Best Pavements Poems
Jack Frost, Jack Frost, how we feel your icy touch.
The earth lies under your freezing clutch.
You are a sneaking thief coming to steal the russet sun,
And mercilessly take away all our outdoor fun.
Fluffy snowflakes on feathery wings unfurled,
Fall gently and silently over the sleeping world.
First they come slow and then in torrential showers fast,
As if the snowing will never stop, but forever last.
Busy streets and pavements are now lying bare.
People stay indoors. To come out, they hardly dare.
Rodents have gone into hibernation in their ditch.
It seems life altogether has gone out of pitch.
Birds sit with drooping wings in their woody nests.
Within eyeshot, no trace of any roaming beasts.
From nowhere comes the song of a single bird.
On the slopes, one cannot sight the grazing herd.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, snowflakes fall,
Surrounding us on all sides like an oppressive wall.
Tawny roof tops are crusted with flakes of milky snow,
That the sun with golden beams alone can thaw.
From the cobalt sapphire sky’s misty veil,
Fall down the snowflakes like summer hail.
Unpigmented piles get heaped on the ground,
And the Earth lies inundated in a sea of milk churned.
From the seamless sea of ice, strewn with scattered gems,
Aureate, flaxen sunbeams make glittering diadems.
Thus Nature creates variegated scenes, delighting the heart,
Superseding every piece in a museum of man-made art!
Its Raining…
God’s Cleansing Tool
Cloud-Concerto… How Cool !
Plop-Plop Plopping into Pothole Pools
On the Grass, Pavements and On My Own-Sweet- Fools…
who, don’t have Sense enough, to get out of the Rain…
… I think I’ll go Join Them… Again
Amen
Isn't it about time that the West and NATO stepped in
To put a stop to brutal aggression by Vladimar Putin
Men bound and shot, with their hands tied behind their backs
Enough is enough civilised world, it's time to launch attacks.
From cities and towns the Russians are starting to withdraw
Journalists are reporting on the unspeakable horrors they saw
Russians are preventing burials and bodies are left decaying
War crimes are being committed and we're doing nothing.
Horrific war crimes were being committed, by ISIS in Syria
Now the Russians are doing it and claiming it's fake media
Saying actors are being used and what you're seeing isn't true
But Russia we are not stupid and we can see what you do.
We see the evidence from satellite images of a scorched earth
Many bodies were thrown in pits and then covered with dirt
We see many burnt out cars with charred bodies left inside
Just some of the atrocities that Russians, are trying to hide.
Men, women and children have been tortured and left lying dead
And on the roads and pavements there's pools of bright red.
Women and girls raped at gunpoint, in front of their families
The West and NATO should act and bring that scum to its knees.
Russians are spineless with yellow streaks down their backs
They run for cover when Ukrainians launch counter attacks
They carry out abuse because it makes them feel like men
And target old men, women and defenceless little children.
I don't believe for one minute that Russia will go nuclear
All they're doing is sabre rattling and trying to instill fear
We're giving Ukraine arms but I don't think that's enough
The West and NATO need to man up and start getting tough.
There's no need to invade Russia, so it wouldn't be a threat
Just staying within Ukraine's border would be our safest bet
Drive out those psychopaths who've caused so much pain
Stop the horrific slaughter of innocents, and restore peace again.
Even if the Russians pull out robust sanctions must stay
Because Ukraine will need rebuilding and someone must pay
Everyone thought the mighty Russian army was invincible
But they're all cowardly, spineless and utterly despicable.
