Great poets inspire; we aspire to write only the adequate, the good;

Perhaps the funny or the emotional; and we are satisfied.

Are you the poor homeless beggar that was given

A good kicking by Paul?

 

Different people from all walks of life

Sharing their love of the written word

Swallowing our different realities

Confined in the rhythm of Thomas

And the dirtiness of Bukowski

Under the kitchen table

 

Black, incandescent eyes glowed in the darkness

You made me feel right in the world

Blessed, beloved

Loved like Laurel and Hardy

 

Flow wild in the rhythm of Thomas

Blow away the winter to leave a summer's day.

I remember when we sat in your room

Where musty sweet books bowed(?) on shelves

Pale-breathed cattle told the tale

Of 'daffodillies' and 'sunbeam showers'

 

Mr Bleaney's Death March

Lifts the tone. All books are crap.

All shame is lost.  The air is thick

With remembered poems and forgotten names,

We will leave the Art Gallery hoping for Billy's rain

 

This blank page where my fingers move

Witches & poison & foxes.