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,
It is always forgotten in passing
that whilst December may hold the
shortest day it is also covets the longest night
in which to savour darkness
at its most beautiful,
to see the moon ride high
and the whispering clouds
race across the craggy, acne spilled face of the
sceptical celestial body.
To love seeing the moon
where the bright haze of summer should reside
at two in the afternoon,
is too observe the ghost of the year
fall into shadow,
fall from grace
I can still smell the cordite
as it lingers in the air,
as it fuses with the cheap
whisky of my youth and the perfume,
the beautiful perfume of a hundred women
I’ve kissed, I longed for…
and yet I still smell the cordite
as I see the blue smoke
clouding my fingers,
collecting ash,
collecting the death bit by bit
I deny myself.
The cordite, the aftermath
of a Hemmingway smile
is perhaps preferable
to the slice,
by slice of loose skin, of taut skin,
The choking smog, irritates
and catches fire at the back of throat
from five miles away and the blank
faces of acceptance is a far cry
from Tiananmen Square.
A world away, the air is only soiled
by the corruption that settles
on the skin, that digs deep
into the pores
and poisons the soul.
A world away still further,
the recoil of a shot in the
broad light of day, echoes around the
empty chamber
and dies unhappily, its purpose spent.
The door will close on the world,
the only vision
of what lays beyond the great beyond
will come through television’s
voyeuristic intent
and from the voices I hear
as they pass the gate,
unhindered and alone;
almost spectral, apparitions
in the dust of hopeful white
that will add fuel to the point
of staying put
safe in my own mind and memory.
I will hear no knocks,
no rapping with great urgency
upon the wooden door
but I will be startled from slumber,