My choice of clothes
is mine, I shall not
wear a suit,
suffer a tie around
my ageing neck,
I might stretch
to a cravat, but then
that would be ironic,
me to a tee, I would rather
be damned for wearing
a ballgown
than endure the ridicule
of looking like a soggy stuffed up
potato, full of misplaced
pride, no starch, no starch
at all, not stiff,
put me in a costume, let me be
in fancy dress, clown that I am
You were young and beautiful,
the long red hair, dyed
but not vibrant, not outlandish
or gaudy, just beautiful
which matched your eyes
in a playful, yet stern like feature, a Cleopatra
as she maintained order and brought
generals and leaders to their quivering knees;
you were beautiful and for a while
I was lost in your young eyes
dancing in alert fashion
on the way to Waterloo.
It was only as I went to leave
the bus that I noticed the old man,
It takes an artist of brilliance
to understand the pain
and suffering of living inside a man made rock,
to become one with the shell
and survive a week
and come out blinking out the new formed light
and standing weakly for a while
whilst the legs take back control…
…ask many a politician to come out from under the rock
and see them insist
that they understand the suffering of the poor,
the forgotten and the damned…
I salute Abraham
as I wonder who kicked the other rock over
I remember when the king fell.
I remember being told
of his passing and my world crumbling apart,
no final goodbye, no conclusion
to any conversation that we had
had before, no ultimate
declaration, no absolution
just something that became terminal.
Goodbye my King,
I think of you everyday
however on this unhappy day,
I always endeavour to be the squire
you imagined I would be, a knight
I am not yet worthy, a king
in your place I decline and pass
Your book is taunting me.
Bright blue cover, hidden meanings
inside a passage, inside a word,
an attic inside a loft, inside a castle
and I barely find my way out of the maze
in the garden, secret holes
in which wait to be uncovered, yet
I have neither knowledge nor clue
in how to peer through
the remains of the branches and leaves,
the web strewn across
from spine to leaf.
Your house, a treasure island
built on an estate,
no guards, all welcome
I found you
silent. You had
destroyed your own selfless life
in bitter recrimination and in protest
of an unfair
and cruel world
which abused you
in your absence
and who could not
see, or would not open their eyes
to the possibility
that they could be happy,
more than a survivor.
I am to
be sure
the most
doomed of men
to have found you in such quiet repose
amongst your books,
as I am
the first to have to mourn you.
The fusion that is unexpected
is the most fun. Pineapple
slices on top of a crusty, well stacked pizza
for some is the height of decadence
or at least glittering fancy,
although myself,
I think it is an abomination,
I remove them with disdain if offered
in the same foul disregard as the errant olive,
bemoaning the fact that there should be more
slices of meat, rather than something yellow
or green, making the dish look like a breeding
ground for flavours I cannot abide.
Against the Graffiti,
she stood out like a Renaissance painting,
a heroine of the new Maltese dawn
and the hint of classical features
that delivered the final sermon of the day.
This heroine smiled broadly
as her words floated in the Valetta night
time breeze, hanging
in the air, as vibrant as the thunderstorm
clouds racing the mopeds round the
streets in time
to this Maltese songbird’s
thoughts and aspirations
of providing culture
in The Pub.
Against the physical Graffiti,
slang driven poetic phrases
It was your arrogance
that tipped me over the edge,
then I realised you had been
goading me into the wall
all along,
pushing
me further away from you, pushing
me away from our once romantic past
and making me want to see you with
eyes of exasperation and the sound
of mercy forever
hanging on my lips;
this you found easy, a playground bully
you became, spoilt, incessant in your words
and what for, to keep proving a point
on how you were a survivor,
Another night out missed, a gig this time,
a reason to get up and go, gone
as I battle stomach ache, as I battle anxiety
and the what ifs and what thens
of future interaction, of needing to hurry
to a place of sanctuary during the night
just to feel relief; it is not part of who I am
but what I have become, having to think
about where I am at a certain time
and can I be trusted to make it through
a set list, a meal out with the wife,