Scribbles & Diversions

assay: love sickness

2014-04-03T00:00:00.000+01:00

If sick of the sights of love
and sigh,
here’s a trick if quick
in a rhyme to make you fine.

If off food, praise the new slim tum aloud
and wave chocolate that melts soft as a cloud.

if he talks about blouses blue praise his taste
but lock each drawer and box just in case.

If the smiles and glow are as praise for the Lord
remind that one snores like a bull gored.

If a telly-tubby goes sumo at praise unmasked
smile nicely, breath quietly and say she asked.

If praise is heard as blaze or maize with empty eyes
stand up to an ear and whisper, ‘Lovely thighs’.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's Assay poetry

Assay: Mountain

2014-04-02T11:34:00.000+01:00

Mountains are your dad
when you look up
from making wooden wheels chuff down a track
to see if his face is clear
so you can climb without fear.

Hills are your mum
soft and near
always in shadow from rock falls.

On a cloudy day mum and dad are
volcanoes, making each taller
as fire rages
and I choke on my coco pops
trying to keep quiet.

On good days mum says,
to her friend with the funny breath,
'She won't be pushed around.'
And standing firm against him
will make her grow.

Her friend goes quiet,
'We just wear ourselves down.'

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's Assay poetry

Assay: Love Poison

2014-04-01T11:30:00.000+01:00

Cupid’s dart is not love poison
it is a toxin that barely lasts a kiss.

Nor is love poison a St Valentine plague
for this needs more time
than overnight touching
to be absorbed.

And remember size matters.
You need a measure for pleasure.

But over dose, and even a car-exhaust
is chalanga-langa-bang.

If acute, like eyes meshing
to the sound of wedding marches
the dosage has been absorbed
and is melting TV dinners for one
as fast as a duvet pulled up at mum’s knock.

If chronic, then it’s slow like falling in love
with the best friends wife
Or finding that shaking off librarian glasses
makes her short-sighted
but leaves you an itch that slowly needs a scratch.

Only the sights and sounds of love poison are mendable
if these are known to ear and eye.

In the end only two simple ways avoid love poison:
the pleasure of child carried on past breasts or beard,
and thinking silence is the absence of your words.

But avoid is not evade for one night by moonlight
the comic collector will meet the super hero fan
And the dancer of words will meet a tango listener.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's Assay poetry

Love Today

2014-03-31T13:09:00.000+01:00

Today what I know about love is:

That kisses are best before a curry
if you want to know real heat,

That shadows, the ones from wardrobes, leave
if you see light in her eyes,

That you never love
if father ghost or mother blanket,

That the Internet
if lonely is plastic touch,

That it's wrong to meet
if with borrowed shop carnations,

That dogs when shaggy,
if lop eared variety have the lock and key,

That God isn't cold stone
if the silence is a held hand,

That old photographs
if black and white are coloured memories.

But yesterday I knew different.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's Assay poetry

River leaves

2014-03-30T15:44:00.004+01:00

Crops unseeded by this castrater of nature,

leaving pebbled water of a ghost river.

.....On a summer day clouds come high over the bank,

.....only a floater says sheep on the river.

..........Sins washed away with the kiss of God’s lips

..........so the desolater feeds in the river.

...............Deep trenches tear away the earth’s flesh,

...............later a scar seals in a buried river.

..........In the hills, on the day sun was promised,

..........a wind-cheater stops the birth of a river.

.....A hand cold drifts with slimy fish down the High street,

.....no ‘taters deep fried for them when roads river.

First steal land, and call it a country of milk and honey

while fig-eaters guard bees close by the river.

On a Fair-day with fire eaters and new Flemish cloth

a church pater takes a nun up the river.

..........And I sit here seeing forgotten rain flow with the sun

..........waiting for good poets to show this river

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's Assay poetry

Secrets do as secrets say

2014-03-29T16:27:00.000Z

Storybooks, the ones with pictures and big type
read hidden under double blankets to torchlight,
for a stupid boy should lose his toy.

Stolen rice pudding, creamy nice with sweet lime
jam, wiped clean with fingers by sly moonshine,
for a stupid lad must not gad and pick.

Fluffy ears and wet nose with a touch and eye
that needs, never cried for when left to die,
for a stupid child is too wild to care.

