I made dinner at 10:30 tonight.

Fried Kielbasa, macaroni and cheese, cinnamon applesauce, and 

buttermilk biscuits. It’s what I always eat when I’m missing home. 

I had everything finished and on the table, except for the biscuits.

I never remember to start them ahead of time.

So, I waited— watching them impatiently through the window in the oven door, 

and I could hear...

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Some of us appear to have forgot

that the train service has stopped

else why are we all stood here waiting like a bunch of goons?

Soon they’ll be pulling up the tracks

and when Mr Henry gets the sack

the grass will grow and the whole place will return unto the dunes.

Choo choo train where have you gone

now don’t you know we need you?

How in the world are you supposed to get...

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My dreams locked behind

A thousand doors,

My genuine voice,

Life without remorse.

Self-portrait that’s free

Of the wrinkled despair,

Rhetorical questions

Of how and where.

Whimsical, drunken

Scent of the hope,

A love letter

Burnt in the last envelope.

I stepped on this land

And time ceased to exist.

Since then I had wondered

Whose image it is.

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And I trip over old dreams 

again and again…

Five hundred times…

A thousand…

Endless shaky steps…

Where I loved you

like a million blue whales…

And I often long for the youth 

of those ageing thoughts…

Never ending pretty helium balloons 

reaching for the sun…

Knowing they will never arrive…

And what a beautiful, 

yet painful sight…

A sea of sorr...

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A babe in a pram,

Wheeled down Lord street,

At the speed of a tram.

Mouth engrossed with jelly and swine,

Melting fine

Michelback’s prime.

My mum grew up on these pies,

I too.

As an infant into the 80’s,

pate mini pork treats,

from Grimes butchers.

I suppose it is what you grew up with,

Your tastes, your clutches.

Jelly, pastry, succulent meat,

which ...

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I was enjoying sitting in the garden, pondering the beauty and the timelessness of nature, compared to the fickleness and unreliability we see in our leaders and found myself writing a villanelle. First draft below – may yet be edited but I wanted to share it now.

Constancy

Reminders of a life, a dream now torn
Scabia, flags and tulips, forget me nots
Behind the privet hedge a rolling lawn

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Marketplace

This space is like a ghost town

Trestle tables row on row

Echoing with the hustle bustle

Vendors cries of long ago

I held my mother’s hand

And listened to them shout

‘apples sixpence a pound

Come on get your money out!’

Comics stored in cardboard boxes

Toys stacked high on stands

Gleaming in the Friday sun

Just out of reach of sticky h...

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I cant seem to wrap my head around, the reason that you left. 

Maybe I'm tired or just coming down but your voice is all that's left in this silence now, I cant really answer when or how.

Sticks and stones may break my bones; but your words destroyed me 

And they tell me not to dwell, just to let it on go but as the silence grows louder I'm losing grips of the rope. If only I could carry ...

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I wonder what happens

To the poorly drawn images

We keep abreast as children,

Sheltered inside our notebooks and their crinkly pages.

I envisage those pages accompanying

Balloons, bubbles and butterflies,

And the colors in them adorning

The sallow face of the sky.

I like to believe that my poorly chalked out blades of grass

Somehow appended the greenery on earth

Or th...

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My Mother’s Kitchen

I’m in my mother’s kitchen

It’s a Monday afternoon

The oven’s heated up the air

The buns will be out soon

Everywhere there’s an aroma

Of cinnamon and spice

An apple pie sits on the table

I’m waiting for a slice

A black-leaded coal fire

Does it’s best to dominate

The heat and the smells

That the baking permeates

An old fridge hums...

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Corners caress the bricks

breading that familiar shape,

in which to pace fingertips,

reimagine and fall

the abode of cliché,

the same smitten desires,

plotted here in prints of feet

the way they moved,

the way they moved,

the way they moved,

nostalgic tracks swoon you low

to the floor, roused but not here.

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When sun comes against all odds

And the colours of life just pop

Or when the rain falls

It falls and falls

And you wet your lips

With piping hot tea

With warm biscuit

Savour the crumbs

Cosy and safe

In the arms of a jumper

The padding of the sofa,

Like a huge hug

Or when your face aches,

Your stomach vibrates

Because you are fighting to breathe

Through ...

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The complication of those earrings
the texture of the paint around your eyes
the sun's highlights in your hair

The redness of those parting lips
such belief in everything we said
the pristine shape of your nose

Lying on the roof
your head close to my heart
summer blushing the sky
weren't we beautiful
weren't we beautiful then

Nothing to fret about
just prolong the passing day
sw...