Written 7th April 2022
All The Time
The pale dusted blue
Washes sunlight prances
Falls in its edges of heat and pristine shade
Shadows
And I need you
Couples old and young
Hand in hand
Arm in arm
Families pass on pavements baked by the sun
They smile
Like children on shoulders
Babies in push chairs
Ice cones melting
And I need you
And every form of tree and leaf
Dances
Wafted by salt sea breezes
They leap in their slow expression
Of life
As I need you
All around the sweet sounds live
Birds chirp
People talk
The wind whispers
And eyes witness behind sunglasses
And I need you
And far away the distances
Expanses open
Lay landscapes out beneath the sun
Busy streets
Car roofs shimmer hot and traffic
All happening in this moment
As I need you
Pretty women in their summer clothes
Sip their beauty from every mans eyes
And glide like angels loved by someone
And the world is happily
Curious in its ease
And I need you
And I rest in tension
Taut and unspoken
Quiet misnomer
The wind catches me and dries the sweat on my brow
With a strangers face watching the world
As I miss you
The light falls
The shadows cosset
The gentle air wafts spent bracts of bougainvillea
The out laying pattern of life
Reiterates
Constant
Sends its everlasting messages out
And every second of time passes
In tiny frozen moments
And I need you
Nothing changes
Nothing replaces
You
Going Home
There’s been so many things
That I’ve run from
Been so many things
That I have run to
Some times with open arms
Sometimes on my knees
The dusty pavements and paths
Have welcomed me
Searching in the dark
By match burnt candle light
Walking in the tunnels
Of too bright sun light
Tracks which lead to the mountain head
Where thin air led my heart
Back to the valleys
Where you slept
Through barren grass
So many in their fields
Just veins inside a forest floor
Wandering forever lost
To the sea the roads have brought me
To the waves which can only show me
A map to guide me
Back to you
And on the tourist clouds
Which escape at sunset
On the freedom breeze
Where their colours breathe me
I no longer roam
I find my way back home
While the foot prints that I leave
No longer matter
The sands of time
Lost to their own desert
Just a life inside an hourglass
I haven’t roamed on these bridges
Of forever
Just to end the single thread
Which has lead me
Balanced on the tight rope
Of your heart
And it may be the freezing rain
Which comes to batter
And there may be no light at all
Upon the road
Still the tower of your love
Still shines there before me
A compass to guide me on
And on the day
When the sun billows into being
And the sails of love
Will find my tired feet
When your hand is no longer the ghost
Which saves me
But a palm that reaches out
To feel my own
I will no longer roam
I will have found my way
Back home
I walked with ease
a comfortable moment after sunset,
I wore clean, comfortable skin
and comfortable, casual attire.
Past glowing shopfronts
on clean, wide pavements,
warm evening slowly darkened,
a good time would be had by all.
I don't care much for the parties,
but good company is good,
just as good as a good time,
a good time would be had by all.
Until the unexpected ambush.
Glowing shopfronts vanished.
Clean, wide pavements grew dark and dirty.
I was ambushed by a gang of forgotten abuses.
I was helpless against the mad mob,
they beat me to the ground,
stomped on the back of my head,
printed my face on the concrete curb.
Broke my nose and some ribs,
bust my skin wide open,
tore my favourite, crisp black shirt,
took my wallet and my watch.
After a few bleak moments, humiliated and alone,
I scraped my sorry ****
from the sneering ground
and continued on my way.
A good time remained to be had by all,
a less good time for me,
but good company would be almost as good
as the good time had by all.
20th October 2018.
South African lockdown
Gone is the heave, the bustle and the crowds
The pavements are weeping like widows without sounds
The governments are ruling with their heads in the clouds
We should not be submissive wearing fear as our shrouds
Shops and small business are collecting dust,
certain of finally all going bust.
Who then will take care of the poor and oppressed?
while the elite dressed in their opulence remain so blessed!
Lockdowns and spikes, confusion and fear
uncertainty, poverty, protest and crime become clear
stand on your balconies, porches or steps, shout out your anger at being so misled
don’t clap for key staff members but for your freedoms instead
What is the virus which has so much clout
We are starting to question it has left us in doubt
Fear is holding us hostage with dread
We need to be working as who buys the bread?
Ease off the peddle of this vicious control
you have each country stuck in a hole
We will not be silenced our voices will be heard
We will not go down without a fight this is absurd
Release these clasps
Remove these masks
We were born free as birds
Our anger is stirred our vision not blurred
“Arms Full of Linnet Wings”
In the garden
that afternoon
she planted seeds
in their ripe minds
their eyes looking
up to hers their
irises dazzling
in the late afternoon
sunshine wide open
as if waiting hungrily
for more food
she dropped words into
their mouths which
they swollowed whole
jewels like memories
nebulous little darlings to grow
perhaps too young
but maybe one old enough
for the story to stitch
and in time graft
and re-sow
all her little goslings
in a row, eventually
swans, black or white
she could not tell
would never know
she held tight
to the moment
that Summer all a glimmer
and noon a purple glow
arms full of linnet's wings
she never ever wanted to let go
too soon
she would leave
the nest
long before them
she wondered
ceaselessly
about the three fates
and how they’d
grow
the seeds
she’d planted
in their minds
bloomed an entire
wild garden
undernourished
yet overgrown
(LadyLabyrinth)
for Lynette, with Love
“The linnet and the drush say
I love, I love” (PJ Harvey)
“To see a world in a grain of sand
and a Heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
and Eternity in an hour
A Robin Redbreast in a cage
puts all Heaven in a rage
A Dove house filled
with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thr’ all its regions”
(William Blake)
“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”
(William Butler Yeats)
The west winds of springtime
Brought forth April showers
That rained on the pavements
Of Southwick for hours.
