Poetry Blog by ray pool (Jan 2017)

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John Coopey on THE PULL OF HOME (8 days ago)

Tony Hill on THE PULL OF HOME (8 days ago)

Brian Maryon on THE PULL OF HOME (8 days ago)

keith jeffries on THE PULL OF HOME (8 days ago)

raypool on DELILAH (8 days ago)

Graham Sherwood on THE PULL OF HOME (8 days ago)

Tony Hill on DELILAH (13 days ago)

John Coopey on DELILAH (14 days ago)

Graham Sherwood on DELILAH (14 days ago)

raypool on DELILAH (14 days ago)


From the uncertain depths of diplomacy

rose up this Kraken

his massive mouth spouting

and no one knows the ocean's mind

or the depths that it can sink to.


In the ascendancy he is

scornful of harpoons

the hide impenetrable

so, all you travellers on the seas

and on your land and in the air

remember to take some extra care

as others legitimize those loony tunes.

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I went to my cupboard

but Mike Hubbard was bare,

so I closed the door

and left him there

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pavements are damp

people like towels brought in

off wet dripping lines

or as ducks flapping in packamacs,


windows defy gaze under blinds

crying tears with their wares.


Mr. Protheroe stares out from his outfitters

at the rain running away with itself.

Damp slate answers back a sky

hewn from hills.


There are buses due, themselves

havens of damp, Cerri...

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After the rain the sun

after the sun the North Circular's joust

low silhouettes of abrupt streets

then sunset of Essex

no brochure could contrive.


    In the marquee the tableware set

reams of cutlery arranged

flattering on white

napkins rising majestically

small flower sprays,

a legion of glasses

and profoundly grinning the melon segments

with their tears ...

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Now he was stuck with the body

in control of it but not of himself.

He spooned an eye from its socket

angry after the kill,  his purpose spent


the  climax had been in the planning

subtle persuasions of trust, manipulation

and now here on the plateau

it always felt this way

and he needed a memento.


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Here on the winter high street

things were looking up

footfall strong, shops brisk

then I saw the bundle on the ground

Big Issue seller, news of

Trump the billionaire

a moment for that bright hair.


Coin of the realm slowly trickled down

discs of bright conscience

salves of small guilt.


under his hood shined in my vision

a former dweller under different sk...

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I used to believe that belief was pivotal

that signing your life on a dotted line

was like a club for the initiated

the way to go, you know what I mean

but doubts have left me blinded by the light

I find life more comfortable not knowing why

and solace in the darkness of a starry night.


Despite the pleadings of suits and cassocks

those moral dimensions never rang true


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second hand books like refugees

dog eared,

the worse for their experiences

wait patiently in rows

psalms embalmed

some with photographs tight held


loved by the departed

resources behind

and around their spines

obituaries of once -  bright age

of facts captured



like refugees they come and go

to join new families

in new musty ranks

in holdin...

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I quote an example of father and son

caught short on pavement patrol,

in a sort of urinary pact

with me knee high to a railing or two

descended by steps past sanitary tiles

to an urban subterranean loo.


Light flooded in

pee flooding out

a place of muted shared relief

a haven of water relieved of a spout.


Nothing was said as we stood at the troughs

an init...

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There are those tuned for doing good

trained to lift spirits

dissolve moods

the rare birds.


She is one,

Becky the masseur

two doors down

bungalow bound

hemmed in by duty

and pressured love.


    My face is pressed down into the hole

    all her weight on me

    trust blending with thrust

    Mademoiselle masseur


    tight as a serpent's wish


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They've been to the pictures in Pontypridd

Yul Brynner, they're not sure which film

they can't concentrate what with the

scent and lust in suspension.


Commercial traveller takes time out

over in the valleys.              Her home

quite forlorn on the steep industrial street.

All this is in his mind

as they ascend the stair

the revelatory behind

close enough for v...

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first posted in August 2015


sad ignoble fox

comes a - scavenging

silent as a thistle blown

nuzzles the bins, their humpty backs

for smorgasbord and bone


thus with brisk and skulking eye

seeks out our surplus

cast off on a tide


this wild and weary fox trips out

may starve may thrive

where death may hide.

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APRIL 14 1912

soon I shall be gone into the void

into the cold cold spaces between these stars

whilst this water supports me

and my life thus far


the past is all I know

and now has stopped here.


Take me from this pool

from this manger of death,

my will fades, I begin to see shades

of something I never knew.


Goodbye cruel ship

cruel fate

I will not be late.

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APRIL 14 1912

Soon I shall be gone into the void

into the cold cold spaces between these stars

while this water supports me

and my life thus far


the past is all I know

and has stopped here


take me from this pool

this manger of death

my will fades

I begin to see shades

of something I never knew


Goodbye cruel ship

cruel fate

I must not be late.

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A stream of blues funk runs at my back

Steely Dan

highlighting those great days

when the now was all and more .


I tick off receipts on a thin bank statement

guess that's what came out of all that


but still that music runs with the tide,

holds some answers


and I dip my toes in the water

refreshing memories of those

great days

when I invented promise, ...

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The locals were knuckling down

clearing streams, tackling graffiti

pupils photographed with medals

face painting at obscure galas

somebody minding their own business

beaten up

a notorious black spot

head injuries

scalding letters about local planning

locking horns over backhanders

and transparency.


It was all there in the local rag.

    Then I saw the photo...

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And then was the Winter

asphalt buried for months on end

hope frozen into a rictus

of discontent

birds all black, a St.Vitus dance

in greying skies vainly searching,

sludge in the veins

trees by fossilized distance framed

swans skating

telegraph poles bending low

draping sinews in dislocating snow.


Here at Buckingham (British Railways)

a good train delayed ...

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One star seemed to separate itself

a traveller,

silver sheath at light speed

a mote,

and as if hanging

cast a swathe of itself

as the old Earth came into view

and its front slid back

became an eye.

Once there had been a moon, tides

a sun's rays,


now there were other contenders.


The arid Earth had turned its back

seeking a new master,

weary in ...

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