Night time creaks with cold hands so sweet
to play a drum and fiddle that needs your beat,
for you want love my little dove.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's Assay poetry

In looking at River.

2014-03-28T11:35:00.000Z

You are a line
that tied tongue and poetry to the land of birth,
yet your veins
shipped dreams and songs from winds of sea-salt.

You are of first born,
kissed by the fire birth, married to sun breath
waiting in emptiness until pushed into life
by barren rock on barren rock.

You are the three that makes one:
a mist rising to dance,
a body to sink away sins,
a cold hard judgement.

You are illusion,
a film flowing past solid morning sunlight
from forgotten rain on distant hills.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's Assay poetry

Defining River

2014-03-27T12:03:00.000Z

Arteries flowing cloud mist to sea shore
greening brown and black dirt
giving name to the bass and otter,
to the washer of sheep,
a Goddess clean for silent thought
until Gods of Wealth said roads and sewers.

The sea calls down
memories of spring rapids
and the slow lazy summer ease when tomorrow is too soon
into waves that rush to meet lost lovers.

Yet between birth and reunion:
a full life makes boats of churches and swans of hatch-backs,
a thin one dusty lanes and bloated bellies.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's Assay poetry

In the dark night was only a little star

2014-03-26T14:29:00.001Z

Once when words rotted
and embraces came from strangers in a crush
I grew a star in the sky.

Because it was small
I couldn't swing away but I could sit
and it taught me to listen.

The light it gave was faint;
I couldn't walk away but I could see
and it taught me colours.

When it got dirty I cleaned it;
I couldn't turn away but I could touch
and it taught me the grace of feet.

I learned from the star I grew in the sky
that look up and you see heaven
wrapped in what is thrown to the ground.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's the sky at night

Extra Galactic Polarisation seed catalogue

2014-03-25T10:40:00.002Z

Once all the gardens:
small ones on balconies,
looking on to brick and slate,
big ones with lakes,
where trees stand and admire,
were in a tiny, tiny seed.

They wriggled and waggled
trying to be friends with worms,
and blackbirds who sang,
as flowers danced with bells
or gloves wearing just scent,
until the tiny, tiny seed went

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Then each garden:
small ones with gnomes,
big ones with cantering deer,
pushed and rushed to be first
but the finishing line ran quicker
pulled on by big twisted rubber bands
until gardens went so fast-
birds flapped,
flowers nodded,
worms stole wriggles-
that they got very, very hot and anywhere.

No garden knew that
because How-we-see was the last to leave
and too shy to push past
so it stayed dark like
the back of a wardrobe with coats around your ears.

Poor How-we-see cried and cried so much
that it made the gardens:
small ones with pots and a wall,
big ones with ride on mowers,
get cold and dance from each other to keep warm.

How-we-see ran in front
but tripped over the rubber bands
breaking them so all the gardens
stopped at the finish line
blinded by the colour of a summer's day.

Now when gardens get dug:
small ones with a trowel,
big ones with a tractor,
you can still find the mist of How-we-see tears.
And some times when blackbirds are quiet
and worms don’t wriggle you'll find
the bounce of old rubber bands.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's the sky at night

A waiting prayer

2014-03-22T08:04:00.000Z

I come from the north,
where stars sing the darkness home,
in search of you,
who keep the flames, who knows the words.

I am he who is cursed,
my boat bring fishes of seawater,
my land bring oats of thistles,
my loins bring only the stone of life,
suckling's that warm no teats,
sons that stay in shadows, unsung at winter fires,
daughters that will know no laughter.

You who keep the fire, who knows the words,
tell me of my fate, the doom that beats at my door,
the storm that roars for my life,
and you will have the gold
of those that worship the dead on wood,
who look at coloured scratches
and not the breath of trees or the wings of birds
to know what the Gods have said.

You who keep the fire, who knows the words end your silence,
it weighs more then the stones of graves,
it snarls as a cornered bear.
Am I to stand as a boy whipped by his mother,
shamed into a rain of tears before you speak?

Or do you want the words of a lover,
soft with touch, quiet as a moon night,
letting silence say its music as the cold is kept out?
Must I wait as a ship on the sea for the wind of you
who keep the fire, who knows the words?

