You came from that Nether-world of amber light that place where clowns and cuckoo’s rest half asleep waiting for the lovers that only you could carry. You were ‘Country Rose’ full of slum street blossom and Sun Street enigmas That wasted road that seemed to have no end, the summer heat of India rubber smells. […]
Dressed for a funeral, the blackbird glides its way in the freedom of the skyway to where no danger only clouds, hide their glory. A kingdom of escape, a fathered sky, where no car engine frightens God’s décor. Feeding against the wind is hard, and so the blackbird comes to the roadway for breadcrumbs and
Back then something made youth sacred in that, “Our – time” fools romance’ the Jingle jangle dance of the glorious naïve poets, troubadours and Desolation Angels in a chaos of being. The moon’s laughing symmetry of a design, fitted only for us and our kind who were locked into a new labyrinth way of being.
In the London autumn rain, he walked into the flamboyant fashion shop on Carnaby street – 1964. It was a London at peace with itself, pencils of the sun warming wet clothes. A strange clock chimed in the corners of infinity, a vast array of passengers perhaps nothing more than a thought in the eternal
(A poem inspired by Charlie Chips) LABOURER on the Suffolk fields, cycles of sunrise to sunset. Seeking out the unseen tides of the mind, lusting for The sweet sleep of the labourer. In the soul centre of the wandering fields he hears the Suffolk hymn Sang in the tonal beauty of home winds welcoming ……….
Whatever hope is yours about the future of our world, I know I will share. My every waking hour perpetuates that hope. ‘Young men see visions, old men dream dreams’ When I was young I had visions about changing the world, I encountered the aging cynic’s laughter, but also I encountered the giants of that
Dead Beat Beat 1968 5am rising to work transistor radio playing, “Hey Jude” Like a heaven-sent something, giving meaning to England. 2017 10am I’m retired, cars pass my house with dead beat beat, coming from super car audio, I feel sick. (Photo used by permission of the bloke with the spotty trousers)
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