we kissed

we kissed in the red phone box
until our teenage lips were sore
and in your mother’s unmade bed
her hippy mattress on the floor

we kissed in the silent church yard
amongst the souls who died at war
and holding hands at nightfall
by these glowing moonlit shores

we kissed in the uncut wheat field
under golden rays outdoors
and at the party of a mutual friend
we yearned for something more

we kissed in the poetry book section
of our favourite secondhand store
and there we found the three words
we had dared not speak before

we kissed in the same red phone box
until our adult lips were almost sore
and in this unmade marriage bed
our trendy futon on the floor

 

 

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Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe

Mother made quite a fuss
Police probed, investigated us
But it was all fun, artistic fake
Making money for god’s sake

Maybe McLaren was my Manet
A cash from chaos punk cliché
My naked flesh filled the screen
Underage, declared obscene

I didn’t mind playing Victorine
Being part of his money machine
She was later the whore Olympia
And like me created mild hysteria

From a generation with no future
I drew strength from this venture
But now my Manet has moved on
Anarchic in his musical denouement

Would I change any of this?
Regret I hadn’t covered my tits?
Oh god no! Just look at that stare
I’m now a fucking millionaire.

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(photo: Bow Wow Wow album cover 1981)

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/extravagant/

Cozy Cosy

Cozy in your clothes
Cosy in your skin
Cozy with the one you love
Cosy deep within

I’m cozy that you’re cosy
Cozy with me there
Cosy when I’m spoiling you
Cozy getting in your hair

I’m cosy when we’re cozy
Cosy in your arms
Cozy when you lay with me
and share your wicked charms

home

all the while
back on Earth
people starve
poachers poach
the planet dies
and all for what?
to send Trump’s goons
to the moon?
or on to Mars?
we neglect our home
seek solutions out in space
but the grass will not be greener
in another
more remoter
otherworldly place

IMG_20171218_075445

Winter Holidays

turning circles
we tumbled laughing
watched Crossley’s men
sail out on ice yachts
their reddish-brown sails
incongruous
like butterfly wings
flapping in the frigid air

this snow clad
wedding cake landscape
of valleys and fells
high topped mountains
a whitened backdrop
to cut glass lines
here on our beloved lake
the Lake of the North

its deep dark waters
beneath our skates
and schoolboy pranks
the telling of tales
of Viking conquests
Nansen’s recent polar quest
the Fram wedged tight
exploring in a sailing sledge

but adventure was here
on these waters and shores
waiting for the right wind
to set Swallow’s sails
swooping over white waves
and home to warm Aleppo
leaving as a parting gift
a pair of Turkish slippers

Ice yacht and skaters on a frozen Lake Windermere, Cumbria, England during the Great Frost of 1895. My poem imagines a young Arthur Ransome, who was a schoolboy at the Old College in Bowness at the time, skating and taking in the action and scenery which would later inspire him to write one of the much loved Swallows and Amazons children’s books. ‘Winter Holiday’ was the 4th book in the famous series and was published in 1933.

Around the years of the Great Frost of 1895, Norwegian polar explorer Fridtjof Nansen made an attempt to reach the North Pole using the natural drift of the ice. When his purpose built ship The Fram became stuck in the ice he continued on by sailing sledge and skis. However, the southerly drift and shortage of food meant the trip had to be abandoned on 7 April 1895 and after observing that the way ahead was “a veritable chaos of iceblocks stretching as far as the horizon”.

The ‘Swallow’ children were in part based on the real life children of Ransome’s friends Dora (Collingwood) and Ernest Altounyan who in 1919 had moved to Aleppo in Syria where Ernest’s father had established an innovative hospital in the 1890’s. The children frequently visited the Lakes to see their English grandparents in Coniston and it was in 1928 that they met Arthur Ransome. Before returning to the Middle East the children gifted Ransome a pair of red Turkish slippers as a keepsake.

The image above is borrowed with thanks from a lantern slide in the collection of Stuart Jenkins, more of which can be viewed on the following link:

Ice Yacht on Windermere, 18th February 1895

InstaPoem – a silent contemplative walk through a Welsh village landscape.

