Lifescapes, Page 2

  But red, blue, yellow, purple, green,

  What do they really mean?

  Each faces the same

  Enemy, utters the same

  Platitudes, and this year’s men

  To our generation

  Are alien.

  How could I know your Dad and his Union brothers

  Toiling for coal and gas and oil and bread,

  Raising their standards for the wives and mothers

  Till they and the men exploiting them were dead,

  Laboured to waste the earth for all the others

  To come? Oh yes. The maps are turning red.

  Forward to Index

  1WABI-SABI

  This isn’t about my lounge no longer in the saloon bar.

  This isn’t about the lack of panelling

  and having to live with the Collinsons’ twelve-year-old wallpaper.

  This isn’t about the 1970s rockface

  over the grate instead of a tall mantel;

  This isn’t about the stink of exhaust

  and incense when I settle each evening,

  Wondering if it came with me ...

  Nor is it about Woodfest again,

  nor about the sun shining on fresh-carved creatures;

  nor the crowds milling round the coffee-stalls,

  nor the colourful crush in the second-hand tents;

  Nor is it about the little ones wide-eyed in tow,

  and on tip-toe with dripping ice-creams,

  Too much for their little eyes to take in ...

  And this is certainly not about

  Eating chicken and chips, my fingers suffering.

  Not about my tongue and nose in love

  But my finger-skin wrecked,

  my thumbs shredded;

  This is certainly not about the question of eating in gloves ...

  This is not about my Best Buddy

  with the loved voice -

  on the phone, in the next room,

  Not about his voice calling upstairs,

  or popping his Santa Claus head round the bedroom door;

  This is not about that voice I hear every day,

  not about the voice I sing with over and over again ...

  This isn’t about the way the past is confused with the present

  Nor perfection with imperfection, nor yet my

  giddying encounters with

  Wabi-Sabi

  Forward to Index

  VOICES

  Pretty voices

  Witty voices

  Something in the City voices

  Silly voices

  Chilly voices

  Night on Piccadilly voices

  Tiny voices

  Whiny voices

  Magical and shiny voices

  Army voices

  Smarmy voices

  Diners Club Umami voices

  Grumpy voices

  Jumpy voices

  Old and fat and frumpy voices

  Cheeky voices

  Squeaky voices

  On the spectrum geeky voices

  Picky voices

  Tricky voices

  Just time for a quickie voices

  Jokey voices

  Blokey voices

  Anyone for croquet voices

  Haughty voices

  Sporty voices

  Still a catch at forty voices

  Sleazy voices

  Wheezy voices

  Always bright and breezy voices

  Pally voices

  Scally voices

  Evening at the ballet voices

  Hoary voices

  Tory voices

  Read on Jackanory voices

  Crazy voices

  Lazy voices

  Forties Gert and Daisy voices

  Phoney voices

  Groany voices

  Can I have a pony voices

  Soppy voices

  Foppy voices

  Won’t you buy a poppy voices

  Catty voices

  Batty voices

  Getting very ratty voices

  Dopey voices

  Mopey voices

  Feeling rather ropey voices

  Sleepy voices

  Weepy voices

  Definitely creepy voices

  Snobby voices

  Yobby voices

  On about a hobby voices

  Risky voices

  Frisky voices

  Confidential whisky voices

  Plucky voices

  Clucky voices

  Absolutely mucky voices

  Kooky voices

  Rookie voices

  Looking for some nookie voices

  Happy voices

  Snappy voices

  Life is really crappy voices

  Scary voices

  Wary voices

  Hippie, beardy, hairy voices

  Cheery voices

  Weary voices

  Indistinct and beery voices

  Funny voices

  Sunny voices

  Never short of money voices

  Dirty voices

  Flirty voices

  Reading Krishnamurti voices

  Arty voices

  Hearty voices

  Going to a party voices

  Holy voices

  Lowly voices

  Yelling at the goalie voices

  Many voices

  Any voices

  Even two-a-penny voices

  Singing, chatting, making choices

  Laughing, warring over toys, is

  A cacophony of noises -

  Deafened Heaven still rejoices

  (Wishing we would lose our voices?)

  Forward to Index

  BEWARE!

  Beware!

  Secure your hard hat.

  Danger lurks in the flat

  Field and fresh air!

  Beware!

  Don’t go near the water.

  A man and his daughter

  Are drowning there!

  Beware

  Everything you eat

  Can kill you. Horsemeat

  Everywhere.

