Does this sound familiar

Poet’s Corner

We wait we wonder

We wonder and we wait

He is sat in the corner

Staring up at Heaven’s Gate

Saint Peter was a Poet

The Poet’s shuffle, reassemble

Like Penguins until a new one of their number

Is in the corner

The warmest part for to create

We shall speak in tongues

With the Ouija-board the muse we shall summon

Come speak to us from the other side

Oh Muse of the other world

Spirit from the dark side of the moon

Is it Monday? A bold but confused Poet name Henry Hymn

Prophesized

The day of the mons, the Monads

The Moaners and the Mona Lisas

Who leased her? Who Owns her?

This spirit of the wind of breath?

Her Mongrel Gods barked the Major Dog

The King of Canis over the Caspian Sea

Who hung his jowls on the table top

His Moustache bristling with the Confidence

Of the Landed and free

What phantoms have called you here?

Do these walls have ears?

Only in the corners spoke the old guy from behind his beer

Only in the corners do the Poets hear

The muse

She whispers through mouse holes

As soft as mice squeak

As clean as a ski slope under drifted snow

As dry as a desert island

Said Saint Thomas the retired Priest

 Haling back his Hale to heaven

Each present gift of manna

A hail stone in the eye of the muse

Like David and Goliath

He draws his sling while enemies

Surround him

The promised land is within him

And She walks in his pastures green

Where he lays down with her

And Jesus looks on saying this

Is not what He had in mind

Beyond this at the end of the evening Adam turns up with

His Apple half chewed

And Eve is already there

Saying I’ve been waiting for you with my muse

Is Poetry what you intended by your fall

Temptation was just over the garden Wall

No said Adam I admit I walked out

Of Eden’s gates

Poetry is not the lost key, its just another way back

But it for now will have to do 

The Painter

The Painter

He was a crazy painter

Making crazy paving of the pavements

He painted crazy brushstokes

Of the crazy government

Who left him empty pockets

In his crazy pants

He filled his hands with bristling brushes

Like the mazy rushes of his random rants

The Lazy Lazarus street which lays half dead

At his feet,

He brings back to life with his dancing soles

His shoeless taps that run through his pictures

And drain his paints are the street’s life blood

He wandered the zodiac circles around the platz

Meeting bears abating, Dogs who were a mating

And bulls dancing on their heels

Archers hunting ghosts

He drew looks from city goers

Painted their eyes like diamond stars

Stuffy old ladies in thatched hats

Whose opinions he dissolved into

Linseed oil and turpentine jars

Their prejudice like jaundice

Yellows their features

Whose roots were in the bitterness

Over beauty they had lost

He gave them it back in his pictures

And all was beautiful again

On Lazarus street

As he walked there

leaving his frames in the square

Resting on the shoe trodden floor

Under foot his masterpieces

Are obscured

Wires

Wires

Blackbirds sit on a wire

Gulls on a rooftop do too

Scan the horizon until of it they tire

Return to the Sea Lochside view

Men in chain gangs walk the high street

They are prisoners of the pub-crawl

But are left in the rain to hang on a fence wire

With sad dog tired faces all in a drawl

The buses hug hills like the beetles

Buzz like bees to their stops

With feet stuck full of pollen people

They search another flower head where their pollen they drop

Nature tends towards patterns

People by nature are dots

Someone draws lines between us

Joins us together whether we like it or not

All I see around me are wires

Electrical fences what not

Sometimes the lines are cold frozen

Sometimes they buzz like their hot

We, like the birds, sit on fences that are broken

Watching skylight horizons

It may be but a cheap token

But I like it all the same as if it is not

Morning

Morning, morning, morning

The morning of our lives

Here the steep hill is swollen

Like a mother with child

The burning morning, the moaning borning

Of Anti-auntie archipelagos

Be of good wife, oh life, oh life

The coroner Coriolis effect 

Sunrise of the mind

The mellow, yellow morning mightiness

Of dirty kettle sunshine

Taken are the heliotropes

The switches are swished

Fall the nettle heads

Beside a barbed wire ditch

And the kitches of kitchener

March to the warehouse Drum

Beside ear phone shop

Who listen to the dark men come

Oh morning, morning

The steel brush of salty heaven due

In exhaustible fatwa of merciful Father Pew

Painstaking needles in a Pine forest hill

Who can hear a pin drop has no need of fire drill

All this absorption and none of it real

All I have to give is what I can feel

River Lundy

River Lundy

I miss the Lundy

The river of Lun

I miss the Summer

Funny Honey Bun

I miss the Blue Sky

The Lazy haze

And I miss Lundy and You

Mardi was a fine day

Mecredi too

Jeudi was okay

Vendredi was Blue

Still I miss the Lundy and You

All day I wonder

Oh what can I do?

I walk the dusty streets

Feed animals at the zoo

Each night I see shooting stars

Quite beautiful is true

Yet I may as well live on Mars

For still I miss the Lundy and You

The seals are singing alone in the bay

Sweet gulls are winging above a mermaid serenade

No more Ghosts are appearing

I’m not afraid of the shade

But I still miss one thing or maybe two

I miss the Lundy and You

Love is on the lips

Of lovers who kiss

Black bird is on the Rosehips

But there are still somethings I miss it is true

Yes I miss the Lundy and You

Aonach Mor

Aonach Mor

Northern lights that are amazing

Like a green fire that’s blazing

Above the Mountain hearth beneath the sky

Jagged skyline like rows of teeth

 Rising up from those soft gums beneath

Always pushing, stirring, nudging

The sky not budging

Pilgrim clouds are rushing turning

To be nearer their destination

In the cold of Mountain heights

The stars come out like diamond kites

Twinkling, shimmering in silver sprinkling

Like star dust glimmering

Shining down

And then the cold air

That’s blaring, sneering, snarling

Staring hard down

The wind which bustles, hustles, rustles

Rampaging tussles of heathery ground

In its stampede, walkers impede

Deer hunker into the hollow some more

When they arise the mornings bright

With frost that bites

Before it thaws

And the air it fills with steam

From the nostrils of the stag

As he stands beside the stream

Drinks its cool water from off a crag

And his harem of does that follow

Tread lightly, nimbly through the fallow grass

As winter grips into his hollow

His antlers stand hard, as a guard stands fast

Ever battling the coming storm

Built of granite, Mountain born

Open hands of thorns inviting

Call down rains from Heaven’s fountain

Implore the Gods of the grey peaks whitening

To keep his coat of fur from lightening

That keeps his strong heart warm

Clouds

Clouds

Clouds are pilgrims ever travelling

Round the winding world unravelling

Tying up and letting go

As the spool while the seamstresses sew

And their thread

Is the winding wind

Which blows this way

Then back again

And the clouds are like carrier freight

With their cargo of water

They cannot be late

‘Always hurrying to the next mountain

Like ghosts who cannot rest

Who must keep going as if un-blest

And yet some holy pilgrimage

Keeps them travelling on

As if they knew that somehow

Their time shall not be long