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's the sky at night

Your Big Day Merger: a never to be wiped, once in a life-reel experience

2014-03-21T12:48:00.000Z

Please record: Starfirst packages include God-screamer of choice, live-dome shell screens, real-help interfaces and non-virtual food.

Alpha Centauri’s get-one-free-sun
engine-binds ouchy-heat grains of grains
and made just once live-domes of stone on stone
with dance-dance food and flesh touch,
making it the image sharp land-safe
for the big day merger in real time.

So why not big day merger under
and hover-stand on parsec stretches
of screen-bright bone grains, sea-cleaned
as silver-white as your promise chips. Or face-book-like
on naked water still ground-live to non-download sounds
of laughing soft-bells and diving light-flashes.

Stay on afterwards for practice-down-time to see what
Alpha Centauri’s get-one-free-sun can offer for memory slides.
Take wave-boats of breathing leaves to islands of slow,
splash-jump among the spiked ribs of first landing and walk
in the shoal woods as they shim-sham from beat-heat runners.
Because putting the We in You is worth it.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's the sky at night

How to see Stars

2014-03-20T14:16:00.000Z

That star be far
for its vim is dim.

Dear sir oh that it were
but might of light
is no tide for a guide.

Look to the red in the dead of night.
or the blue before the dew of dawn.

For the star we dread may be dead
and hope a light still to be bright.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's the sky at night

In praise of keeping em sweet

2014-03-19T09:41:00.000Z

Dog howlin’, as my gal she's gone all mean,
the bed’s all empty, so no honey for me,
she’s only sweet when you got folding green.

Her mamma’s mad, as Candy’s stretching sixteen,
but she gave me a look that got my chilli
dog howlin’, as my gal she's gone all mean.

She hit hard, she bit soft, and she kissed keen,
as we rocked and rolled, I thought of Candy -
she’s only sweet when you got folding green.

Now I’m sat on the porch by the bug screen
drinking a jug of ole smoky moonshine
dog howlin’, as my gal she's gone all mean.

Do I swing with mama and make her lean
or keep the gal all hot and pay for fancy -
she’s only sweet when you got folding green.

Truth be told, I play' em a sob routine
so life’s all double cream with no husky
dog howlin’, or a gal that's’ gone all mean -
she’s only sweet now, I got folding green.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's praise

Stories in the making of bespoke shoes

2014-03-18T21:57:00.000Z

A person should sell the roof beams
of his house to buy shoes for his feet.
The Talmud (Shabbat 129a)

In silence, you make your way to the seat,
your neck curved, your body a ballet poise.
I see a story scrunched and thrown away,
your eyes, a clear blue, that dismisses a fool.

You sit down, look around and wait for me.
Holding your calfskin shoe, I slip it off
and place your warm, naked, innocent foot
on plain paper to trace its history,
so we begin.

Once measured, I make you a Last of wood,
the truth from which every new shoe is made.
As we, they called the wanders stayed true
to what of God remained when, three years old,
a brother screams, 'I want to live as well.'

A voice heard loudly, when snow falls like then,
or towers flail in dust, or in desert
settlements that bury the hope of peace.

I size the Pattern for the gift of shoes -
a slice of bread, mouldy and hard was once
birthday manna, as dust became as dust.

For food was thrown as if a feeding time,
or when the quarters - rows of double beds
for strangers – thinned, leaving it 'orderly'.

So then, as now, you talked of patterns, shapes
to words or signs to life or death, but now
it's shoes you want to look and feel just right.

Cured leather, ruby red and baby soft,
a smell of old car comfort, is laid out.

You laugh and mention Karsula, the cow
of neighbours, and how she had chased you down
the pasture lane when you were six years old.

I listen, lost, as I caress and cut
for shapes in skin, as tender, as your touch.
And you just ran, only to trip and bleed -
the farmer had laughed, 'You cry like a Jew',
so you learned early not to cry out loud.

You are late, but the phone is silent as
the leather is layered and held with glue,
the needle stabbing to pierce tender skin -

each zero punched in line by line to guide
the thread, when once they guided in the ink.
Old numbers never to be used again
for now it would be bar codes read from chips.

And then the phone rings and I hope its you.

The stitched uppers are stretched over the Last
to bond and shape, as we chatter and smile
at stories of our distant weddings feasts -
hers, herrings, apples, and a plain sponge cake,
mine, clean fresh water and a simple soup.