  Beware -

  Only the thin look great.

  Say you are size eight

  Whatever you wear.

  Beware

  Losing your self-esteem

  When Following your Dream.

  Worst nightmare.

  Beware:

  Kids must cope alone

  While you are on your phone

  With stuff to share.

  Beware

  Trends that are so last year.

  Insist on the latest gear -

  It’s only fair.

  Beware -

  For anything really nice

  Don’t pay the asking price

  Anywhere.

  Beware

  Those beggars on your street;

  They drink. They never eat

  Or wash their hair.

  Beware,

  That man with the ready smile

  May be a paedophile.

  Get out of there.

  Beware:

  A touch is an assault.

  Nothing is your fault -

  You were In Care.

  Beware of cuddling. Beware of love.

  Beware of the velvet hand in the iron glove.

  Beware of black and posh and daft and queer -

  Beware of everything you ought to fear.

  Estranged from mercy, trust, reflection, prayer,

  People, beware.

  Forward to Index

  TUNNELS

  We are the men who bring the trains ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

  We are the blokes who clear the drains

  Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

  We are the docs who mend your brains ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling, tunnelling.

  Blasting a way through ancient rock

  Blitzing a stinking garbage block

  Boring through bone against the clock ...r />
  Tunnelling, tunnelling.

  We are the guys who drill for oil ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

  We are the brains who search the soil ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

  We are the chaps who heap the spoil

  Tunnelling, tunnelling, tunnelling.

  Drilling the earth until she screams

  Probing the past for secret dreams

  Ripping the heart from golden seams ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling.

  We are the creatures put to flight ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

  We are the ghosts that haunt your night ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling ...

  We are the bugs you fail to fight ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling, tunnelling.

  Riddled with graves a world will die

  Riddled with guilt, the mind awry

  Riddled with death, we all know why ...

  Tunnelling, tunnelling.

  Forward to Index

  1ConfessionS of a Media Hack

  God Almighty, I confess

  To romancing in excess!

  Calculated to deceive,

  My whole career is make-believe.

  Anything to get in print,

  Raise my profile, make a mint;

  I will kill a reputation,

  Trash a life to please the nation.

  I will steal a joke, a plot,

  Fake the talent I have not;

  Plagiarising doesn’t faze

  In pursuit of readers’ praise.

  In my fabricated lives

  I fornicate with others’ wives

  Adulterating lazy text

  With the louche and highly-sexed.

  Thus my neighbour’s trophy wife

  Has a secret second life

  Where her curves will never age,

  Stripping for me on the page.

  His the mansion, his the cars,

  His the parties with the stars;

  His the cash, the looks, the glory ...

  All are mine though in my story.

  I have been deprived. I had

  Disrespect from Mum and Dad.

  Now it’s payback time; my rage

  Unedited fills every page.

  Worst of all was Sunday school.

  I looked and felt a bloody fool.

  Each wasted day because of you ...

  The dead God I am talking to ...

  God! What must I do or say

  To make this feeling go away

  That you are real; that you have spoken -

  All the rules you made are broken?

  Forward to Index

  MAY-DAY

  I wandered, lonely, as a cloud

  Of loose balloons above the fair

  Carried the colours of the crowd

  Into the blue and steamy air;

  The crush, the smells, the shrieking rides

  Swamping the town between the tides.

  The folks out foraging for fun

  Saw no-one watching by the queue,

  Merely a shadow in the sun

  Only a breath away from you;

  Your onions flavouring my nose,

  Your ice-cream dripping on my toes.

  The chilly girls, the loud parade

  Dispersed to hot dogs on the pier,

  Counting the money they had made -

  The same routine as every year.

  The rattled bucket caught a pound

  I picked up on the rugby ground.

  That’s all I had. I hope it went

  To folks in institutions, or

  To help some other indigent

  Hungry as me, whose feet were sore,

  No dog for comfort, no guitar,

  Curled up where all the dustbins are.

  I wander, lonely. As a cloud

  Of pungent steam rolls up the town

  Enveloping me like a shroud

  Your lights wink on, my sun goes down.

  May-Day, May-Day by the sea;

  Tears at bedtime - none for me.

  Forward to Index

  THE CLEMATIS HEDGE

  I had a lovely hedge - so full of bloom

  In winter, strangers wandered by to stare.

