There must come
a time in everybody’s life when they are hit
by the dawning realisation
that they never have been, and never will be,
the go to fantasy figure
in someone else’s dreams.
The dark brooding hero who pulls his off- white trilby down
over his eyes, who can blow smoke out his nose
like a fire breathing dragon pumping merrily away
as a thousand workers shovel Welsh coal into its lungs, and all the time
cause the damsel in distress to flutter her eye lids,
Every generation believes it be the last greatest one that will walk the Earth.
The final ones to shoulder the standard before a shadow falls on Empire
and weeds start to grow beneath humanity’s feet,
and weave their way silently to the fatted necks
slung low by the weight of unrealistic expectation.
We are kept in check by the ghosts of grandparents and their memories,
we understand the mistakes they made, the unexpected dances
they waltzed on generation’s passed and the now forgotten graves
that sit row upon row like stone guards awaiting a presidential cavalcade
Sometimes your most hated enemy, the person
who makes you sick the most,
the one you would trust with absolute certainty
to piss you off more than any other…
is the one that will hold your hand at the end.
For years they stuck the knife in whenever possible
and dismissed your name with the ease of a
camel drawing breath or the ferocity of a kitten
with aspirations and desires to be a lion in charge of a pack…
and yet they will mop your burning brow as you slip away.
…For all I crave to do is scream.
For going beyond that means drowning
and I’m too good at that, I can do it in any monochrome dream
and achieve the burnt sensation of the nettled sting.
…But one day I will forget to breathe
at the vital moment and swallow air that they provide
so willingly for my testament and my will to leave
to choose my own side.
As I pull myself down and allow the sea to rush into my lungs
I want to leave you in charge,
It’s far too windy to wear a trilby.
It’s far too cold to go out without a thick woolly.
Too go outside without a heavy coat is considered unseemly,
in weather most foul, and insanity not to be dressed fully.
To wear shoes full of holes and let the rain soak through,
would surely have your friends comment about your soul.
To wear gloves of any material, helpful to keep fingers from turning blue,
is just sensible when having to leave the house for a stroll.
We don’t get along, we never really have.
I hate the thought of giving into Morpheus’ seduction
and the sound of a thousand yawns and inevitable,
“It’s Bed Time”, joyfully shouted as the radio
was switched off with glee, just as I was listening
to some news from a far off place, or the glimmer
of a new song that had caught my ear, all cut off in their prime
and with accompanying whine “Why aren’t you tired?”
Of course I am tired, for over forty years I have been shattered,
Crossing the Tamar Bridge brings a sense of polite revolution,
a feeling of identity regained, no matter how mixed or diluted
the poetic blood has become, for no-one should ever 100 percent solution
or wrap the flag of choice around cold shoulders when it is suited.
The black background holding the white cross aloft
held high by a Kernow sister dressed in a blue dress
whipped up by an Atlantic wind so soft
is the closest I come to holding up a banner or crest.
The British oak may fill my head with images of sturdy reliability,
the sheer strength of will and powerful robustness
to ever bow to the pressure of a thousand muscular gales
or the clambering and kicking of a million children’s feet
as they laugh and swing off branches replete with green lush leaves;
is one that I try to emulate in my soul,
but I know I am more like my innocent favourite
that of the sprawling, myopic, maudlin, mysterious and disapproving
Willow tree.
I fell for the drooping wonder
I find myself dreaming about you every night.
The cruelty of finding you as I sit in fat, tattered Middle age
Rather than in the prime of vigour and resplendent in sight
Only makes me want to be in your harbour and landing stage.
In my youth I fantasised about others, but only one turned
My head as much as you, for that was built upon bright lights
And wild excess that all crackled through the night as passion burned
But inevitably we parted, not staying together, try as we might.
Have you broken yours yet?
Have you misplaced the list of items neatly written out,
first in soft lined pencil, then set in stone in unforgiving ink
and underscored in black lipstick with a faint damned kiss
or with the blood of a passing forethought that strayed too close to the
edge?
This list, did it contain anything that you truly wanted to do or be
or better still, to achieve something in which others
would benefit from without ever knowing it was you
that set them on the road to redemption?