Neither for love, but for the dead to hope,
and now the dead allow silence, some days.

Your burnished shoes, complete with heels and soles,
my Song of Songs, adorn and shield your feet
as we kiss cheeks and say let's meet again.

For we've become scratchy voices on tapes,
a past of weekend monuments for bored
family picnics, where the heat curls bread,
while here and there, a stack of shoes begin.

So what do you do at night

2014-03-17T14:27:00.000Z

I never see Angels.
The ones with faces newly born.
The ones not ever wet with tears.
Never.

If you do, staring at the sun is what it feels like.
Or so I'm told.

I have heard an Angel:
they whisper like curtains twitching,
they creak the wooden floor at night,
they tell you it’s wrong, when it would be nice

to break that Christmas gift of guilt,
Or so I’m told.

The smell of Angels is never mentioned
I read in the family Bible.
So I really read
between the lines, below the cracks

and find that Angels are not clay
but light
so they smell
the coldness of stars

or the rhythm of moonlight playing leaf music.
Or so I’m told.

I wonder about the taste of an Angel
but they never kiss
so I’ll never know
what they do at night, under the covers

when we dream,
thrashing out for a taste
of angel cake from when we had a mum
with the smell of woodbine fags

and a voice of jagged glass.
Or so I’m told.

An Angel's touch is
death
so I never do.
Or so I’m told.

In praise of friends who shot no guns and scored no goals

2014-03-16T16:03:00.003Z

Some sit and wait in the sun with me and others stand by the stream waving
and we shot no guns and scored no goals yet still we made a team.

First the farmer of corn and swede whose son
gave a barn of wood and tin with hay and air to jump in
and I gave words to make the night creak and howl.

Then the engine driver of iron and steam whose son
gave red lentils and fried cumin seeds to a boiled spud world
and I gave blindness that saw no colour.

Then the sweeper of road and street whose son
gave men a laugh and women a smile so both said later
and I gave cover for love to decide.

Then the printer of press and paper whose son
gave a honest answer when questions wanted a lie
and I gave comfort and tears while he could stay.

Then the banker of loans and tills whose son
gave rage for the penny short of a bob and the drunks in pain
and I gave hope to build a green and pleasant land.

Then the diary man of milk and cheese whose son
gave the world a shake so trees wore wool and water walked on Jesus
and I gave a dance of words somewhere to rest.

Then the preacher of life and love whose son
gave God to the devil’s tunes so others found salvation
and I gave scorn so the fatted calf was killed and all were merry.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's praise

Exhibition in development

2014-03-15T07:56:00.000Z

Awake, or asleep,
no pictures of you are at home -
they must be sitting in a bar waiting for crows to buy a round,
which they do when the body
forgets it’s cold and dead.

Some pictures must be on walls, covered in plastic, surrounded by shop brought flowers ,
famous, liked, admired, cuddled up to, wanted.
But they get ripped down, covered up,
become yesterday.

What of the
still born
pictures
that wait in darkness, trapped, wanting light again.
Just a reliquary: candles, forgotten meals, seaside rides, children loved.

All once dreams,
anticipated,
as words in colour, a spring time of phrases, a verb dance
now all dusty.

Yet, the photo never lies
so the empty frame, snapshots of thumbs, half seen faces,
the one that should be two,
is me.

In praise of the Alf and Gertie Cookpool’s of this world

2014-03-14T16:09:00.001Z

History is not made by folks like me

that are born on the land that others own.

Cattle with horns and sheep you shear

in the summer sun under leaves shaking

in the wind is all I were fit to know and do

as I plough with horses down the long Field

to plant a feed of mangold and flatpole cabbages

near to woods we picked over for warmth.

You worked not schooled so I learned the letters

of milking and the sums of hay stacks and that maps

said where grass grew best if a winter were cold.

And when others went to war as heroes I killed for hog’s

puddings, brawn and pickled meats and sowed the ground

so men could die with fresh bread and a taste of cheese.

When the war ended I kissed Gertie as the church bells rang.

He did, and I let him, as the aunties in pinafores and curls

laughed at the cheek. I had seem Alf from the Rectory

window when I saw him, stripped to the waist with a tight belt

and billowing trousers saggy where patches hung loose,

throwing hay up and over a stack with a pitchfork.

