense that we feel they must burst, our
mouths fight to quench and unquenchable thirst.

Limbs all entwined we just lie by the stream
reliving what’s gone in a beautiful dream.
She says, “I must leave with the world wide
awake. You know I can’t linger, there’s too
much at stake.” She floats over the field like
the midsummer breeze, until lost to my
view in the shade of the trees.

Thursday 1 September 2016

Jobber

Jobber

He sits beside me on the pew,
the bell has ceased to toll,
a rugged man with piercing eye,
his hair as black as coal.

He casts a glance then weighs me up.
“There’s things a man should know,”
and then he stares ahead again,
his words are whispered low.

“I am the Resurrection come!”
The vicar starts the dirge.
“Lord Fibba’s cold,” the stranger croaks,
“the dead don’t re-emerge.”

I feel the urge to run away
so sinister the voice,
but blood is duty bound to stay,
I feel there is no choice.

“And even though we die we live,”
the priest is on a roll,
reciting spells from out a book
to save a wicked soul.

“I bet that makes m’Lady wince,”
the stranger shakes his head,
“she doesn’t want no comeback kid.
She wished old Fibba dead.

A shocking way of going, mind,
marauders in the night,
who only came to kill, they say,
a man too old to fight.

They stabbed him in the heart, they did,
an organ full of sin,
then left without a trace of how
and when they’d broken in.

He had it coming to him mind,
his life made work a farce,
three hundred quid a day he got
for sitting on his arse.

Then played away from home he did.
His wife is seething mad.
A beauty queen and young she is,
which makes it twice as bad.


Now all these fogies on the pews
would pull her into bed,
along with those ill-gotten goods
that live though Fibba’s dead.”

I shake my head that such a man,
uncouth to ear and eye,
can know so much about the life
of those who are so high.

“For memories we treasure,”
the vicar’s in a trance
and tries to get the flock involved
but doesn’t stand a chance.

The stranger slides along the pew
and whispers in my ear,
“Comes riding by each Thursday noon,
when no-one else is near.

Astride a big black stallion,
ne’er gelding or a mare,
a midday gallop in the woods,
knowing I’ll be there.

She pokes me with her whip, and then
she orders, ‘Follow me!
I will need you Mr Jobbing Man.
An urgent job you see.

These demanding hours of dressage
are all a girl can take,
play havoc with my back and thighs
and make my body ache.

Now you must massage me
wherever there is need;
but ne’er forget, rough jobbing man,
we’re of a different breed.’

Posh ladies like my jobbing hands
upon their tender flesh.
The broken nails and callouses
tell tales of my caress.

The morning that Lord Fibba died,
I’d scarce got out of bed,
when up she rides and hands to me
a box the weight of lead.

‘Lose this in the bog, my dear,
beneath the moorland sky.
Reward will come tonight, my love,
when I come riding by.’”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,”
the vicar’s song is done.
Then when I look along the pew,
the jobbing man has gone.

Such joy! My love has killed her spouse.
Success is with our plan.
But what a hellish way to find
she has another man.

Wednesday 24 August 2016

EVENING

Sitting here on the patio in the cool of an evening, sipping whisky.
Lone birds, wending home across the heavens. Fleecy cirrus,
pink-tinted by the setting sun, drifts in from the sou’west
forming exotic fish in my vast aquarium of darkening blue sky.
Bedtime rooks shout from the copse beyond the roofs;
last of the birds chirping in the trees; cool air drifting in with a damp
night-smell of nearby fields where a crow coughs and scours for supper.
Cat slinks by with wicked eyes, on the prowl for a vole or mouse...
Flowers will soon be closing for the night.
I open a beer and thank God that my love is still by my side

Wednesday 20 April 2016

Night of the George Robb

 

Night of the George Robb

December ’59. Sunday. Night. Rising wind.

Dark wheelhouse. Shadows. Cigarette flares. Face glows red.
Skipper Ryles peers out; black night, black sky, black sea streaked white. “In for a rough night.” Mind flash: wife and kids. “Home for Christmas.”