  I’d pause and chat while leaning on my broom,

  Happy explaining, happier still to share

  The shelter that it gave above the wall

  To runners from rainstorms, children’s hide and seek

  Amid the long leaves tumbling. This all

  Gave pleasure, until late last week

  When men and shrieking saws without consent

  Devastated my Clematis, and left

  Nothing but shorn twigs. They haven’t sent

  A bill - the work was free. But I’m bereft.

  Where will the blackbird make his home this spring?

  Where will the wren hide? And our robin sing?

  Forward to Index

  SPRING...?

  It’s March the First; the weathermen

  And women cry, “It’s Spring again!”

  Despite the blizzards in the hills

  And hardly any daffodils.

  The frogs are humping in the pond,

  One fern has made a tiny frond,

  But not a leaf is on the trees

  And walkers hunch against the breeze.

  The Sun is barely in the Fish,

  Whatever our presenters wish;

  The Equinox is weeks away,

  Whatever weather pundits say.

  The astronomic start of Spring,

  Bright catalyst for everything,

  Is when our star burns the Equator

  In the Ram, the life-creator.

  Dishonouring St. David’s Day,

  Our sense of time has gone astray.

  Disdaining sleep, we raid the night

  For hours extravagant with light.

  We chill the heat, we heat the cold,

  Stay adolescent till we’re old;

  Dress up our children to attract

  And then get stars and teachers sacked.

  Refuse to rest, refuse to die,

  Insist we have the right to fly,

  To play God with the biosphere

  Since we are all that matters here.

  Come back, St. David! Help us back

  To sanity! We’ve lost the knack

  Of simple living, sold our souls

  To self-esteem, commercial goals.

  I long for unpolluted air,

  For bees and beasties everywhere,

  I’d like a night alive with stars,

  Not nasty neon clubs and bars.

  I long for peace, untainted bread,

  The pulse of Heaven in my head.

  I’d like a weather-girl to say

  “It really will be Spring today”

  Forward to Index

  THE SNOW GUN

  I’d like some pretty with my cold.

  This winter is already old,

  And not a frost, and not a flake

  Has twinkled on our town to break

  The nithering monotony

  Of January by the sea.

  The days are grey, the mood is low;

  We haven’t had our share of snow.

  No-one wants to walk the Orme,

  Dull without a winter storm.

  I wish that I could find a way

  To brighten everybody’s day!

  I’d love to have the magic gun

  That makes a blizzard in the sun,

  That showers ice on everyone!

  I’d love to point the cannon high

  And fill the January sky

  With dancing flakes that float and fly!

  My gun would freeze the salty air

  And frost would sparkle everywhere,

  Flashing diamonds through the waves,

  Dazzling crystal in the caves;

  Our beach an arc of shining snow

  In winds that make our faces
glow.

  We’d walk beneath the frosted trees

  Tinkling like piano keys

  Under the fingers of the breeze,

  And everyone would smile and say

  As happy people crowd the bay,

  ‘What a glorious Winter’s day!

  We need some pretty with our cold

  To charm the young and cheer the old;

  Gardens white as wedding cake,

  Skaters out on every lake,

  A frost-fair on the glassy sea -

  So bring my magic gun to me!

  Forward to Index

  A DOG’S LIFE

  Old Kos is gone

  Shadow of Bernie Rish

  Long-time companion

  Ate from the same dish

  Drank from the same tap

  Plodded the same stairs

  The old black Lab

  Now beyond prayers

  Before he died

  He would meet my eye

  Press his glossy side

  Against my thigh

  Patient he would stand

  Unable to tell

  My listening hand

  Where to make him well

  So Kos has gone

  And Suky quietly killed

  By a vet’s injection

  When I was unskilled

  - at ten - in taking care

  Of my Terrier and Dad

  Let her run everywhere

  Like dogs he once had

  Pained I look back -

  Dad’s birthday surprise

  The rescue dog whose lack

  Of training and wild eyes

  He couldn’t handle. Years

  Of boasting and bluff

  Ended in shock and tears

  When he had enough

  No dog for me

  Only the neighbour’s pet -

  Tiny tearaway Sally,

  Little Blossom who met

  A rose-bush at a run

  that blinded her, calm black

  Chelsea the famous one

  Who guides our Nicky back

  Bobbie (a Pisces)

  Our Kent Guide-dog friend

  Shared her Callie’s crises

  Their happy end

  The smell of soft puppies

  A mother’s melting eyes

  Amid warm apple trees

  And holy skies

  And once in a while

  A visitor - like the stray

  Called Lady a real trial