Places of Poetry

Here’s a wonderful poetry project that caught my attention:

https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/

‘Places of Poetry is open to all readers and writers. It aims to use creative writing to prompt reflection on national and cultural identities in England and Wales, celebrating the diversity, heritage and personalities of place.

The site is open for writers to pin their poems to places from 31st May to 4 October 2019. It will then be closed for new poems but will remain available for readers. We welcome writers of all ages and backgrounds. We want to gather as many perspectives on the places and histories of England and Wales.’

I hope I haven’t been too greedy by pinning five of my poems on the map! You can find them by searching these titles on the link below:

Dungeness
Notes from an Archaeological Dig
Winter Holidays
Ice Creams on Worthing Pier
Mên-an-Tol

https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/

map courtesy of https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/

early poetry lol

early poetry lol

entitlement

does a sense of entitlement
tangle up the mind?

– with anger and angst
– thoughts unkind

are any of our words
worth more than we need?

– food in our bellies
– air that we breathe

what value to creation
who pays and who buys?

– let’s keep it in perspective
– see truth through our eyes

our best poetry is yet to come

poetry is for the moment
not necessarily for posterity
our words will fade away
as time slips from our grasp

perhaps a few will survive
our final gasping maelstrom
to be found by some future
poetic soul on another planet

preserved in a digital casket
waiting to ease their day
maybe they’ll be as lost as us
just trying to find their way

 

when I am here . . .

Creation Blues

well I’m sitting down here on this park bench
throwing some crumbs of worldly wisdom
to my waiting flock of feral pigeons

when a gang of youths run through my faithfuls
shouting fucking pigeons and fucking vermin
they scatter, regroup, whilst I watch on

I got them Creation Blues man
Oh yes, I got them Creation Blues
Them Creation Blues have come for me

well they goose step off, my peace restored
until a fat boy and girl begin to toss
their fast food packaging upon the grass

a hooded figure dashes out into the open
thrusts a shiny blade into their bulging guts
packets of white powder falling from his pockets

I got them Creation Blues man
Oh yes, I got them Creation Blues
Them Creation Blues have come for me

well I’m sorry to say, all Hell was then let loose
wild people appearing from many dark corners
brandishing knives and fighting for the powder

I turn to see the trees being chainsawed to the ground
great plumes of smoke drifting across the park
dog barks, police sirens, gun shots, explosions

I got them Creation Blues man
Oh yes, I got them Creation Blues
Them Creation Blues have come for me

well it felt like this was the end of my world
oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph I cried
deliver me from this evil that I created

but the words were silent, my voice had died
no-one was listening
they thought I’d lied

I got them Creation Blues man
Oh yes, I got them Creation Blues
Them Creation Blues have come for me

 

mudflats

he watched the birds
come and go
on the mudflats
but his mind was dead

the piebald gypsy ponies
in the scrub
ignored him

a heron in a channel
that was trickling
with the turning tide
tilted its head
from side to side

but his mind was dead

people came and went
some said hello
some wore binoculars
statements of intent
to tick a birder’s box

and break the monotony
of their retirement years

there were waders
and noisy migrants
ducks and geese
little brown things
in the bushes
clouds that looked like

something

he couldn’t tell
he didn’t care
he could not hear
them calling

his mind was dead

but he heard the cuckoo
and almost smiled
remembering
something

unintentional collaboration

u n i n t e n t i o n a l  c o l l a b o r a t i o n

What if God has already died?

clinging to life
despite unquestioning faith
trying every treatment and trick
in the good book

taking medicine and praying for miracles
noting that neither appear to be working
money can only buy a little more time
a precious commodity

already borrowed more than half a fair share
and to be afraid of dying or admitting failings
unable to reason with creation’s end
sand through fingers run

I would be happy to go if I believed in something
I’ve always thought life is harder if you have no beliefs
Is God answerable to His own God?
What if God has already died?

nothing matters
we bounce along life’s potholed highway
avoiding oncoming traffic and unexpected
t-bone collisions

clinging to the wheel
we hope and love and cherish whatever we find
the best adventures are the ones in which we forget
the beginnings of poems about death

Ghosts

She can’t walk round the block

Because the pavement is uneven

She can’t get to the corner shop

Because there is no pedestrian crossing

She’s a prisoner in her own home

Despite having worked hard all her life

She’s dependent on the goodwill

Of her friends and neighbours

Her husband has long passed away

And her sons live abroad

She always thought they’d be there for her

The loneliness has turned to depression

Being stuck indoors has made her frail

She’s on a list for some help she thinks

But every day is more of a bother

Every day gets longer and longer

She worries about her garden

Will the man come and cut the grass

Should she pay for this and that

There’s no one to ask

Her head gets in a mess

She’s tired of fighting

She talks to ghosts instead

They crowd her bedroom each morning

Appear in odd places throughout the day

Quite good company really

She knows them all by name

She’s looking forward to being with them permanently

That’s the only thing she’s sure of

It’s all she has to look forward to

Her life has come to this