Tyres Poems

On A Rainy Evening in The City

Your ear has to be
tuned to hear 
the City's rhythms  
buried below the noise
and be able to discern 
a melody woven through
the dissonant chatter
as in the rumble and splash 
of motorcar tyres moving 
along streets slicked 
with watery reflections
and in the jarring grind
of tram wheels,
screeching brakes 
and warning bells
and in the cadence
of human voices 
as heard in quiet 
conversations and loud 
yells - to feel
a sense of elation when 
all the scattered notes 
of a City come together  
and you hear
its surprising song.

Is this immoral to you or am I just too excited?

JULY 2023

Hazy, Rampant, Hammering
Foggy-headed, I must be lazy enough to put just the right effort in.
It drips down and stains the pore.
My disease is acidic, fatal,
And the way that your alkali sense draws me in ...
How I'd beg to neutralise once more.
But the ants won't push against my unmoving tyres.
And anywho, isn't this against your morals?

Vivid, Violent, restless still
I'm floating away, I'm just really not lazy enough to notice it.
I'm ruining your favourite dress,
Your uniform for every non-uniform event.
Please don't let me soak you.
Please disappoint me again. Or you could prove there's no shame,
Because either way, at the end of my every walk, I fear that I'll be the same as my love for you when it isn't to see your uncloudy eyes,
But I'm not being lazy enough.
And I'm trying so hard to not try hard,
But I don't think it was ever really enough.

Hopeful Hearts

Old wishes carried into the new year,
Former desires brought into the new year,
Dim lamps longing for brightness in the new year,
Incomplete books searching for the missing pages in the new year,
Feeble trees in need of vitality elixir in the new year.

Redemption songs buoy the soul into a new world,
The bell chimes in the old cathedral reminding us of the creed,
Orbs in the sky strengthen the weary elements for another chapter,
A divine majesty accompanies us into a new arena,
The old fountain still grants wishes.

The new year revitalizes frail strands,
The new year highlights the pale colours,
The new year wets the parched ground,
The new year replaces worn-out tyres,
Bring your old wishes into the new year with hopeful hearts.


January 5, 2025.

Hot Foot

When the sun shines down on a concrete town
And no one dares put both feet down
It’s hop from one foot to the other
Dancing like you’re your grandmother

How does concrete get so hot
I didn’t know how hot it got
I got stuck in the parking lot
My tyres melted: four wheels shot

I saw flamingoes in the zoo
I’m doing what flamingoes do
With one leg up and one leg down
I’m standing in a concrete town

So here I stand in this hot street 
I could pour water on my feet
I think perhaps I’d rather choose
To buy myself a pair of shoes

The Tale of The House in Sounds

The  CRUNCHING  of tyres on the gravelly driveway
The CLANG of the garden gate sharply closing
The CLICK of the key in the lock
The old door CREAKING open on its hinges
The SNAP of the light switch to brighten  the house
The SWISH  of the curtains being drawn
The CLATTER of crockery being laid on the table
The GUSH of water from the tap into the kettle
The WHISPER ,HISS and SPLUTTER of the boiling kettle
The annoying SLURP of a GULP of tea
The CHORTLE of laughter around the table
The SCRAPING of chairs being drawn back
The CRACKLE of the open fire in the sitting room
The SCRATCH of a match to light the pipe
The comfort of being indoors at the first CLAP of thunder
The even more comforting CLINK of glasses for a safe homecoming

The Green Bike

It stands propped
against a wall in my memory,
that green two wheeler bike, 
my first, bought second hand 
from a neighbor. 
A deep, gravel graze I got 
from learning to ride it, I swear,
still pains a phantom nerve
in my now arthritic knee
after all these years.

How I loved that bike,
its dented frame wearing 
layers of paint pitted by history,
its last coat was a thick glaze
of leftover house paint 
the same green color used 
as trim on window frames
and fences fashionable 
back then.
To me it was a gem.

I rode it to the boundaries
of my world carried on the
smooth ride and hum 
of its tyres, sank its rims
deep into the muddy riverbank
and raced around a track
that skirted the football
ground. That bike
was pure freedom for me.

One day someone took it
and left it hooked on a tree
in the local park. The top bar
of its frame had been 
snapped clean through. 
Beneath the layers of paint, 
rust had eaten away 
its metal core. 
In tears I wheeled it home
and put it in the shed and closed
the door. It was like closing
a book on part of my life.

Freedom Fighter

Jailed for the will to be jailed 
Kids shouldn’t play with fire
But they do, and of course they fail
In full conscious of mad desire
What now, will you write a sequel
To Servantes’s Don Quixote
Lots of tyres around every mill
A borsch with pampushka you’ve got 
There’ll be Ursula of Brussels
The lady you wish to know better
There’ll be most malign old fossils
You must kill them, then go to get her 
Or maybe you’ll call it a day
And give it all up, my brave kid
You’ve said what you needed to say
No one wanted, but you did
Like a moth to the flame you flew
To explain the obvious – why?
Suicidal truth suits a rare few
For the rest the price is too high.

