Friday, 29 January 2016

For Colin, a poem

With North-East wind,
A broad man strides,
Though hickory docks,
Down Jarrow lines.
The pave is gold,
Soot air picks clear.
Past Wear-side reeds,
Who up and cheer.
By mounts’ t’ west -
Comrades f’ t’ fixed.
Lush locks lavish
Quixotic gifts
With oaken will,
T’ward smoky settle.
Wi’ coal-tressed feline,
In canny fettle.
Maple necked,
‘neath smile, now inked.
‘Bove lowly pitches,
Sage acorns wink.

His step ne’er swayed,
Nor flounced, nor flittered.
It swang, like us,
Souls’ stout, not bitter.
Three, four times stitched,
Us gathered cast -
With charm, not needle:
Raise life’s thin glass.
A gentle-man, allus,
Hence, now an’ afore.
Wi’ heart the size
O’ the Roker Roar.

Tuesday, 26 January 2016

A Worker Bee's Tryptich

Worker Bee's Triptych 

The apis jacket sits,
On bentwood orange chair.
The neatly coiffured spits
Colombian everywhere.
A headline screams out wild:
Of injust 'over there'
While some poor bastard child,
Makes socks for him to wear.
A Paul Smithian malaise,
Spread thin on life's biscuit.
On this, our bee does graze.
Transformed, away it flits.

The insect flies atop,
Through humid altitudes,
Striped Everest of cloth,
Surveys the horrid view: 
Two-legged creatures fuss,
An' toil, cross bloodied tracks.
Through biohazardous,
For queen and export tax.

The queen, they say, she does:
Reign o'er them lot too.
Her golden hive a' buzz;
Grey workers out of view.
These stately 'olidays!
Won't stop the sweatshop truck.
She "works so hard" they say;
Our insect friend is fucked.

For who to be our bee?
A pin-up for the daft?
Or potent allegory:
Six-legged god of graft?
This shallow grave-ed soul
Kept their tootsies warm.
They now turn blue and cold.
Beware the coming swarm!

Performed at Peoples' Republic of Poetry

We Got W.

We Got W.

Knock-kneed willow
My coquettish fetish
This patented Brillo 

Auburn strands
Of sixties bands
Dress that shifts
Tectonic plates of 
Sta pressed lands.

For stands,
Still... to be
Long agos
Worlds apart


A Girl made of Squares Rattles on the Bridge

A girl made of squares rattles on the bridge

She wears a dress all thin 
From the house of knife thrower
With tears to let the wind in
Our beneficial daggers 
Keep Miss

The whip-crack sound is left
A coin sized button or two 
Could shield the river's breath
The two sides of Velcro do
Not match

This pale black ringmistress
Stands tall with empty hat
The fat seals clap in judgement 
The 10 scores acrobat 
Her Back
Back flip

Anonymous splash in wavy capitals
As tourists snap to remember
Stops breathing to forget
The deathly clowns last tear
From ear
To ear
To down there

Just a cardboard name plate left
On her circus office door
Headstone t' bereft
Read aloud folks just once more:
Out to lunch


For Rachael, a poem

A branch near fell
Where good friends sit
Wit' hand you shook
I whittled it.
To call and form:
A bravery stick.
And measure all
Of else with it.


Afore a' knew

Afore a' knew
I sank a seed
Aft it grew
A poetry