The high moors slant giddily over gritstone edges
where torrents overflow gallons of sky.
Grouse are blown sideways
by a bone-twisting gale.
The land is harried by fishtailing winds,
a sparse tufted earth blown beyond its roots.
In the valley, cats crouch; dogs snap the air
their barks as full as storm-drains.
Torrid echo’s outrun stampeding frights.
In the village pub,
locals move away from the smoke grimed
rattling windows,
gather around a coal fire in the taproom,
speak about past storms, compare and contrast.
Street sparrows survive
by doing what they always do,
though nobody knows how, what or where.
Categories:
taproom, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Shipwrecks crowd the pub taproom
a hot breath of defeat curdles the air.
There's a coal fire;
there are black tables, small and round
just enough for two pint glasses.
One cloth cap asks another:
"What you sinking?"
He means 'drinking'.
Both old men
keep their eyes anchored
to drool-stained beer mats.
Gimpy table legs
limp aside as if kicked.
Empty glasses
drip a jaded wisdom,
each foam-licked drop
falling back
into incomprehension.
Categories:
taproom, poetry,
Form: Free verse
I’m sitting at this keyboard pecking out a song,
Thinking of the kind of love that always done me wrong.
I let my mind drift back a ways, focus on those simpler days
Of courtship for women and men.
It was a whole different rodeo when…
It was pinball and pool halls,
A shot and a beer, a quarter gonna get you three plays
At your typical blue collar honky tonk joint.
Recalling Waymore and his outlaw days.
Waymore on the prowl when the cat come whispering
Play his smoke and wine for any lady listening
Sniff around the taproom with those no good friends of mine
Take the barmaid home when she gets off at closing time
It was a whole different rodeo when
You could tell from the feel of her skin
We were loving in person back then.
Now with internet dating a fly on the wall
Could choke on the internet haze.
It’s all google-eyed, cyber love, harmony crap;
I’m missing Waymore and his outlaw days.
Waymore on the prowl was a wily specimen.
Caught more tail with come-ons than with instant messaging.
Had a way with words like they were stolen property.
Left a woman knowing she’d been texted properly.
Categories:
taproom, relationship,
Form: Lyric
You are in your blue period -
turquoise swimsuit, buoyant in azure.
Behind your shoulder,
Brighton West Pier,
A snap taken at an amateurish angle,
you’re diving sideways into the waves,
the gaily painted structure
tumbling after you.
A day later, the pier burnt down.
Charred wooden bones,
black skeletal pilings stumped naked.
Vaudeville, lyceum, taproom, and arcade
once rocked beneath bunting and banners
now only wrecked rafters,
broken fingers grasping still at yesterday.
A hint of flames behind your image,
an esplanade crumbling
scorched waves.
It's the blue that saves you –
Your wide open blue eyes
your goofy blue bathing cap.
The photo is blistering,
it was a close thing,
nobody yelled fire when I took it.
~~~~~
The pier closed to the public in 1975 and fell into disrepair for decades,
However, on the 5th of February 2003 the historic U.K. Pier
was engulfed in flames.
Categories:
taproom, poetry,
Form: Free verse
The taproom is a crush.
You slide between heaving shoulders,
squeeze between pockets
of overheated laughter
to a small room set aside,
a place closeted in smoky isolation.
Here the barmaid appears on the half hour or sooner.
Mostly she’ll let the ‘snug’ be,
while a clot of patrons nurse their dark brews.
Grey mustaches puff in the stuffy fumes, noses drip.
In a cast-iron frame, a sooty anthracite smolders.
A fat creamy dog stretches on the scuffed linoleum;
as you step over it, it bares yellow teeth and farts
garnishing a long lingering funk.
There’s a rain-coated woman sipping in a corner.
You consider a few pick-up lines.
The plump barmaid arrives.
Calling for another you scurry to the counter.
Behind your back, the woman leaves.
When, with your foaming ale, you turn back to the room,
the locals are smirking,
as if they’d known all along
you would be leaving the snug - alone.
Categories:
taproom, poetry,
Form: Free verse