I gallop like a horse
an odd sight I will admit
but the winter sun has warmed my spiritsPicMonkey Collage1past teasel heads and the old gate post
blue sky light
red dogwood stems all of a tangle
PicMonkey Collage2the winter garden rests
five tall poplars wear ivy leggings
green arrows point me south by southeast
PicMonkey Collage3to copper islands mapped out in lichens
where fungi sprouts from torn silage bail holesPicMonkey Collage4I come across a sheep stuck in wire fencing
released and thankful it contemplates me
but an empty belly needs fillingPicMonkey Collage5by the road some broken pink rubble
and graffiti in a bus shelter
taking care on the steep descent to the village below
PicMonkey Collage6
there is an upturned table in a front garden which makes for a sorry sight
as is this home wind power system
but the guardian at the door sits proud and alert
PicMonkey Collage7
some other words catch in my mane like drops of dew
Doombar and Pint
Grit and Salt
Sunday and Carvery
PicMonkey Collage8
the crossing by the school not in use
I wave to Santa waiting patiently down an alley
run my finger over carved inscriptions on tarred poles
PicMonkey Collage9
a familiar shadow greets me on the memorial
as my imaginary horse gallops off down the old railway tracks
frightened I think of the coming water jump
PicMonkey Collage10
and on to this field for budding heroes
or a blackbird cautiously walking the line
rolling without steam
PicMonkey Collage11
the people of the world communicate their anger and frustration
with love it seems
on public surfaces
PicMonkey Collage12
I hear the silent crack of a branch breaking in a storm
water flowing under an arch of trees
I open the gate here -> but the directions are just a joke
PicMonkey Collage13
here the dead miners sleep under coal black headstones
their old terrace houses have coal bunkers and outside toilets
my illusions momentarily shattered for no reason
PicMonkey Collage14
tractor tracks cross my narrow path
what I would give to unpadlock these blue doors and rummage inside
a red gate beckons its owner
PicMonkey Collage15
no more will the bell toll for the village
expanding red foam fungus escapes from a builder’s yard mess
carry me across the crumbling river bridge before we both break with age
PicMonkey Collage16
peep as we go through verdigris rust holes
down railway line supports
and on festive peeling paint colours
PicMonkey Collage17
galloping now the last stretch
a pleasant view some might think
like this starling in high wire silhouette
I come home to a sheepish welcome party

 

landscapes II

what do you see in your landscape?
under the browns and greens and
brick and stone?
the people mining?
the underwater rivers carrying off the dead?
tunnels, caverns?
echoing chambers?
choirs of burrowing worms
clambering and clawing between the rocks
and soil?

it’s dark isn’t it?

rain trickles down through the cracks
forming invisible waterfalls
some as thin as threads of mycorrhizal fungi
others mighty as volcanic vents
and voices from the floating dead
they pass through this subterranean world
without a care it seems
for the light has been extinquished from their eyes
the sun exhausted
demons and gods quelled in the name of death
coal face and pick axe
pit props and shaft air
warm like exhaled breath
and then

they are no more
and this is no more

and we are gone
called for
ushered on to a new beginning
somewhere bright where fake angels sing
or somewhere warm and comforting
where we can be free
and the conversation is carried on

 

(in the light of day I decided to edit – a little)

landscapes

what do you see in your landscape?
under the browns and greens and
brick and stone?
the people mining?
the underwater rivers carrying the dead?
tunnels, caverns, echoing chambers?
choirs of burrowing worms
clambering and clawing between the rocks
and soil?
dark isn’t it?
rain trickles down through the cracks
forming invisible waterfalls
some as thin as threads of silk
others mighty as volcanic vents
and voices from the floating dead
they pass through this subterranean world
without a care it seems
for the light has been exhausted from their eyes
the sun eternally extinquished
demons and gods quelled in the name of death
coal face pick axe pit prop
the shaft air warm like an exhaled breath
and then they are no more
this is no more
we are gone
called for
ushered to a new beginning
somewhere bright where angels sing
somewhere warm and comforting
somewhere we can be free
and the conversation is carried on

 
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/legend/