Tag: Poem

The Room

Old room where ghosts play in the dust corners of a council house front room. Loud silence superimposed on torn wallpaper. Madness movements, ‘Trick or treat’ redundancies play out to nothing as the Thirteenth disciple maps the timeless rendezvous. Inaudible lonely commands are voiced as faces peer out from frozen curtains. There was such life in that room, that could…

Epitaph for a Lost Friend

I heard a newborn baby cry, I watched an old campaigner die, I asked myself why, why, why, I can’t get an answer,When the last man has laid down his gun, When my last serenade has come,When the last game has run, Into His glory day I want ancient wings, I want ancient strings, why? Because nobody wants to die Leave youth young glory day Hiroshima’s atom…

The Forty Foot Friendship

Crashing into the stench of gas, mud blood and human limbs everywhere, Ypres, the Somme, Passchendaele, strange Hells mingled with church bells, ‘Boy Tom’ and Archie forty foot between them, and forty foot away from an agony that blows human forms away with roll a dice luck. Shadows on a negative black and white horizon talk to ghosts while almost…

For those who still dare to say ‘Hello’

Soho square 1967, people eating their sandwiches. ‘Hello’ in the air as ordinary as the wind. I don’t know why that day sticks in my mind, maybe it was an England at peace with itself? Whatever was there that day as summer turned to autumn, it spoke of days and eternities, something in the mind of God, kept special. A…

December Man

December man, you who made the silent turn from the Rosemary of youth to the place where exiled hearts sleep. The skies mysterious benediction with heresies of purple. The noon of a dreadful day that knows that January will never come again.

In search of Rossi’s ice cream parlour

Summer 1968. “Quick,” shouted my friend Bruce, as his car skidded to a stop! ‘I’ve got a bird you got to see at Rossi’s ice cream parlour Southend!’ ‘Get in’ shouted Bruce, we drove at the speed of the wind, Bruce puce in the face looking like ET with a rash. We finally arrived. I was somewhat concerned when Bruce…

Dry Leaves

Dry leaves on a bed of memories, the way through the woods, footpathsunknown only to us, in dense winding ways of wonder. Vast adrenalin kingdoms were ours, young lives strangely blessed by the writer with the mask, powered naïve non- awareness, before we knew even the shadow of evil. The Trickster’s footsteps echoed even then, as his plan came with…

Natural aliens

I went to the local supermarket. There were no walkways in between where the cars were parked. The only safe place to walk was in the path of the traffic, this I attempted to do. As I approached the supermarket entrance, I heard the cheerful dulcet tones of an Essex voice, “look where you are walking you f…… tosser!” After…

The class of 61

Memories are sometimes like machine gun bullets, I hear them fire as I recall those days, when we longed for our gentle evenings, far away from the pervert’s idol and the classroom prison. Born to the simple folk on the hill whose trusting hearts were totally betrayed by the teacher’s shining smiles. Jimmy Jones my classmate shaking with fear, we…