Knees facing the wrong way chairs

I was wondering what a painting about one of my poems look like
Grimly gathering of gnarly letters
So take this one would it
slipperyness of eels in heels
Would my light one haze of neon faze
Would oil slick inks hint of tyres hanging cliff
Stuck between being and bee spell
Check one Czech too
slathering like squidwards tongue
Could you imagine if an artist paints your words
Would colour be redily available 
Tones scared of the zones
ReaDy this inbRed distuRbEd if you
CaRED imploRed deRavED REaD
ErR closED follow the road
Penguins in trees with silk people sleeves
Peppered with sir and the gents
Belittle a little be
I mean we’re
would ewe start

Knees facing the wrong way chairs

I was wondering what a painting about one of my poems look like
Grimly gathering of gnarly letters
So take this one would it
slipperyness of eels in heels
Would my light one haze of neon faze
Would oil slick inks hint of tyres hanging cliff
Stuck between being and bee spell
Check one Czech too
slathering like squidwards tongue
Could you imagine if an artist paints your words
Would colour be redily available 
Tones scared of the zones
ReaDy this inbRed distuRbEd if you
CaRED imploRed deRavED REaD
ErR closED follow the road
Penguins in trees with silk people sleeves
Peppered with sir and the gents
Belittle a little be
I mean we’re
would ewe start

my son was learning to ride his bike with no air in the tyres

I hadn't noticed.
Neither had he.
No one had said anything.

Then mum took note.
Black spaghetti round the wheels.
Where the lord's supper meets the road.

Watching your child on a bike
Crumpled suits and sweat-stained collars
Wake me up when I want to wake up

I am without weapons
I need to be rugby league braver
Banjo string vulnerable

A toddler was coming to visit our home.
My son told me he was worried she would be scared.
He will do alright in life.

Powder Blue

Powder blue.
Postman Raleigh frame,
Wheels that were thin and far from de rigeur at the time.
An ode to the horrors of Shelly with its salvaged parts,
None matching saddle and outmoded bell.
Smooth plastic pedals.

A Gift.
Not as I had dreamt,
Mag wheels with fat all terrain tyres for grip.
A torrid lean toward machismo and impressive stunts,
A mode of movement, demanding awe.
Trophy as much as vehicle.

Summer followed.
She earned my respect,
Her visage lost initial thoughts of ugliness.
For Frankenstein’s monster tore fast and flew,
Threw wind in my face, took my breath.
Grazed elbows and knees.

Barry Sheene.
Randolph Scott, John Wayne,
I became all of those, that hazy summer.
Chasing bad guys across imagined prairies,
Hurtling down race tracks unknown.
Winning hearts and trophies.

Funny now
My memory of where she went,
Evades me, time has ridden past, fast.
The bike I once called Mary, with love,
A nod to the author of the dark tale she reminded me of.
Beautiful powder blue.

IMAGINARY WORLD

A world where toffees are the coins
Burgers are the mobile phones
Sandwiches are the fan
Wheel like fryums are the tyres of car and vehicles
Rain of mango shakes
Snow of glitters...

Special Places

There were special places 
where the mind could hide,
way up in the branches 
of a tall tree, safe within
a ball of leaves,
halfway to heaven.
Or on a bike aimlessly riding
streets when the hypnotic 
hum of tyres and the constant
rhythm broke through 
and sent me
into a pleasant trance
as if the body was floating
free of the ground.

Then there were places
where you couldn't hide,
dark and musty hollows
they called holy places
populated with legions
of dead souls sniffling
their sorrows 
in the candlelit air.
Dark cubicles carrying
the odor of sin,
the sour breath of absolution 
filtering through 
a curtained grill.
And all around, images
of pain plastered on walls
pressing a claim 
for love under the threat 
of everlasting fire
just for refusal.

It all sounds silly now,
the hellish props stacked away
in an unused corner
covered in ash.
Discarded remnants
of an ill informed past.
And yet at times, I am sure,
I can feel something small
still twitch on the end 
of a severed nerve.
I call out. But nobody 
seems to be there.

Tread Softly

TREAD SOFTLY

I do recall a quiz question
Who made the most tyres
The audience was tasked
The answer is Lego, I fear
But was that in a good year
Some loud wit then asked
Another called them liars
It gave us all indigestion

Missing You

I feel like am in a dark hole,
Being sucked in by her thoughts hovering in my head like a satellite in space.
I have found myself bound in a cobweb by her series of thoughts.
It’s clear when it comes to her, I have neurological weakness.
I don’t blame myself, she’s a nice piece of art and as a painter, and I know art when I see one.
Her thoughts are like tyres with treads leaving trails whenever we see each other.

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