Traversing Rainbows
it’s a long long way
to the end of the rainbow
best keep your feet
on the violets and indigos
red through yellow sticks to your shoes like clay
and it’s surprisingly heavy
for light
and of course you shouldn’t look down
better to focus
on those shimmering bands of radiance
that ripple and swirl
beneath your footsteps
or the freeform clouds that vaporously drift
around you
it helps if you sing - naturally
any old show tunes
by long dead crooners
or ladies with sparkling eyes and thick red lipstick
that’s why over tin pan alley
the rainbows were always
the brightest
you may find yourself growing weary
but on no account lie down
sleep will come too easily
your dreams will be packed with detail
but rainbows have this habit of disappearing
you may wake to find yourself
falling to earth
and then there is the descent
as you draw towards the end
it’s slippery and there’s nothing to hold onto
rainbows don’t come with handrails
you need a steady nerve
and save the best of your songs
for now
as you approach the end
you can peer down to that marvellous plain
that no one can reach by land
and when at last you stand there
the ache in your muscles will ebb away
clarity will infuse your mind as you breathe the air
of gold
This poem appeared in the Spring 2016 issue of
Tears in the Fence magazine.
Her Shrine
framed in pastel flowers
a princess
raised in the pink
to a queen bee destiny
stares through mascara
across the desolate lane
low cut dress
night out, family occasion
big camera smile
the picture atop
her shrine
it’s up on the hill
where fly tippers shed by night
ashtray contents lie by the roadside
plastic bottles slowly degrade
and strange foams
collect in the gutters
it’s by the bwlch, the cut, the gap
trays and vases for flowers, a stone book
a child’s broken windmill toy
and her face atop
the shrine
she stares through her mascara
at potholes, nettles and bracken
no Disneyland, no fairy castle
even the farms here seem near dead
land degraded by
mine-disturbed springwater’s seep
fields rented to horse owners
for their little princesses to ride
in hard hats and pink wellington boots
with barely a glimpse for
this shrine
she loved without discretion
to mam and dad’s despair
did she go up there willingly?
did he cajole her, force her with threats?
did he know what he was going to do
up there on the bwlch, the cut, the gap?
her brothers found the body
it was no accident
that brought with a florist’s art
to this roadside
its shrine
dense rain slaps the ground here
rich moss and thick ivy thrive on wizened trees
brambles reach to wrap around
the first picture they mounted on the fence post
indistinguishably blurred by damp
its poem of praises and bitter regrets
reduced to a smear of dissolving ink
a cemetery gravestone will outlast all this
but up here on the bwlch, the cut, the gap
the elements embrace
her shrine
(RIP: Jenna Louise Watkins. 1985 – 2007)
This poem appeared in issue #44 of South Wales poetry magazine Roundyhouse.
Himalayan Balsam
a delicate invader
with a soft smell like coriander
and sweetly curling flowers
of mauve and white
moves into the territory
and with such gentle persistence
smothers the opposition
Another one that appeared in Roundyhouse 44
road trip
new engine on an old chassis
we took it for a spin
through lingering landscapes
wayside gas stations all long gone
we got it to run on love
stopped for a fresh paint job
hand-done by a wise old con
breezed our way on
through dangling avenues
long lost and laden
people would wave and grin
as we passed quietly by
signals would change in our favour
no one was in a hurry to overtake us
our tailbacks were parties, too good to leave
picked out our routes
on filigree maps
treasure at the end of every lane
made it to mountains through tunnels of trees
always found some place to rest the night
we left no carbon footprint
no plastic roadside waste
clean air blew from our exhaust
laced with the fragrance of not-quite-yet
and one-day-we-will
can’t say we changed the course of motoring history
we never changed course at all
somewhere we trundle to this very day
tread still good on our tyres
fuel gauge that never falls
This poem appeared in Tears in the Fence issue 69.
bird brain
there is need for a nest
for the light of feathers and down
framed in a tangle of twigs
wadded within for sanctuary
there’s a consciousness of cages
traps and snares, bait and brutality
men with arms and smeared agendas
size and might to seize and grasp
there is an immensity of air
blessed thermal uplifts
half brain sleep in months of passage
the span of three dimensions
there’s a whole hand of poisons
seeds that could once have been trusted
particulate accumulations
carrion laden with lead or dicrofenac
there is a sense of territory
parameters outlined in song
menace coded into melody
skirmish concealed by spring’s minted leaves
there’s true lies and lying truths
ascents reborn from ash and incandescence
appearances in numbers as predictors of fate
gods’ messengers, vehicles of souls
there is mass manifest
in surges in streams to marshy ground
and up once more in flow motion
stippled streaks in transient flocks
there’s sets of china effigies
threesomes pinned to papered walls
there’s daffy, donald, tweetie, woody
and little blue lovers with big baby eyes
there is the strut, the preen
the mad magnificence of mating
that shower of pitches at dawn
ovals of nutrient, cracks of birth
And another from TitF 69
then and now, now and then
okay, then it was a simple thing
took but a cloth to wipe away
a brush to sweep it out of sight
trouble was, it didn’t really go
not the particles, not the dilutions
not the seepage, nor the drift of vapour
the moral choice seemed clearer then
causes were righteous and fair
accounts inked in paper ledgers
now sleights of hand
upturn perspectives - they roll
twisting and squirming from view
thick and thorny clusters
snag each simple thread of sense
limp shreds left to hang
knowing it all, we knew nothing
now we know less
learning begins
Published in 'Molly Bloom' #25
Poems
spying a kite
metres above me
the rufous revenant
stalks the air
above ripe corn
swoops low at the hedge
raptor senses
tuned for prey
so close
its markings clear
breast in sunlight
tints to pink
great dark wings
patched in striated white
two tipped tail
an elegant trail
a sense of rapture
holds me to the spot
following its circles
from here to the copse
beyond the corn
a magnetised lure
for my needled eyes
oh big chief i-spy
what could I tell you now?
Published in 'Obsessed with Pipework' #88