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rhyme this with everything I am

bit of everything I have

rhyme this to make it livable again

at another needed moment, from the corner of my head. 

squeeze this into another view

or lay it out, spread on by you

or anyway that translates bliss

to blissless stormful blanks

that look for it parched, helpless

without thanks

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heatwave

it were cracking’t pavements

the sky were chelsea blue

you were sucking cider

from an ice lolly

cos they said it made yer drunk

and we pretended it did

when yer scored a goal

on’t hay coloured pitch

yer mates were hot ‘n sweaty

and their celebrations

trickled down yer back

and salted yer lips

there were standpipes

at end’er sherwood...

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Christopher,
I don't know
what it amounts to, 
or
if there is to have
any sort of 
meaning to 
what we etched, 
scribbled 
or blabbered, 
in the utmost 
drunkenness 
of times.

I sure don't find any reason for that, now.

2

I was,
indeed,
reading our letters, 
today.

Another time, 
another history,

Wasn’t it, though?

3

Did we merge into 'another' reality, somehow...

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I've got green stained knees 
they remind me of you.
its the color of what once was your room
that you always said you hated,
yet you never bothered to paint it.
where we stayed up till 4 am
dreaming of our future flat.
visions of blue walls
and pictures of waterfalls
because you were in to that sort of thing.
Now I'm laying in the summer grass
as God’s tears come trickling down,
storm...

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Spiritual Hymns

Are the essence of a highschool choir
That sings often the sounds of Queen in the style of acapella
But also the rolling notes of Ezekiel Saw the Wheel
And the thumping heart of Elijah Rock.

How Can I Keep From Singing
When piano pushed
And the opening notes gently pulled in, to meet a booming brillance
My life goes on in endless song
And I recall the disconnect...

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The landlord called this morning

Said that she could tell I just woke up. To call her back later.

The cold was different to me, this late morning
Hazy, paired with rain
Drizzled, Murky, Heavy air that swept through the knit of my hoodie.

The branches lay next to the garage in a consecutively non-organized fashion, taken back by hand a few times

 To the old burning pile ...

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Here's a kind of slaggy one:

Bags:

Where are those carrier bags?

No, not those recycled poncy type.

The slaggy ones, a slip of plastic, 

with Key Markets or Tesco on the side,

Like me Mum had.

Throw away ones - which is exactly

what you did.  

Shamelessly, without a single qualm. 

plenty more where they came from.

Don't get me wrong, I salute those 

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A wistful vagueness presides over my aura

The night was clearer than ever

Now wasn’t the time,

Now I was headed to a service sublime

But do I regret these impressions viewed from my window?

Never

This ‘ere song from a vintage past

It crooned of simpler days,

It blasted my hopes into the freezing air

Carried me back to a time that wasn’t there

And I couldn’t help ...

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The end of the season

Brought to a close

Even when there’s a reason

Summer comes and goes

Do you know your summer’s a-fading,

Do you remember?

The hot sun, the warm cooled nights waning

Into September.

School was gone, and I — carefree all along

Oh! Now my old school worries are back

As that sun sets, I’m in sad song

Those shining days, soon to lack

The air beco...

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Present — past

Past — gone

Looking back and remembering the yesterdays

Is wrong.

*

Where is NOW?

Where is it?

Living in the THEN…

No, that’s not NOW, not it!

*

The ghost of yesterday

Is in mind

But looking back

Is the NOW you’ll never find.

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Returning Home

Will the birds sing in the garden

Will we go down to the sea

Will we build our castles of sand

Will there still be scones for tea

Will my father still be smoking

Will he jog me on his knee

Will summer days still last forever

Will there still be scones for tea

Will we dream of great adventures

Will westerns still be on TV

Will we sit ar...

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The Making Of A Worker.

The lorry tips its rubble

On the road outside our house,

the privet hedge engulfed

in a primordial cloud of dust,

it drives away in chugging glee

having spilled its heavy load

and we stand and watch it go

as the carbon mountain settles.

The sergeant-major father

barks his orders at the troops

and our little hands clasp tight

the...

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California by day,

Las Vegas by night,

with flat caps, deckchairs,

and other English sensibilities,

once dying, maybe still,

while trams rattle declaring

sealife promises,

to stargate pleasures,

to Cher and her 'life after love',

entwined with the pulse of a rollercoaster.

Sounds of Saturday football matches,

played hard on soft sand,

menace resting seagull...

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I miss the little things.

My schoolyard friends,

The summer's end,

My childish dreams.

And fear this too

Of tomorrow's day.

When I will say,

Today was full.

If Hope lies ahead

And happiness back,

It can only track

That now is dead.

The present is skiewed,

By what was then,

The future's when,

And how they're viewed.

,

...

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When I started freelance piano

London pubs were my salvation

I cut my teeth on lonely bars

in decrepit streets or bland estates.

Those hesitant efforts of mine rang out

to frame the lager and the stout

with familiar figures in leatherette chairs.

cardigans and flares with afro hairs.

Sleeves rolled up and braced for action

the working man and his satisfaction.

The sti...