It was standing room only
And full to the brim
As people sought shelter
At the old Tabard Inn.
A man with a top hat
Sat staring in space.
There was illness and sadness
Etched deep in his face.
A man with a fob watch
Was seen swapping gold
For a bottle of whisky
Before facing the cold.
A woman sighed deeply
Then laughed with a guest
While sipping tap water
And winning at chess.
There was no chef so no food
Since that dark violent day
When the innkeeper watched him
Being stretchered away.
So the sailor (being followed)
Missed having his tea,
And drank five pints of real ale
Before leaving for sea.
I sometimes feel a unique vibration within
my own ears. My baby’s crying, calling from beneath his quilted,
baby-blues. His sobs rustle the warm sheath of home.
Before my mind reacts, my body is up, hastily tip-toeing
into the nightlight’s calming glow of a cow jumping over the moon.
Outside a soggy, spring night splatters under streetlights
like urban art. A steady rhythm of flowing rain
beats down on puddled pavements. My baby’s cries
reverberate as they reach that instinctual part of me,
somewhere deep within my diaphragm and through my heart.
A mother’s astute ears know the subtle variations of her own
children’s breath in sleep…I hurry to the shadows of my baby’s crib
to find him curled up, eyes still closed; little whimpers
and groans escape from his open lips…a bad dream, I realize.
I gently rub his back, shushing away all that disturbs his peace,
and I wonder about a child’s impressionable mind…
what intrusions of an innocent day could bring a bellowed anguish
to the sweet dreams of a carefree boy not yet two?
I listen to him tumble in and out of his fear until his breath is a tranquil hum…
only then, do I hear the music of an early morning’s falling rain.
We were just children of different ages,
From varied places brought on different days
By the police to that one children’s home.
At first, we did not know each other’s name,
But we soon developed a bond that was
Peculiar to people in the same plight.
We were victims of abuse and neglect
In our own homes by family and kin,
So we chose to run and live on the streets.
We rummaged through garbage for scraps to sell,
At night, in parks or in pavements, we slept
‘Til the police took us in their mobile.
There were babies, too, who had been disclaimed
In hospitals just after they were born,
By their own mothers--too young or poor,
Or afraid of responsibility.
They occupied one of the building’s wings:
When one cried, the others joined in sympathy.
We were fed, clothed, and we had warm beds;
We helped Nanay* cook and prepare our meals
Tatay* cleaned the halls and kept the garden.
The other staff were very good to us.
Thus, in that place, though momentarily,
We had a semblance of a family.
Sometimes a new child was brought in--frightened,
And shy, till he warmed to our company.
The saddest part was when one had to go--
Released due to overage, or finally
Found by relations, or for adoption.
These goodbyes always brought tears to our eyes.
It was in that children’s home where I learned
Many things about love, loss, life, and pain,
And why it was that the world wasn’t fair,
And why there were those who still remained kind.
I found solace in people I barely knew
And real friendship in an unlikely place.
I can’t help but wonder where they are now;
It’s been one score and ten since my release.
Some names and faces I can still recall
But some have faded with the years that passed.
All I can do is wish them well and pray,
Like Tiny Tim, “God bless us, everyone!”
*Nanay is a Filipino term for Mother; the male counterpart is Tatay.
April 10, 2023
Lower Fairview, Baguio City
THE IRISH INVENTED EVERYTHING
Ireland invented everything; I think it’s fair to say
From the automatic office door, to the LED display
We put the first man on the moon, conceived the mobile phone
Discovered Mars and Pluto, and of course, the twilight zone
Planes and trains and trucks and cars, were all invented here
We even had the concept, of putting twelve months in the year
We invented ships and submarines, and the humble coffee cup
Sure we even made Viagra, just to keep our peckers up
We invented drums and violins, then trumpets and guitars
But playing makes you thirsty, so we invented Irish bars
We developed all the medicine, on which the world depends
Then we gave you love and hatred, and the means to make amends
We discovered beer and cider, we discovered whiskey too
And we started brewing Guinness, which is very good for you
We gave you sweets and chocolate, and all that tasty stuff
And we invented soft pyjamas, plus that bellybutton fluff
We invented roads and pavements, and we introduced the bridge
The cooker and the washing machine, we even claim the fridge
We invented mirth and humour, and we taught the world to sing
Sure you gotta love the Irish ………….. We invented everything……….
