She’s Not Impressed
I’ve well and truly
botched my laundry up:
I’ve shrunk my shirts
in water far too hot -
the cuffs are flapping
halfway up my arms.
Each time my chest expands--when
she walks past,
she catches one more button
with an ear.
As days go by she’s
getting more aware,
and ducks before I’ve
time to catch my breath.
I see my chances dwindle
more and more,
she’s not importing
any interest -
unless of course she’s
playing hard to get.
A Warning Overhead
The bleats of woollies join the caws
of crows
--it seems that they protest against
the clouds
which turn the sky a darker shade of
grey
and rumble threats of drenching rain
and sleet.
The fields ‘til now have been a
table’s feast
with bird and lamb enjoying what is served
--the seeds of hay and turnip tops are
shared
with quiet unperturbed togetherness.
………..I’m
on my bike and off before it starts.
For My Liver’s Sake
I’ve tried to knock the habit more
than twice,
and every time it beats me to the punch,
but as the ale and spirits rise in price
-
my jabs are landing squarely with a crunch.
I’m halfway through the fight and
scoring points,
I’m dodging drams of whiskey, rum
and gin,
and cutting down on Beaujolais and pints.
I’m sure I’ve got the spunk
in me to win.
No doubt I’ll miss the crowd: the
rummy guys
who’ll sing the same old songs
and tell old jokes,
when I am sat at home, alone and dry.
Maybe I’ll stick around and just
drink cokes.
Sonnet 3.
Most of us will wish
to see completed -
our crude unfinished works of solemn art,
but there will be those whose misdirected
puns -
will piss us off, tear our hopes apart.
Concerts can be spoiled or interrupted
by yobbos who’re intent to cough
and sneeze,
while paintings are often mutilated
by vandals who do just as they please.
A hostile demon lurks within
the psyche -
and it affects us all to some extent,
inciting us at times to stand and fight,
defiant of convention
or restraint.
We should all be aware of its presence,
and be ready to dilute its essence.
What Do Gulls Know?
I leave New York and backtrack Dylan’s steps,
along the way I speak to some of those
on whom he’d left his mark; on whom he’d put
the hammer--and on every face: a grin.
The bay at which we dock I can’t pronounce,
it probably has other names - more apt:
Port Grime; Port Waste; Thick Smog Bay; Dead End Bay
--black-faced kids scrap like Vikings, just for fun
and there, on the quay, beaten into bronze -
Thomas watches every kick and punch
--a seagull on his head - about to shit,
about to offer negative critique.
