Poetry

Tuesday, 6 September 2022

I hear her voice

 I hear her voice

In my day between the sheets

That blow in the breeze

As I lie in bed asleep

There is a pain that doesn't ease


I hear her voice when I am going

Down the path

And into the deep

And I wonder will I ever see her

Is she gone forever from the watch I keep


I hear her voice

Across the waves

Across the waves of the sea

And as I'm standing on the cliff tops

I hear her voice when I am free

Monday, 5 September 2022

Paul St Community Hall

 The Paul Street community hall

There he goes riding 

Down from Bristol town

Across the Mendip hills

John Wesley

Riding like a fire fly

Alive with zeal and skill

Burning, burning passion

Driven convicted will

Build up all my churches

Bring the men to church

Lead the congregation

Through the slump and lurch

Out of heavy industry

Out with coal and oil

Give them some salvation

Which is worthy of their toil


Lift their spirits in the hall

Of the Methodist

Reciting in the circle

Hear the cheers go round


Sunday, 4 September 2022

Circus shorts

 The circus came to town

The ringmaster and clown

Not pulling any punches

Pulling lots of hair

Pulling over drivers

Screw drivers and survivors

And Pirates are walking around

With performing bears


She held a tiger in her hands

And camera in her pocket

Little miss Lucky locket

Forming figures

From the statues of dancers

Standing like a straight up and down

Bottle of Champagne


Bursting in bubbles

Walking in vain along the tight rope of years

Like hamsters in cages they rolled

Turning mechanical crane

Running round in circles

In the circus of the years


She is tied up and let down

Always the pull if you're a twin

Of the invisible string

The almost shared placenta

The picture of the womb

The acrobat and the firm believer

In the miracle room


Painting pictures on the ceiling

Of Adam touching God

And the trapeze artist

and aerialist are reaching

Ever reaching to hold the horse shoe

Shod


And in between the tug of war

Over the fair share of good luck

She picked up the horse shoe

And the elephant trod

And up and down and all over the town

In the arms of the clown

And the Ringmaster pursued them

With his crown of thorns

And bleeding stigmata palms

All the way through the lavender farms

And shook them down

And the bees shot out

The bees buzzed out

The way I see it

 The way I see it

That's just the way I see it

You could be down on your luck and blue

But if that's the worst thing that's coming to you

You're pretty lucky

That's the way I see it


You could be fighting a war

That means nothing to you

But instead you're home and dry

Scot free I'm sure

At least that's the way I see it

Blindman

 Feel like a blind man

Lost in confusion and fear

I keep moving around 

But no one comes near

I'm on foreign ground

And the rules are not clear

Won't somebody tell me

How to get the hell out of here?


Lost and found on the merry-go-round

For another year

Shepton Mallet Prison

 Prison is a prisoner now of the town

It has been snared caught out by time

Kept preserved like a jar for its spirit

Of suffering, for tourists macabre sense

Of right and wrong, mistrusting themselves

Tempting themselves

To touch a darkness, they are afraid, yet thrilled by

Psychodramas played out

Within four walls

But what happened to them?


The ghosts, sure some died there

Were executed

For others it was their home

They did their time moved on

They are outside now

Trusting in the saving power of justice

And the reforming power of incarceration

The negation, the absence of life

Where liberty is a privilege not a right


Where is the prison? The town, the society

In which they do not fit

Are they locked up to keep them away,

Or to keep us away from them?


What is a wall, but an osmotic barrier

Through which they can still see

yet keep the time more preciously

Every hour can seem like a day


To try to make it work, make time pay

Learn a skill, learn to read or write

Learn the value of life

It is a school, in some way the hardest lesson

Was it a blessing?

Was it a fate worse than death?

A social death surely

The comedy of it all

 It could always be worse

That's just the luck of the draw

It's the roll of the hearse

As it pulls up at your door

Ironic of course

But who says comedy is poor

Rich as a beggar in a grave by the shore

Lay me down in the sand

I don't want anymore

I'm too dog tired to stand

And I hurt to my core

Give me a leg up or lend me a hand

I'm run out of egg cups

And my soldier understands

You can't be a saint if you aint

You can't be sinner and live on paint thinner

Just get fat on the wages of a cat