Saborowski, legs splayed; dipping deck. Eases into sea. Compass tilts, swings. Mind sees Teddy, pet spaniel, smiles.
Duffy, deckhand, pauses; false-leg firmed on pitching deck – accident when five. Flash: mother. “Week on Faroe Bank... Presents for sisters.” Duthie, sea-cook, nods. Secures pans. Tends stove.
Mackay, chief, grips bar, checks dials. Engine purrs. Flash: shore job... wife and bairns.
Mess-room men talk. Brace against motion. Sip cocoa. Engine throbs. “To a fair catch.”

Satan rides the eastern wind,
night as black as hell.
Menace in the powerful surge,
lumps leap from the swell.
Combers charge with snarling tops,
all in a chasing sea.
Ships pooped by waves the like of these
can’t rise or shake them free.

Storm roars. Rollers charge, break, race... spray, spume.
Ship rises; plunges. Seas thump!
Deck buried; millrace; deadweight.
Ship labours, shakes, rises; rolls... over... shudders... creaks...
Harbours closed. Seas pound; leap walls.
Skipper pensive. Radar cluttered. Beacons swamped.
Navigation gone. Boltholes lost.
Steel-bound coast. Caithness... Duncansby!
Corkscrew motion, “Undertow!”
Saborowski, instinct, wheel hard over.
Ship lifted, driven.
Raven black... “Cliffs!”
Breakers explode; surf, spume, fangs... “Rocks!”
Impact – crash! Men hurled; ship flung.
Combers thunder; seas rage...
Crunch! Blood. Cries! Broken bones.
Decks leap, buck, yaw. Metal screams; grates; crunches; grinds...
“Mayday!” Airwaves fill... Urgent voices...
Blast-bang! Sky flares red. Men leap from bed...

Saborowski fought the Germans in the wicked Nazi war.
Blood, death, fires of hell, seen it all before.
Faced with overwhelming odds, bitter lessons learned.
Plots writ in fate’s grim sacred-book are never overturned.
No shame, when faced with certain death, for men to run away.
Retreat, regroup, regain your strength to fight another day.
Into the roaring frenzied surf, the fisherman must leap.
Cold... Cold... So bitter cold... Saborowski longs for sleep.

Torchlight. Rocky slippery path. Wind-lashed crags.
Villagers: knowers of coves, rocks, reefs.
All aid each; storm-driven rain.
Siren pleads; wind-snatches...
Coastguard: weight-laden; breeches buoy, shackles, ropes, posts.
Struggle, stagger...
Moorland, bracken, bog, walls, fences, swollen-streams...
Cold, numb, breathless, drenched, blinded, ache, pain.
Cliff; searchlight...
Ship... there... far below – smashed!
Seas crash, swamp, batter. No life seen.
Rope-rocket fired. Wind flings back.
Once, twice... Five times they fail.
Lifeboats: Wick, trapped in port –
Longhope: rocks, reefs, death-hungry seas...
“Campbell’s down!”
“Campbell’s dead! Yomp exhaustion!”

“No more lives! Stand down!”

Saborowski...
Dying now on cliff bound beach,
so close to help, yet out of reach.
At home a dog pines through the night,
aware maybe, of master’s plight.
Grey dawns the morn on many lives;
fatherless bairns and widowed wives.

George Robb, lost with all hands, 6th December 1959

Tuesday 22 March 2016

Brexit

Sweet Dream of Brexit.
Fly with Boris, Dunc and Gove.
Cameron wrecks it.

Wednesday 2 March 2016

Monday 1 February 2016

Taj Mahal

Taj Mahal

Taj Mahal is silent, blushing at the dawn,
thin veneer of beauty heralding the morn.

Scorned and mutilated, living with the hounds,
chattel of the bad men by the palace grounds…
Never ending evil meets them off a train,
buys them in a village, then inflicts the pain.
“Amputate! Infect them! Smash an arm or leg!
Make them our possession, only fit to beg.”

Taj Mahal is mystic, love song of a shah,
music of a river echoing afar.

Gentle men and women viewing Mogul’s stones,
fountains of compassion: “Show them broken bones;”
get the ragged army limping on parade,
begging bowls a-banging, injuries displayed.