He gave me three children, May, Ruth and Bill but God

took our baby as he stepped from a school bus so I worked

to make gloves and the garden fresh with our blooms.

And we got by with no electrics, through oil lamps and hot

water made by sticks and food cooked by cracked coal.

It was a life but the farm was sold so he laboured

till he walked in the snow to where May found him cold.

I did, and mam lived alone when dad died, with cats and cleaning

the church for company. She arranged for services from the flowers

they had grown. On her death, we brought a bit of land near by

where we put her to rest near dad. She had scattered his ashes
there one Sunday, in sowing season as the sun woke up mist and birds.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's praise

Why tea in a teapot teases out the truth

2014-03-13T16:43:00.000Z

Tea before God for He only created the world
But tea, brown, never pale gold creates me.
It takes the lifeless, scrunched folds of flesh
and gives a life of chattering tea pluckers
moving through mist on a green forest hill.

Nor does his commandants hold weight
for the making of tea, loose black strands
are before Him and loved more then next door.
Adultery has to take place with builders
Assam tea roused with the finery of Lady Grey.

And of course you'd kill for a cuppa and OMG
when it's good or to give thanks for Sunday shops.
Who wouldn't lie or steal to get a Clarice Cliff teapot?
Apart from our mum who drinks bloody coffee.

Satan is another matter, he tricks with ease
Life on the go, oo for those without teapots.
Ashes to ashes in a shroud to make milk sunny.
A sin to tempt the flesh into thinking time is freedom.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's praise

At the sea

2014-03-11T08:38:00.000Z

The water kissed me and said, 'Please stay'.
As the sun burns like a face smacked,
I thought yes, 'Let the light fade
let them weep and miss me.
I’ll play with fishes
and dance alone.'
But they made
me breath
air.

Never been kissed

2014-03-09T17:36:00.000Z

When twenty a man wanted to dance.
I had God and he didn't.
He said no to God but yes to me.
And sat empty waiting.
God said I should love so the man replaced Him.
I was kissed in my pink sundress and said no
with folded knees.
He said yes and made my sundress red
with a tango thrust.
When twenty, and no one told.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's touch

Walking alone to school before I heard the Beatles

2014-03-08T17:45:00.000Z

Wellington's, black and roomy held bare feet

Line patches pressed on skin unwashed,

each step, making a billowed slap on legs,

sending squelchy air to the frost of knees and thighs

not reached by baggy scratchy school shorts.

Hand-me-down pants, yellow stained, stick and rub

what the privy left until skipping away from the sting

of stones dropped them loose like 'your mother's drawers'.

Duffle coat, grey wool with sailors wooden stub buttons,

last seen on the vicar's son now taught goodwill to the poor,

gave a shadow embrace as arms flapped to gloveless hands.

Fingers scabbed, nails sickle moon black, caressed wrinkled paper,

that made skin burn under bedclothes when read by dim torch light.

For dark woods held no prince. And dragons fly you to the sun.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's touch

On finding that nothing stays

2014-03-07T22:05:00.000Z

In a small Welsh town,I think Abergavenny,
a market was held in sight of the old Town Hall.
Being eight years old, the tears dried by face powder
and the lipstick smile,was missed as the monkey danced

in fur and red cap to an old accordion
that was battered dull by his master’s thick fingers.
I ignored whispers,and the sighs of told-you-so,
by making stories of faeries that make you good

like clothes from a shop not jumble from a straw bag
still full of pity. I saw the toffee-apple,
brown with sweet redness, and left the monkey alone
for my silver coin of weekly pocket money,

when Nan remembered, and ran through the vegetables:
cabbages piled high, with carrots racked on long leeks,
for a dash of joy when I turned and saw them gone,
stolen like daddies.

If I find those sweet apples,perhaps I will stop running.

At goodbye is love known

2014-03-06T18:22:00.000Z

Send the bleeping metallics away.

Throw the charts into the air for confetti,

goodbye isn't for mortality rates

but for words of dances and kisses

and remembering when we were giants.

Let death be a well finished poem.

Let my love be in your children and pain a hero's song.

Let flight end with wings folding over the nest.

Let a last touch of your hands be gentle, as a falling petal.

Stay those cardboard words

and let the candle blow out so I can show you the light.

Welcome to 52 a weekly kick in the arse for your Muse.

This week it's touch