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 […]
The Corners of infinity Read More »
(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 ……….
Old Suffolk Chimneys Breathing Read More »
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
That man over there! Read More »
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)
.. don’t bother trying! Chris Pitts
Advice on aging with dignity… Read More »
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.
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
In search of Rossi’s ice cream parlour Read More »
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,
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
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