Symbol of submission, baby at her feet
hasn’t got a pillow, sacking for a sheet;
screaming and hysterics, battle for the prize,
quelling ranting mother, blinding baby’s eyes.

Taj Mahal is awesome, shimmering at night.
Agra folk are sleeping, Milky Way glows bright.
Glorifying heaven, planets rove the skies.
Satan roams the shadows, mid the cripples’ cries.

Monday 4 January 2016

Written when ISIS was on the crest and a giggle of British schoolgirls were brainwashed on twitter.

The Rubaiyat of Zarah
Only peace and no recrimination
in the garden of my destination.
Immortal youths will serve and comfort me
in my fiery final incarnation.
Just a single-minded slave of Allah
never destined for the field of valour
till fate decreed for me a path unplanned
into the Hall of Martyrs, Inshallah!
Wise twitter-sirens of the Caliphate
send thoughts that pierce my mind – then detonate!
“Think! Will our next Saladin be your son?
Which humble bride will Allah nominate?”
All cyberspace is full of such bold thought.
“Heads full of maths and science come to nought.
What good is there in studying the earth
when Allah’s word is all that should be sought?
The West, beguiled by Satan, lost its way.
When fashion dazzles girls they go astray.
Forgetting God they lose their pride in self,
while Paradise is just for those who pray.
It’s woman’s blessed realm to operate
behind a veil where men will venerate
and pay them due respect. When sexes switch
their roles, societies disintegrate.
Your place is here in our Islamic State
to be a bride and brave jihadi’s mate.
Past seventeen a girl is deemed too old
so flee your bonds before it is too late.
Sister, for you we have a simple plan,
haste to your wedding day as fast you can.
Be chaste! Then fast and pray your daily five.
Breed many Muslim martyrs with your man.”
So to Mosul, in answer to the call
I came in niqab, covered overall,
to be settled in the house where future
brides are, by imams, taught and held in thrall.
“All disbelievers carry Allah’s curse.
It says so in the Qur’an’s holy verse.
Then, Slay them where you find them, says the book.
They are the fiends of Satan and perverse.
Their armies now are at our very gate
and raining bombs down on our Holy State,
but we don’t fear the wicked infidel,
for Allah’s sons will smite them down in hate."
Then, suddenly, a fatwa is proclaimed.
A missile into London will be aimed.
Disguised, a girl will travel as a bomb.
At morning call our martyr will be named.
All day we sisters panic sweat and quake.
At night we cry and pray and lie awake.
Which girl, a would-be bride, will have to die?
The imam says, “Be brave for Islam’s sake.”
At dawn the imam points a hand at me
and shakes his head in answer to my plea.
“You’re Allah’s choice, stand tall and show your pride.”
But all I feel is terror’s urge to flee.
Then I am led away and told my youth
is lacking in the facts of holy truth.
I must absorb the lessons of the book
and then go forth as Islam’s sabre-tooth.
“Fighting is obligatory for you.
It tells you so in Surah number two.
On disbelievers Allah puts a curse,
so kill the Christian and wicked Jew.
Make war on them till Islam is supreme.
These facts are not a foolish imam’s dream.
You’ll read them all in Surahs two to nine.
We lovers of the book work as a team.
Now off to Turkey where you melt away
as loving brothers speed you on your way
and teach how best to detonate the bomb
when you appear in London on the day."
Convinced that this is where my future lies
I hug my friends in tearful fond goodbyes  
because the imam’s lessons taught me that
Islam’s success must feed on Kafir’s cries.
At last I saunter through the vast arcade
where filth and Satan’s spawn are on parade.
“Kill and be killed for Islam and it’s cause.”
And my reward? “A gown of golden braid!”
“Make war on infidels,” true Muslims yell.
“Be harsh, for they are vile and come from hell.”
The girl who ran away is now a bomb.
Fearless! Inspired by Islam’s mighty spell.
I pray and feel the bomb-belt hug my flesh
a child asleep in mother's niqab creche.
One flick will blast these Kafirs back to hell
while I, in paradise, start life afresh.