Poems

This Secluded Beach

This secluded beach
Where, on summer nights, lovers
Dance upon the moon


Haiku for Spring

Spring's shining brightness drives out cold shades of Winter.
I walk in the sun.


Volcano

When thunderous roars that shake the ground
Hurl rocks out from the fires of hell,
And through the air with mighty force
Until they crash upon the ground
And shatter all below;
When molten lava erupts and spews
From the mountainside,
Across the ground like glowing streams of blood
Engulfing all in its path;
While flames of glowing orange
Lick the sky and choking smoke
Whirls round in clouds of burning dust,
Offer up a red bull-calf
To placate this god of fire.


Spirit of the Woods

As twilight falls, the cooling glade falls still.
Late breezes softly shift the leaves upon the trees,
And restless shadows flicker like moths upon the mould.

The silvery fingers of the early Moon probe down into the wood.
And great boughs part to catch its image on the pool.

Then she appears, her moonlit face amidst the leaves and shadows,
A fleeting image glimpsed, then into shade withdrawn.
Forbidding in her countenance, yet beautiful as well,
Long hair tumbling down between the roots and branches
And into the jet waters of the pool.

Still silence settles over her domain.
No leaves rustle - the branches sway no more
The sacred water in the pools as still and smooth as ice:
A darkened sanctuary now hers alone -
Her mystic secrets safely kept within the sacred grove.


Una Esclava en Vente

On a painting with the same title by Jose Jimenez Aranda

She sits alone amid the milling crowd, head bowed in shame
To hide her burning tears.
A placard round her neck shows age and name:
Rhodon – a rose, and barely eighteen years.

Her long dark tresses falling to her waist,
Her youthful body naked - on display;
The merchant cries, “What price for one so chaste? ”
And likely buyers wonder what to pay.

Sadly she waits for what her fate will be
And from afar I ponder on her grace.
Were she my slave then cherished she would be
And kneeling at my feet her proper place,
As trusting slave, her duty to serve me.
What would I give to save her from disgrace –
To make her mine and bind her close to me?

To bind her close so when we are apart
Devotion keeps the image of her clear,
Which shows the strongest ties come from the heart
And loving servitude imports no fear.


The painting is reproduced at the website of the Museum of Malaga: - http: //www.juntadeandalucia.es/cultura/museos/MMA/index.jsp? redirect=S2_3_1_1.jsp&idpieza=399&pagina=4



Senryu on a Poem by Robert Frost

Precious first moments
Of Spring, Paradise and Dawn:
Nothing gold can stay.



4 Haiku on Winter

1. Winter Morning

Winter: morning's cold lies upon your back,
Like a wet, freezing blanket.

2. Warm Embraces

On cold, dark evenings lovers together entwine in warm embraces.

3. Will o' the Wisp

Misty fingers creep by frost-tinted leaves,
Like smoke from damp burning wood.

4. Star

As Winter deepened my star grew brighter:
But it dimmed as Spring drew nigh.


A Parting

This Thing -
This Feeling -
That she gave to me,
Or I took ...
What do I want with it
Now?

She looked at me
As I said it,
Moist eyes filling with
Hurt shock.

(I couldn't see through the cold rain
As she turned on her heel
And walked from me.
I don't know if burning tears
Spilled from her eyes
As she click-clacked on the pavement
Out of my life.)

Dark night,
Empty heart,
Watching Broken Heart.
She stops,
Stunned by her loss -
Returning
To plead again.
Stopping at a distance -

As I turned,
And moved
Into the darkness.

Did she cry as she stood there,
Watching me walk
Out of her life
Forever?




Great Orb Rising

Pale moonlight, cold sphere
Silently sailing
Night's skies, dark and clear.
Distant stars lighting
All that quietly sleeps,
Soon to be waking
When sunrise draws near -
The Great Orb rising.




Memories

Smoky basement - hard benches;
Men sweat - girls with stale perfume.
Warm beer spilling on the floor,
12-bar blues filling the room.

4am - frosty morning -
London's streets are empty now.
Dirty train - Euston Station -
Take us back to Watford town.

No sleep, but we are happy,
All night out at Les Cousins.
Soon to have our breakfast early -
Thinking of those bacon rolls

30 years - take but moments
To pass by in memory.
Here I sit, records playing:
Old man's teenage reverie.



On St. John of Damascus

What makes a man rich?
Not influence or learning
Nor yet high office.

Profound faith and sacrifice,
And the power of prayer.



Salford Blues


the road howls in its hard macadamised pain
as heavy traffic presses it back into the ground below
but the greater hurt
is the cheap whores' high heels
digging into the heat-soft surface

a road can only go so far

nancy straightens her stockings
tops showing beneath her pelmet skirt
the heat
her sweat showing through her blouse
her areola's showing through her sweat-damp blouse
no bra
no support
no money unless some
dirty sex-deprived bank manager
asks for depraved sex in a back alley
her back alley
if she can manage it

for money she will suck and blow
for money she will bend over
for money she will give you
the best knee-trembler you've ever had
she's an artist a professional
she takes pride in her work

for money she will manage it
but only for lust not love
a girl can only go so far
and will never kiss

and I sit alone in my lonely stinking room
damp wallpaper hanging from the wall
staring out of dirt-grimed windows
hating the Dirty Old Town
i'm stuck in
hating mccoll for writing it

hating the road i'm on
hating nancy
hating myself
hating salford

-----

they've cleaned it up now
building sites and half-demolished buildings
new roads
new houses - little boxes
all made of ticky-tacky
and all looking just the same

no smoke in the sky
just petrol fumes
and acid rain
and mcdonalds cartons everywhere
and vomit drying on pavements
from last night's beer and curry binge

nancy has moved on now
she got pregnant
and her daughter now walks the same streets
and takes her punters to cheap motels
where they drink cheap wine
and have oral
and anal

but salford
salford remains
the remains of salford
and the sirens
of the police cars
the ambulances
the fire-engines
scream through the buildings
telling everyone that the world carries on
living
and dying
and burning

the road howls
and salford screams