Songs from a life, sounds like the blues,
microwave fries, pot noodle, stews,
dead on two legs, only half-nine,
saying yes, to the overtime,
this months rent and the kids' new shoes.
Paying forward, paying your dues,
when there isn't much left to lose,
longing for friends, weekends and wine,
songs from a life.
Cut price make up covers the bruise,
somewhere hard cash, won't look for clues,
warning the kids to keep off-line,
praying tomorrow, turns out fine,
unreported on last nights news,
songs from a life.
In Air Jorden’s he strode proud,
with name-brands he stood
apart.
In closets
sneakers walked
not far from their boxes.
Heel to toe stock grew
Well known on eBay,
to barter, trade and pay
he paved the way
Fake stuff,
imitations led to
litigation
financial gloom.
Nike rued the day
his wife
put down her foot
gave him what for,
then ran away
in cut-price
footwear.
Man Isle
From Russia with love ten thousand missiles
All for NATO the US Europe and Ukraine
Forged in battle ordered fired by Putin
New way to do things poor cold soldiers
Sent to battle warm them up!
Peace sells nobody’s interested
Unless it's cut-price Vipers or stealth jets
Locked and loaded get you some blood
Neo Soviet Ivan style a few new scalps
Doesn't matter we weren't enemies
Pretending is fine as Putin does it
As he plays top dog woofing along
His ongoing Ukraine war after Syria
Where will be next the Isle of Man?
I find myself foraging, basket in hand
among the cocoa harvests of distant lands.
A shaft of light crashes
like a Chinese paratrooper
through the store’s skylight,
rays pierce high-stacked shelves,
beam upon all-consuming shoppers,
flash briefly upon brimful spandex.
It is then I realize that all I need is you,
not cut-price plastic hole-fillers,
from this warehouse of empty dreams,
nor anything blue, green, or yellow
seen on T.V.
but then I remember the wine
and beers in aisle twenty-two -
but I still I love you.
I find myself foraging, basket in hand
among the cocoa harvests of distant lands.
A shaft of light crashes
like a Chinese paratrooper
through the store’s skylight,
rays pieces high-stacked shelves,
beam upon all-consuming shoppers,
flash briefly upon brimful spandex.
It is then I realize that all I need is you,
not cut-price plastic hole fillers,
from this warehouse of empty dreams,
nor anything blue, green, or yellow
seen on T.V.
but then I remember the wine
and beers in aisle twenty-two -
but I still I love you.
I find myself foraging, basket in hand
among the cocoa harvests of distant lands.
You ask patiently: what do you need?
As you speak a shaft of light crashes
like a Chinese paratrooper
through the store’s skylight.
The ray pieces high-stacked shelves,
beams upon a huddle of overweight shoppers,
flashes briefly, illuminating brimful spandex,
The light dances over that look you have,
and I suddenly understand
that while our bodies don’t so often
pound love into speaking flames –
nevertheless, I still want only you,
not cut-price plastic hole fillers,
nor anything blue, green or yellow
seen on a T.V. in aisle 3,
not even toffee.
Here in this warehouse of hope
we have again blundered into our reality
the way Adam and Eve must have
in that other overstocked Eden,
and how like Adam ever since,
I sometimes blow you off
to pursue a pack of beer
on sale in aisle twenty-two.
Not a good year for the roses
Cut price Valentine roses
languish in black buckets
heads drooping like a rejected lover
Calorific candy confectionery in boxes
covered with cardboard love hearts...
still waiting to pass ruby red lips
‘Be my Valentine cards’
now half price -
buy yours ready for next year!
2/15/19
Why am I drawn
to this scowling girl
selling her poems
in a Shinjuku underpass?
Every Tuesday she is here,
next to a Nikon ad,
threatening commuters
with her cyclostyled angst.
Busy people keep up
with the times,
do a tap dance
on their smartphones.
Only drunks buy poetry.
Grubbing for their last,
sweaty coins, they
mock her with every purchase.
First published in Eclectica Magazine
The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.