NaPoWriMo 7/30 Day 7 poem

Watford Junction

On the train home
with ever-growing distance
from the last bout of hollowness,

he felt his face crease,
sharp paper cut edges under
the burden of emotional origami.

These nights,
sometimes syrup,
sometimes sulphur

never made sense
when stripped down
to raw, clinical data.

The rhythmic, soporific, soundtrack
drew his head to the cool glass,
its ice kiss to his forehead

inspring new false promises.
This will be his last time.
It is time to move on.

NaPoWriMo 6/30

Respect for the Father of Loud
In memoriam, Jim Marshall

This is the time for respect
but not for silence
for Jim Marshall,
the quiet giant of rock.

When the names of the greats are read:
Hendrix, Clapton and the mighty Led
Blackmore, Beck, Who and even Slade,
They all owe a debt to amps Jim made.
Making music electric
with such warmth and tone,
they were even used by the Rolling Stones
(and you know how hard they are to satisfy).


Visionary, engineer,
mean musician and pioneer
putting the soul into rock ‘n’ roll
from teenage bedroom kicks
to classic riffs and licks
that fired us to heaven.
This was life, full-lived:
turned up to eleven.

So all hail the Lord of Loud,
from rehearsal rooms to festival crowd
So though I’m too old
and in no way cool
and I’ll cop a lot of flack ,
I’m going to plug in, turn it up
and play it loud
on a 100 watt Marshall stack.

I’ll be doing that instead
of singing solemn hymns.
It’s seems the most appropriate way
of saying “Thank you, Jim”.

NaPoWriMo 5/30 Day 5 poem: Moments

Moments

There are moments,
conceived in the oxygen of hope
and nurtured with belief
for which we unconsciously live and crave.

Slivers of blinding clarity,
super-charged awareness
when veils to other worlds
are wrenched back.

Air so rare, if possible,
you would drown in light.
Touches of pure humanity
when we become divine.

They are rare, and that’s why
there are so precious. I can only
recall a handful in a life time of years.
When you realise;

you are loved completely;
every listening ear and heart is yours;
and the moment you discover beyond doubt,
there are moments.

NaPoWriMo 4/30

Four and Twenty Hours

This is your morning “I love you”.
I couldn’t sleep, but felt refreshed
just watching you breathe;
Did you know you smile in your sleep?
That, and the steady, military regularity
of yours, kept me safe.

This is your lunchtime “I love you”.
It’s been difficult to concentrate this morning;
The drive in was road-blocked by a glorious sunrise
casting cerise shadow puppets on the white, white clouds.
I just had to stop and gaze at it. I think it’s a sign
I should be doing something else.

This is your afternoon “I love you”.
I’m tired now. So very weary,
I could weep myself to sleep at my desk.
Surely, we were meant for more
than this unending, perpetual crushing of the soul?
I know: “Don’t call me Shirley”!

This is your evening “I love you”.
I don’t know why, but I can’t bring myself
to drive home just yet. There is some…
some…some…something, some happenstance or
serendipitous accident just waiting; if only I can find it,
or maybe you have to wait for it to find you.

This is your goodnight “I love you”.
Well, happenstance never happened!
But I am now as a sea becalmed. That might be
the double whiskey nightcap I drank though.
My mind is always awash with these thoughts yet
I can never say them. We’re alright aren’t we?

Day 3/30 NaPoWriMo Advice for Poetry Slammers

Advice for Poetry Slammers
(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

If you can keep your scores when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you recall your words when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can bear to hear the poems you've spoken
Critiqued by snobs who scorn the common touch,
Or watch your strategy for three rounds broken,
Or, drawn out the hat first, don't bitch too much,

If you compete, and not make “First” your master;
If you get tens and not make tens your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same.
If you can wow the crowds and keep your virtue,
Or recover when scores kick you in the crutch
If silence or polite applause cannot hurt you,
If all comments count with you, but none too much

If you can slam and not be tired by slamming,
And if you lose, just chalk it down to chance
Resist the urge of judges, to be damning
And if you win, don’t do a victory dance
If you can fill the unforgiving three minutes
With one eighty seconds' worth of verse and puns,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Slammer, my son!

NaPoWriMo 2/30

Monday 2 April, 2012

Voice

This is my mission, my raison d’etre,
my philosophical statement and love letter
to words; their power and precision
which after too many years prompted the decision
To make them my life and my living
So it’s much more than just random thoughts I’m giving.
It’s my humanity and vocation fulfilled
It’s my heartfelt thoughts and imagination distilled.


It’s me, at last being true to me
Resisting temptation to ape others I see
Who seem to be playing on a bigger stage
For jealousy can imprison you without the steel cage.
And I don’t want to be a carbon copy Cooper Clark,
A poor man’s John Hegley or knock-off Larkin
I’d rather be a first class me, than a third rate anyone else
So forgive me, but I just won’t lie to myself.

To live or die by my words, is my final choice
Because I don’t want to be an echo. I want to be a voice.

First poem of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)

Campbell Park


This is spring hitting its stride;
a thousand shades of green,
clear skies and an eager sun
duelling with breezes that bite.
On this day of fools
the wise have found some space.
Families play french cricket;
future engineers launch paper aeroplanes
while joggers and dog-walkers
pretend to inhabit impressionist paintings.
This is the true essence of freedom,
no money spent and only
your imagination to limit you.