Routines

 Routines are long iron rails.

You may not deviate from these tracks.

You may only go where they go,

Unlike a man or a mule

Picking their way

Along a stony track

Or a stick dependent cripple

Negotiating a suburban pavement

To avoid tree roots and cracks.

Routines save the bother of thought.

No need to know what next to do,

Decisions are already imprinted

Deep below consciousness

But, if things go wrong,

Panic crawls out from its corner

Liquids are spilled,

Objects are dropped,

Missteps are made.

Routines are forgotten.

Emergency procedures

May not be properly enacted.

And the result can be beautiful chaos,

An unexpected birth,

Of beauty and loveliness,

Or, more often than not,

Just one more hot mess.

turd

Poetry is shit,

Sometimes it spouts out

In great gouts

Of snivelling piffle

And wittering drivel.

Elsewhen constipation of inspiration

Can clench the situation.

A poet may strain and strain.

And produce a void.

As though dosed up

On opioids

They can emit no odes or verse,

And what’s worse,

There may be a sonnet or even a haiku,

Stuck right up there,

Somewhere.

The one day,

Grunt, spurt, splash,

The poet produces

More balderdash.

Inanimate

 Inanimate objects conspire against me,

Covertly colluding with the force of gravity,

Plotting evilly in ways I cannot see,

To deliberately, consistently and repeatedly annoy me.

 

Why do they do this? Are they malign?

Or bored? Is it their way of passing the time?

They always topple over, whenever I’m inclined

To put them in places for which they were designed.

 

If I stow them there, they will all fall,

If I put them down, they will roll away,

If fix them securely, they will never stay,

Whenever I need them, they’ve always gone astray.

 

Yet, how can they do this, when they have no limbs?

Have secret powers of motion been bestowed on them?

Do devils reside beneath their superficial skins?

What unknown powers are moving these damn things?

 

Should I seek an answer when I look in a mirror?

And regard my unburst pustules with mounting horror?

Am I just loosing it, and I’ll find it tomorrow?

Or is this just Death’s way of feeling my collar?

DAWN OVER DOLLIS HILL

 Cold wakes me,

I swing my legs over

The edge of the bed

And shiver

When my bare feet touch

The cold floor.

I stagger along the corridor

I glance out of the kitchen window

And see why

The god of Christmas cards

woke me early.

A bright crescent moon

Shines in a blue-black sky

Above the lights across the valley

A bright necklace strung along the ridge

Red warning lights

On cranes and towers

Yellow lights shining through the windows

Of the flats

Of those up late or rising early

 

A little later, now washed and brushed,

I look out of the kitchen window again

The moon has almost faded all away

The sun is rising again

Over a frosted metropolis

To wish winter good morning’

‘Old friend

I’ve come to show you

The beginning of your end.’

the mistake of throwing

Many beings fly through air,

They don’t have to crawl on land

Or climb in trees 

Or swim in rivers, lakes or seas.

There are bats, bugs and birds,

Up there.

And frogs and squirrels may glide

On wings of stretched skin.

Landlocked apes like us

Have always looked up enviously

Since when we try to fly

We always fall disastrously.

Oh, how we yearn to be

A vulture circling, a falcon stooping

A swift slicing air like a blade.

But our big-brained heads

Are heavy with thought

So, we stay stuck on the floor

Yet, we have hands

So we can throw

And this is what we do.

Sticks, stones, and bones take flight,

Then followed by, when we knew how,

Spears, slingshot and arrows

After that rockets, musket balls, 

Bullets, planes and bombs

Flew to send

Billions to their tombs

Thus, it is our landlocked yearnings

End up setting our own cities burning

Wouldn’t it have been

Much, much better

If we’d just looked down

Like anteaters.

Dog fox

Two sharp high-pitched barks,

Pierce a damp, cold, silent January night

Far away and then again nearer

Dog fox Is out looking for more fox

And starting to make the year turn.

While I huddle at home

With cold feet

Waiting for warmer weather

So I can complain about the heat.

I sit inside and virtually look out

Through a window which is not a window

I see cuttlefish taking intelligence tests

And the American judicial sausage machine

Forcing meth addicted meat into containers.

Then I try to pupate

Under a multi blanket cocoon

But I know I’ll never become a butterfly

I’ll just wake up older

Out in the dark

The dog fox barks again.

hibernate properly

I have been trying for ages,

To hibernate for months

And hibernate properly

Not like a bear

Who crawls out of a snow cave

Now and then to pee.

I what to hibernate properly

In suspended animation

Like a frog under the stones

Next to the frozen pond

Unconsciously waiting

For spring to uncoil

I achieved it briefly this year

I missed a day and

A new year surprised me

But a number on a calendar

Is not enough

I want to hibernate properly

Until days are warmer and longer

Until the sun is stronger

And the year is truly new.