I keep the soft fire that guides me,
step by step through doubt and hope,
growing into the self I was born to live.
late, unnatural,
and made in chicago.
city-bred all over yesterday.
an irate ashanti,
in the ducts and alleyways
of tomorrow.
awaits the god-type,
the omniscient zulu;
the stone;
the voice of america
in black english.
they are yours
and mines;
the hard-boiled
cookery of virtuous noise.
a polyphony wrapped
in aluminum foil
on a tedious shelf
w/bits of mythic statuary,
petite reliquary
of gastronomic demise,
and jars of jazz
sit motionless,
mummified
in gifted dishes.
they are the cool
epistemologies
that gel I the mixing bowl of life
that sudden slap
in the face of time
and the subsequent freeze.
(for James)
Did you know?
Would you like to know?
Well let me tell you something
You didn’t even know
You didn't want to know.
(9/25/25)
Martin
Softly spoken, conscientious, thoughtful, union man,
The proud son of a nurse, no stranger to, “the pan”,
Loving the blues and blue grass, I’m a Bolton Wanderers fan,
Feeling hopeful, happy or sad, I walk outdoors when I can,
Fearing for the grand-kids, the planet, the common man,
Hoping for peace in Gaza, Ukraine and Sudan,
Bolton, North West England, made me who I am,
Challender
I can't believe the grand-kids used be so small,
they're two very special boys,
growing fast, they'll soon walk tall,
the time we spend is special, sharing hours of joy.
I wandered the Vale and Harvington,
A singin' me songs with passion,
Back then I liked to live frugally,
But me melodies were never on ration!
One evening whilst singing in Banbury,
The Police pulled up in their car,
Out stepped a tall copper
I'm in trouble now proper!
But he wanted to play my guitar!
I wandered around the city streets
I roamed away so far,
With stories of women and nights suppin' ale
And a kippin' in the back o' me car!
I sang in the pubs of Evesham,
I felt like the star of the show,
But the very next day I'd be rockin away,
It's that busker again Trevor Yeo!
My Gallery
In upper part of my body
A cognitive bell rings
From a dial-up connection
of live wires
The modem is working just
To repeatedly provide
the facsimile of
Barren and bald paths
Inner lumbering of daily freight
Coiling, clutching upward
There is no vivacity
The vital force has parasited
How I inhale life?
My days and nights are bolted
Inside a brain cell,
My voice has held back
It lays a plan to brawl my soul
Residing in my own skull
Dictates notes imitating my tone
I couldn’t disintegrate my recall
As my shadow has left me
There remains Just I, me and myself,
Why is my brain a black hole?
Could it not be a universe?
Of a constellation of migraine, tablets
Syringe, backache and insomnia
Dream has become a dead pattern
As worn out as fossil led glow
Everything has become identical
Except the weight of consequence
That has variations of endurance
As I go through perdition
My imbalance will be rectified
Hang my art on the wall
As after allotted time
My gallery will end
the smell of the leather
the fizz of the seam
thump into the gloves
its seems like a dream
the smell of the ralgex
the wince in the hit
strain of the scrummage
that I had to quit
the smell of the chlorine
the click of the hub
the ache of the thighs
no more, that's the rub
the smell of old photos
of passions now spent
now just memories
that history has sent
once all were passions
that soared on the wing
some things so central
that made my heart sing
Now while I can't scrummage
Play cricket no more
nor tri-ing to run,
I can't shut the door
Cos these were my passions
my soul they did touch
they filled me with joy
i miss them so much
but hope springs eternal
my hip has no pain
my doctor said "yes"
I _may_ run again
while i'll never scrummage
or face one more ball
one passion returned......
To answer the call
The smell of the sweat
the pounding of feet
on trails and on roads
passion - on repeat
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