AA sells manual for drivers
Abridged for coping with
Accidents and other assorted
Adventures. Take flying with
Aeroflot for example, an adventure and no mistake.
After all, it's not just
Agricultural workers who say
Ah-Ah!!! when denied first
Aid in an emergency especially when the door is left
Ajar: a trip hazard if ever there was one, and injury ensues. It's
Akin to exchanging
Aluminium hydroxide (toothpaste ???) for
Ammonium peroxide, which not sensible on the whole. Moving on – best remain
Anonymous, or only raise the issue of coherence under
AOB which is
Apparently essential if you wish to
Aquire a reputation for sobriety. Best
Arrive early for the meeting, to be
Assured of having your
Attendance recorded in the minutes. Next: Please don't
Augment your stature in any way. Safer to be
Average in every department. Otherwise an
Awful dendroligist will take an
Axe to your cherry tree a la Geoge Washington. However, speaking of the
Ayatollah, and let's imagine we WERE, did you know his favourite shade of blue was
Ain't I A Woman
A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush
Begin With The Heart
Conducting Small Scale Investigations in Education
Courtesans and Fishcakes
Complete Works of William Shakespeare
Holidays In Hell
In An Antique Land
Job And The Mystery of Suffering
Leo The African
Mountain Flowers of Cascades and Olympics
O'Henry's Short Stories
Penguin's Poems For Life
Robert Graves Poems Selected By Himself
Song of the Dodo
The Art of Calligraphy
The Consice Oxford Dictionary
The Days Are Just Packed
They Didn't Walk Far
The Faber Book of 20th Century Poetry
The Ship That Flew
What's That Bird
Wild Flowers of Cyprus
Wild Flowers of Table Mountain
Women's Weekly Cookbook
Look, I cook, a bit, and rather well
If I may say so, and I get about a lot
(Though sometimes, only in my head
Through the books I read.)
I have a faith, and sometimes I remember to follow it.
And a Mistress (Shakespeare!)
With a Masters
And a penchant for American
Literature which I studied in my Teens
Let me loose in a wood
On a hillside or
Up a mountain and –
I'll turn from you, and I think you know
Who you are,
And teach the flowers their names.
Past a stop sign –
Deep, deep, into the desert.
I sat beside self-pity and said
How much better it would be
Were I Young and Beautiful
(Even self-pity laughed!)
Well, the tears came.
And they were sweet. So sweet.
You see, I have been in the desert.
Beneath brilliant skies.
Drowned in silence.
Discovered my true Name
And – when you were asleep –
I whispered it to you.
I learned that it is not
The Hopes, Dreams, Lovers
That are gone, that matter,
But what remains:
Something very precious
Neither guarded nor owned.
Not quite understood.
28th October 2015
Have you noticed how the colour of the morning is yellow
Now that the days are shorter and the sun hangs low in the sky?
I mention this because it is Wednesday, and my birthday.
Become sixty-five or pass it, or call it every birthday
Deem it necessary to remember days like this one, warm and yellow
HDare enough to venture out alone beneath an empty sky.
Befriend solitude, a sense not of this century or beneath this sky;
Watch silence gleam on the wind-lapped lake. Whisper, savour, “Birth-Day.”
Receive as a gift this quiet wood wrapped in green, and brown and yellow
This yellow day, this quiet sky, this awesome present. My birthday.
On Gloucester Cross: Nathan.
Dressed by the Salvation Army, fed
By City Mission, sits
Maybe it’s the drugs that make him simple.
I think not. I think he has always been a child.
Once, his sister took him in, but I guess he wore her out.
He claims no family now.
It’s no fun, being an addict.
“Where?” I ask, “Are you sleeping, Nathan?”
“Car Park. Off Westgate Street.”
Until, I guess, an upright citizen, with a full belly,
Complains. Or drunken party-goers piss on him.
I think about this, often. There are people who
Stop in sympathy with a pound or a sandwich
And there are people who piss on him.
I am guessing, because you have read this far,
That you are not one of those.
Poke a hole in a poet’s soul and just LOOK at what tumbles out!
Love In A Mist
Eliot's an idiot
I like April.
I get to write poems
Tapping away without a care in the world beyond
Scaring a metaphor out of hiding
Finding a a rhyme
(Which is as easy as tickling a simile
Out of my stream of consciousness )
Lending an ear to assonance and
Holding a meter to ransom.
It's Good. All good.
This train, just two coaches
Rattles and clangs through my lovely country
Where the green summer hills roll voluptuously across the
Greener landscape with soft woods
That do not spike and shade like yours –
But filter sunlight and harbour flowers of
Many generous hues.
I walked here so many years ago
With my lover, or maybe yesterday –
It depends on how his imagination works,
And whether we will always contain each other in
Our lazy hearts.