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Andrew John Poem
Such dusty mats of coconut, and hats,
and wicker chairs that creak; and chats, and cats
on sills that suck the early sun that spills
through glass to pass into the frills and twills
that talk and twitter, pass the time till tiffin,
pass the time of day this way until
the chills of morning pass; and cups and saucers
clink and find the sink.
The daily round’s
begun and yarns are spun in sun and shade
until the fading light brings night; and glass
that’s black as peat reflects the hats and cats
upon themselves while vats of black-tar dark
and bats are kept outside; and clinks announce
that time again that brings the hour for drinks.
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew John Poem
The DJ shuts the fader by mistake,
yet speaks his words in slick and practised tones,
but doesn’t hear them coming through his ’phones,
berates himself: That’s quite a gaffe to make.
That’s five whole seconds, nothing but dead air.
I’ve dropped a clanger. This is just not done!
The programme’s live, it’s not a trial run.
The punters might retune and go elsewhere.
But more important is that what we give
distracts, amuses, offers light, bright, trite.
Dead air is not an option. Get it right!
They need our pap: it tells them how to live.
Although this little lapse is but a blink,
it might just give the punters time to think.
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2013
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Andrew John Poem
(Elizabeth II 1926-2022)
Are we - crow, blackbird, sparrow -
aware of what's occurring?
We cannot tell, they assume,
but gape and gaze from up here.
This is a land with a departed monarch.
We - sparrow, blackbird, crow -
flit or sit above the richness
of that marching red regalia.
Thousands of arms stretch, sinews strain,
cameras are held aloft
to catch the start of this queen's obsequies,
such elegance, such grace.
We - blackbird, crow, sparrow -
observe orb and sceptre on the magnificent pall,
witness the splendour, the spectacle,
delight in the sound of vocal souls.
Millions have viewed that coffin.
We - crow, blackbird, sparrow - see them gaping, gazing,
with its eight pallbearers, in their blood-red flame,
as this Abbey welcomes what they carry.
(Sep 2022)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Coronation for a King" of May 2023)
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2022
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Andrew John Poem
Why does the wind create that howl
and with it such a sensation?
It's in your heart, your mind, your soul.
It seems to reach for your very cognition.
You sit, so still, in your room - just sulk.
The thinness of glass is so frightening;
it tries to fight the mighty howl
but cannot hold it back,
as that blow drives against your window
from the world outside, with no mercy, it seems.
Or does it prefer not to see you sulk so much?
Does it ask what's in your heart, your mind, your soul?
Perhaps this is its way of wanting you
to know its wish, its supplication.
Does a wind howl to make a plea?
(7 Sep 2023)
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2023
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Andrew John Poem
Oh, how we watch a town go by!
Pieces of life
wrapped against the elements,
going somewhere,
always going somewhere.
From this upper window,
my eye is a searchlight,
sweeping the streetscape.
I celebrate my stillness
by remaining still,
stiller,
and stiller still,
holding my breath,
stilling my eyes till they sting.
I will my stillness
to fill me, envelop me,
hold me still from within and without,
a force pushing out and in,
creating an equilibrium for my soul.
And still the life below
scurries, scampers,
scuttles, skitters,
fizzes, bubbles, lives,
the quick and undead,
each destined
to be still one day.
(September 2021)
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2021
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Andrew John Poem
Dad steps back into this room.
Today is his birthday,
soon to be his wedding anniversary.
The day before yesterday marked
the date of his engagement.
Yes, this is Dad, he strolls back,
back into my life.
Dad does this kind of thing,
a father we all love, recall.
He's been gone for ten years now.
(21 Nov 2023)
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2023
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Andrew John Poem
A full one tonight,
a quarter-size of this world,
her white is complete,
inviting me to stare.
No clouds there
to hide her.
Will she bring out
the wolf in me?
Such a canine might,
emerge and amaze, without warning:
dreaded, ferocious, fanged.
Or should I simply smile and gaze?
(14 Aug 2023)
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2023
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Andrew John Poem
Can you forget that piece of cheese
that you inhaled? Oh, just a crumb it was.
But breathing while chewing, then choking!
Was it Cheddar, Cheshire?
Or that Limburger, Parmesan?
But, oh, that piece of cheese!
Not a morsel you'll forget,
or a temporary amnesia that will bring you peace.
A double Gloucester, some feta or mozzarella?
What about that Parmigiana-Reggiano?
Better, far better, not to inhale
a piece of cheese. It's peace you need.
(8 Jan 2024)
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2024
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Andrew John Poem
On top of the hour
Tens of thousands of people
Talk to microphones.
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2012
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Andrew John Poem
She was in her prime,
her slender body
is still intact, no wounds but
her mouth.
It is open and her teeth
are red – red and jagged,
like an impaler’s spikes
on which many a tiny creature
has squeaked its last.
Blunt grey eyes stare ahead
still, not comprehending,
but blindly aware of something.
Perhaps someone should move her,
throw her into a dustbin
or into someone’s garden.
The unheeding traffic
has completed its task
and sweeps blindly past.
– 2 –
Here lies McPuss,
hit by a bus.
Requiescat in pace.
Copyright © Andrew John | Year Posted 2012
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