Where would I be tonight
if not by your side?
Easy to believe that I might be drinking,
toasting the year, burning Time,
setting my life ablaze
in the White Horse,
New York, whisky threatened
records and nervous poetic disposition,
the grand finale to match the Welsh bard,
drunk on my arse and grovelling in dirty rhyme
as those around me
misunderstood English
cool, the trilby
carefree on someone else’s head.
Where would I be if not
holding your hand tonight?
The leftover Christmas card,
the mass produced greeting
of some Robin, the symbol
of endeavour in hardship,
of Gypsy fortune,
is now used as a place mat
for the unceasingly hot
cups of tea that I ferry
back and forth from the kitchen,
and the stain of the rim spreads outwards,
inwards and towards its beak.
The message inside could have been hand-written
by anyone, but the scrawl was clumsily
attached by you
and I loved it, and whilst the carefully
It was set alight
by satellite
an exploding Tel star,
burning bright
it was a beautiful sight
caught in the distance so far,
with all its might
it burst out of spite
like an ill tempered fat cigar,
and without much fight
it blew like dynamite
The Earth had its final hurrah.
We come not to mourn
or be seen as forlorn
just to lay a wreath,
though some here are torn
and pity the battle worn
we recognise what was underneath,
Forgive us our sins
as we forgive those sprouts forced upon us,
as we take solace in comedies past
that actually made us laugh
and music, sweet beautiful music
we could hear in our heads,
if not actually out loud,
as Carol Singers belted out tunes
to songs that only made sense
when sang in key
and with snow nestling on the ground,
freezing the lump of dog poo solid
and Granddad pretending
that he could see Santa
on the roof
and then being flustered when
Landlocked but a lover of the sea,
of water,
the once poisoned River Rae
a playground of exploration
in the shadow of broken timber buildings
demolished as my father left Selly Park
as a young man to find life in uniform
but who came back in time
so I could find the love
of the Rae, the Mersey, The Thames,
The Avon, The Solent, the beautiful
Channel dripping wet
crashing against the rocks of Petit Bot,
smashing against the young body
of a boy raised on stories of Niagara Falls,
The man in Black played it well,
his reserved trilby poked down
to just above his shadow laden eyes
and his shirt unruffled, starched stiff on the collars
but underneath the skin ripples,
quivers with excited tones as each step of the saxophone
is mastered and controlled to pitch and the old man
sitting in the corner, the chair, slightly askew,
his hunched over frame
lets go finally of a regretful tear
of Time misplaced and his old black face
shows a memory in his eyes of a place where
I wish you all the best at this time of year,
I wish you so much love and abundant cheer,
I wish to see you smile,
I wish to think of you for a while.
I wish you joy in the greetings of the day,
I wish you peace come what may,
I wish you love from my heart to the one within you,
I wish you happiness, fun and kindness through and through.
I pass on my best to you, I pass on my adoration,
The calendar,
once full of marks, ideas and written
in stone defined dates, only to be broken
by the day to day,
now lies empty and blank,
like the eyes on an old man
whose skin has turned mottled grey
and the loss he feels
forgotten and alone,
frightened for the things he can
no longer see.
The calendar’s activities
stop abruptly, no slowing
down of a heart at play,
they just cease, they terminate
and offer no hope of a scratch mark
I may dislike the time of year,
yet I find some solace in wishing you the best
and with a very sincere smile
as I tap out the words,
as I exploit
my soul
in going against the grain,
for the ending is just too much,
i’d rather kiss you for the first time
a thousand times
than ever say goodbye.
I love the message that comes back
in the heat of a darkness hour
which says thank you
for remembering me,
I should be brave enough to pick up the phone
and just say I forgive you,
but how would I feel
if someone then
did the same to me,
if they decided to make the call
and separate years of a grudge, yards
of supposed pain,
how would I respond than other with a thank you.
Late at night,
I agonise on how you would respond
when I tell you that the one word
you used down the phone
to me beat me to a pulp,