Faint scents still linger, as summer slowly fades.
Sun silently hides behind smoky clouds,
as raindrops hum in a jaded symphony,
plummeting against misty windows,
vibrating against puddles upon pavements.
Leaves drift in the chill, revealing bare branches,
rustling in the breeze then soaking on the ground,
as gloomy skies colour moonlight into monochrome.
As shivery spirits seek shelter,
swan song flowers soak in melancholic tones,
reminiscent of a forgotten mother's lullaby,
whispering softly, but never faltering.
Nature's nakedness consumes the aura of my oasis,
as cold ghosts reappear, reflecting in resentful regret.
Ebony hues discolour the textured illusion of my rainbow,
as my soul serenades its harmony for hibernation.
Children of summer are like a leaf,
vibrant with colourful hues in spring,
but misplaced in Autumn, easily carried away with zephyrs.
This responds to “Operation Raise the Colours,” where some have painted the St. George’s Cross across streets, roundabouts, and takeaway shops. Claimed as patriotism, these acts are vandalism and an attempt to erase community spaces and stirring division.
Red bleeds across zebra crossings,
slick on high street tarmac,
smearing over takeaway shutters,
stretched across roundabouts, stubborn as lead.
Rollers scrape and flake,
pigment cheap, sunlight shakes it loose,
drips into puddles,
history seeping through plaster,
like damp beneath primer that never hides the past.
The streets run red and white,
paint claimed by hands insistent on marking stone, brick, tarmac—
silence made loud in streaks and drips.
Roundabouts stand proud under fresh coats.
Slash Dulux over despair—
coverage meant to hide, but failing.
Paint bleeds over more than roadway—
onto takeaway windowpanes, pavements, shop signs—
a mural of identity, impulse, defiance.
Undercoat logic tries to cover the past,
but no sealant ever lasts.
Brushstroke patriots,
disciples of feeling,
armed with rollers like substitute rifles.
The painting’s wrap is hollow,
dressing decline as though it were destiny.
Every slogan,
a stencil sprayed on the breeze.
Pigment flakes with ease,
truth showing through the layers.
Heritage red becomes eviction scarlet,
brilliant white papered over target.
Crowns drip Crown paint onto stone,
monarchs in tester pots,
empires reduced to monochrome.
Borders cut by shaky hands,
masking tape straining against the straight line of intention.
Edges bleed in private,
lines never straight.
Revolutions run off into puddles of hate,
mirroring the sky distorted,
clouds stretched, colours torn thin.
Tins are stirred, paint slapped on the ground.
Every revolution circles round,
because property cannot be glossed,
despair cannot be mapped.
Whitewashed roundabouts cannot hide the cracks.
Paint peels, drips, bleeds into puddles,
but the fissures of history remain—
veins in stone, stories in tarmac,
layers no roller can erase.
Crowns, crosses, streaks of red and white
twirl and fall like the last dance
over streets that remember,
over walls that refuse to forget.
The cracks take the floor,
silent but insistent,
and they will not be painted over.
Disheveled and dirty she sat
A guy walking by just spat
It caught her off guard as she wiped it away
Wanted to move but decided to stay
She looked forlorn and beat
Begging for a bite to eat
I approached and offered her a tenner
Her mind I wanted to enter
I asked for her name as I gave her ***
Bent over and lit it she was clutching her bag.
"Melanie," she said as I lit her smoke
She was well educated I knew when she spoke.
The pavements were bursting with tourists
Doctors, bankers, and jurists
Buskers Acrobats, jugglers, and clowns
Filled the West End with sounds
Saturday night as busy as ever
The pickpockets thought they were clever
Approaching the people with stealth
Lining their pockets with stolen wealth.
I drowned it all out
Wondered what she was all about
I asked if she wanted some food
I saw she relaxed, that was good.
My wife bought her burger and fries
I saw the gratitude in her eyes.
I wanted to help this woman on the streets
She had more potential than one normally meets.
She once was a doctor you know
She lost her husband and her daughter
Life dealt her a mighty blow
She said between bites and some water
I asked where she would spend the night
On the pavement she said, it's alright.
I was glad it was summer.
I thought as I dialed the number
My friend who runs a shelter answered the phone
This was now up to me I would not leave her alone.
Melanie has now fully recovered
A brilliant surgeon we discovered.
The shelter still runs with a steady flow
Destitute People come and go
Melanie contributes to the cause
Fund raisers thunder applause.
You never know who is down and out
Help, No one should go without.