Poetry Blog by Ralph Dartford
I was something else
I know that if I wanted, I could
climb the twelve stairs,
open the battered case and pull
out that day on Venice Beach.
The photo with the Arab skateboarding,
playing saxophone - digging a scene.
I was leather jacketed, Kerouac and shades.
Sitting on rail tracks preparing my cheap
reasons for the years. Needl...
Thursday 2nd April 2020 11:46 pm
Listening to Mingus preach.
His fingers and thumbs a sermon.
A lesson from a teacher learned
but rarely practiced. That of trajectory.
Today, there is a refusal of Spring.
A dirty pillowed sky, creased and still.
There are pulled up crocuses, a silent
Mosque. An absence of the revelatory.
Wednesday 18th March 2020 3:19 pm
Don’t step upon the cracks.
For that is where the fingers
lurk that will pull at your shoe,
loosen your lace and force
you to flail face down onto
the cut glass path.
It’s here where they will turn
your ankle, snap it to the moon,
let the rats wish at its bone.
Clicking, they will unscrew your
tin leg, leave the day to the wind.
Sunday 8th March 2020 10:34 pm
Without doubt, mate,
it was about the density
of the Rediffusion days
of colour television
and the merging
of two decades.
A beautiful game
played in thin air,
keeping me in sweat,
breathing in staccato
for nearly fifty years.
A simple, sweet Samba
on a beach li...
Sunday 8th March 2020 12:05 pm