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The railway carriage, a lurching labyrinth

of doors corridors people crabbed in passing

had stopped with its locomotive up front

fuming with rage

held back by down signal  on our cage

of viaduct leaning into a curve.

The day boiled, the rails hissed in waiting.

I looked at the street below active

and unaware of us.

Up close the racks and maps, smiling hills in paste...

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Look close, look far

too far?

(too far)

Cars come, cars go

tortured, metal boxes, smudged colours

on tattered tarmac.

Pneumatic drill sounds, distant

hammering, dry clatter

on summer paving.

A man, newspaper

folds and departs kiosk

shimmered in sun.

The calls from traders

I heard them, then

did not hear them

(refused to hear them).

Stepped inside a p...

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Once Upon A Time

Pop wagons
rattling and clinking
with their gaudy shades
of potions slopping.

Coal lorries
groaning up the hill
breathing their dragons breath
of carbon dust.

The aged magik
of a ramshackle
cobblers hut
and the clanging of the last.

The shout of
“Rag and Bone”
echoing down
a Monday morning.

Tobacconist 
selling chocolate cigars
to little mimics
of the...

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Drowse

When there are no mirrors
I am young again
Sitting in the warming glow
of distant years
The aches and pains
will all be gone tomorrow
The days are long
and never seem to grey.
Parents are in another room
just out of hearing
The T.V has three channels
all black and white
Three meals a day
are sitting on the table
The bonfire smoke
creates the evening dusk.

Another time I...

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A sheet of ice on black pavement gleaming

As frost, settled on shrubs, illuminates

A white powder morning and activates

The sound of grass, underneath feet, crunching.

I with my twin brother wander, beaming

Along the path untouched, to what fascinates

The mind of two children and resonates,

Bridging the gap between awake and dreaming.

For brief moments the world was fr...

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Oh how I miss the Northern Charm

Builders' Tea and Bacon barm

Pie ’n’ peas and Cheshire cheese

Drivers that stay calm

People speak without a plum

Ecky thump and ee by gum

Tripe and Onions, Granny’s bunions

Boddies Bitter bites yer bum

Cheshire cats the grinning mousers

Tacchini wearing scally Scousers

West Pennine shower, Blackpool Tower

Our backyard and ...

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Here’s the suit I wore when I was newly born

It’s not worth taking to the charity shop

People today prefer brand new,

So may as well drop it in the skip

Ah, my favourite old t-shirt

Once I wore it every day

But now may as well rip it up and make it into cloths

It’s only thin, it’ll easily rip

I know that jacket so well

I wore it on my wedding day

It’s rather...

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Any Winter Saturday In Nineteen Seventy

multi-coloured, sweet, cloying battenberg
taking away the bitter taste of defeat
it’s yellow and pink uniformity
In sharp contrast to the soft curves of the settee
putting ones and two’s and crosses
next to the selections on the pools
a dirty yellow stain hangs over the chair
where my father coughs and splutters on his tea

blacks and whites and ...

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Disco nights

Flashing lights

The Dee Jay sets the beat

Ah, those youthful days of discothèques

Of short skirts and dancing girls

At the club down Oxford Street

Wide collared shirts

And tapered flares

We’d check out the gorgeous girls

Every girl was a beauty

And every chat up line was good

Though they didn’t always work as well as they should

...

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Fake nostalgia spews out from your head

For a sepia England that was never there

Hatred junkie, you know

Where the blood river flows

Feel the bile at your knees

Marching bands drown out your higher brain

Blaring voices drive your soul insane

Hatred junkie, you feel

Like a cog on a wheel

Grinding so out of time – after time

God made you useless

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SKOOL DAZE

At our school we wore red ties and big, blue, woolly sweaters.

Groaning, frowning, learning all those numbers, saints and letters.

The nuns were big and ruthless and they loved to swish the cane.

The summer skies were always blue, it never seemed to rain.

I had a cat sewn in my bag - I couldn’t read my name -

till some wise wit made fun of it – I n...

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In that place

The summers were always hot and the skies completely blue.

And in that place

Where nothing ever hurt me

A lie was never spoken; it was all completely true

In that place

When the morning sun spilled into my room and woke me

Then I’d be up and out and riding my bike

And in that place

The place where I’d be the fastest biker ever

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I close my eyes

and as I doze

years melt away

I see as clear

as that distant day

the railway station

steam trains abound

promise of travel

to distant towns

the sight and sound

of the mighty engines

as they rhythmically

hiss, chuff, whistle

and clank their way

on the bright iron rails

midst billowing clouds

starting, ending,

con...

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a well-spent ninepence

was all it took

to leave a headscarfed mother

in some chattering queue

for luncheon meat

or lardy cake

and step inside the transport

taking us

to Planet Zog

Or Dead Man’s canyon

via Keystone or some cartoon city

where,

fortified with Mojos

and Mambo juice

in strange shaped cartons

we’d jostle for the back r...

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