For my Father

In dreams my father is with me.

He lives in his nightmare wide awake.

In dreams my legs buckle.

He falls in his nightmare.

I see him, we cannot speak,

his frail hands outstretched to his child.

His hanging mouth a cave

with all his life inside, forgotten.

Asleep in his bed like amber in linen,

withered by time and ages rot.

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Larkin lived on Dixon Drive

now he's still dead

and I'm alive.

He stacked books

with referenced spine

and trousered coin,

paid in fine.

I lived just off Ethel Road

half a man

but full-on toad.

Crushed into my loutish form

dull schooling

shaped me

to this norm.

Phil moved on,

to Queens and hope

with less despair

and longer rope.

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Tree

of joy,

of pagan

rite, reaching out

on this silent night

rain your spores that all may

know, seeds of hope take and grow,

to bloom in man’s infertile heart

where once love stuttered, it might restart.

I have succumbed to the temptation of a reverse nonet. I don't often take part in these exercises but in the spirit of celebration thought I might. Tha...

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All the poets of all the kings

with all their fine imaginings

have only ever offered up

the favoured flavour of their sup.

with words so lofty, full of grace

persuading of their given place,

that they alone could fill that space.

Emblazoned coin, gods chosen face.

While those of us with poets eyes

not blessed with pardons for our lies,

see through the c...

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Women cradled newborn babes veiled with a mothers blood,

their hands steady and assured.

Their love knew no jealous god, no book or holy ground,

their voices spoken not written.

Beaten and defiled by men borne by woman's pain,

men corrupted by instruction and fear.

Their bodies vessel's of nurture and hope, broken by hate,

bloodied fists against bare flesh.

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