Dear Lord (Fixing The Holes)

Dear Lord forgive our tardiness
attending your sacred house today
the day of rest which you 'laid on
so we mere mortals might come and pray
The cat was sick on mothers hymn book
Dear Lord forgive her choice of phrase
no such language have I heard
Indeed I learnt a brand new word
lucky that her words were slurred 
on the floor in a drunken haze!

Dear Lord forgive our tardiness 
attending your sacred house today
the car wouldn't start; it's rather old
the suspension's shot and might give-way!
And but a mere mortal I
Dear Lord to get her our the door
would test a saint of that I'm sure
a sherry glass smashed on the floor
So if we're late - then you know why

Dear Lord forgive our tardiness
attending your sacred house today
we're on the way but running late
Mothers now on the 'Beaujolais'
Dear Lord please forgive her drunken state
please provide a miracle 
of burning proof empirical
make her fruity words sound lyrical
and hurry Lord - this can't wait!

Dear Lord forgive our tardiness
but we've made it here today!
and forgive our odd appearance
oh and another word - if I may?
The church lane's surface has been attacked by moles
mothers dentures are who knows where
her bra-straps let go, through wear and tear
and their contents have taken to the air.
...Dear Lord you might be good at saving souls
but please give some thought to fixing those holes




Rest In Peace For Evermore

Plates and coffee cups in hand 
people listening to a band - quite a caberet!
with couples sat around the square at cafe tables take the air - a beautiful cliche!
but cliched days aren't meant to last
the hands of time spin so fast
...soon our souls will drift away!

'pretty young things' we used to be
adolescent and care free - so much to learn!
Summers harvest is swept away
so soon lifes 'autumn' comes to play - 
we spurn
we spurn all thoughts that summer's gone
as autumns 'change' bares-down-upon
...to winter - the point of no return

names amidst the headstones spied
we find old friends who now reside  - gone before!
Like ashes feeding a luscious lawn
water'd by tears of those who mourn - cry no more!
no more where church bells call to prayer
we know that they will not be there
an empty pew a hymn book spare
(an empty table in the square!)

...rest in peace for evermore




Who Am I?

who am I?
am I what others see
or - am I what they don't see?
...am I just something else?
am I a child running away from a parent?
am I that parent?
why are we chasing?
...I am the place we're re running to?

am I a striking teacher?
out for more pay
...is this us?
are we marching across a city
or maybe running through a wood
shrouded by a fog
...am I the darkness?
am I the galloping horses?
flared nostrils 
breathing heavily 
running! - running! - running!
...I am the horses heavy breath!

are we something at dusk?
something at the end of the day
so we're not able to give what is being asked of us 
...am I a church on fire?
am I an actor playing a forensic scientist 
not a scientist at all
not able to give what is being asked of me
just an actor?
...I am the script!

am I a skier?
can I ski?
maybe I'm the snow
are we a student marking our own homework?
or are we the curl of smoke rising from a cigarette 
abandoned in an ashtray
do we fill the room like smoke?
...I am the match!

what am I to say?
maybe I can't speak to anyone?
'No comment!"
...am I the silence?
do i listen?
do I cry?
perhaps I'm a suspicious character caught on CCTV at the shopping centre
...am not the shops?
I am the footage!

what am I?
maybe I'm the soldiers drinking in a pub
...am I the glass?
conceivably - I'm the beer!
could I be an old woman 
in an old people's home
knitting old knitting 
doing old crosswords?
...am I old? 
is that what I am?

who am I?

Not A Slam Poet

I'm not a 'slam poet'
my poems I do not 'slam'
I'm not a Taylor Mali
Nor a Sarah May
I perform my type of poetry
In my par-tic-u-lar way

They will not judge my poems
my poems they will not judge
it's not a competition 
a sweet po-ta-to 
to be awarded a red rosette
that says it's best in show

I'm happy that my work is good
good is work my that happy I'm 
...and I know no poet ever
a fortune at any point made
but that won't stop me writing it
I'll go on - and on - I'm afraid!




Perfect English Village

A perfect village
set back from the main road
down little windy streets
the perfect little cottages 
with the perfect little gardens
like the house that was perfectly squeezed onto a postage-stamp-sized plot 
(and then featured on the telly)
like the lady; upstairs
enjoying her perfect view of the river
like the boats in the dry-dock awaiting their relaunch 
like the church and the chapel awaiting a Sunday
like the gallery and the teashop and the 'homemade jam for sale'
like the little railway station 
like the well stocked village shop for the things they forget
like the electric car 
snugly parked in a private bay
safely behind metal gates
and the electric charging points arranged in the tidy public carpark
like the perfect little lane with tiny green cottages 
all in a row 
leading down to the river 
with a view of the sea 
all wrapped up in floodgates 
to perfectly protect their space
with a claxon to warn them should their river over-top
with the gentley 'lapping' of the water
and a choice of pubs
full with garden offices
sun-trap gazebos
and a number of garden clocks
(like as if time matters here!)
Perfectly English like...

...like tea on the lawn
like walking the dog
like scones and jam
like fish and chips
a Sunday roast
Buckingham Palace
and the tower of Big Ben

...this perfect 
English 
village!



Teenager

To the teenager
in heavy make-up 
a short pink skirt
fishnet tights
and Doc Marten boots 
I say;
"keep being who you are
don't let life change you
...and don't loose that spark!"