Poetry

Changes

Sat, 10 Nov 2007 14:48:21 +0000

When we were young,
the world was new
each day an adventure
to be abandoned for
better, newer, more exciting
days to come.

Later, fat, contented, we settled
consolidating and simplifing
forgetting adventure
each new horizon no
better or more exciting
than those past.

Now we are old
and share sandwiches
by the seaside
wearing heavy woolen coats
and sensible shoes.
The sea is grey, relentless,
crashing on a pebbled coast.

The wind dies, the clouds part
and moonlight lays a path
across the swelling sea.
The tide turns, retreating.
The scoured beach is empty.

You take my hand.
What a good day, you say.
What a very good day.

Yes, I agree, what a very good day
we have had.

You touch my face.
"It's all right," you say.
"Days end, but the moon
will light us home."

Marie and Me

Wed, 7 Nov 2007 16:36:01 +0000

Today my friend Marie and I
Agreed there are things
We are too old to bother with.

Long haul flights without a break;
Justifying our taste in music, books or food;
Putting together flat pack furniture;
Upsizing or downsizing our houses.

Today my friend Marie and I
Somewhat disagreed about
Things we are not too old
To bother about.

Going to a Third World Country;
Stuffing a mushroom;
Making puff pastry from scratch;
Getting another dog.

Sometimes my friend Marie and I
Discuss our funerals.
I want to leave a video
And tell everyone off.

She thinks that's stupid.
I say then they won't mourn
and it will be a happy wake.

She says Good
The least they can do is cry.

We agree there has to be dancing.

I want Abba and Dancing Queen.
She wants proper ballroom and Latin..
Marie dances much better than
I do.

We agree that our funerals will
have good food and old friends
It's too bad, we agree,
That only one of us
will go.

Never Fuck Over a Poet

Wed, 7 Nov 2007 16:34:42 +0000

Never fuck over a poet,
who thinks that you are a friend,
Or sell him out for silver and gold
He'll have his revenge in the end.

He'll pray to the angels in heaven,
In a voice that rings like a bell
But then if heaven is silent,
he'll pound on the gates of hell.

The devil will answer his summons,
He's got a weak spot for a rhyme,
The devil will offer a contract
The poet will sign on the line.

The poet's inventive,
The devil attentive,
They start with a slaughter
Then really begin.

Oh he'll have your balls for breakfast
liver and lights for tea
Feed the rest to the junkyard dog
and throw the bones in the sea.

Then bury your skull at the crossroads
as the sound of the devil's guitar
pins your soul to the sign post
with music as bright as a star.

Now the devil's playing a twelve string
made by Pardini himself
Leadbelly's Stella was stolen
and found on a pawnshop shelf.

The slide's made from a Black Jack bottle
broke in a bar room fight
The strings are double wound steel
tempered in hell's fire light.

The devil has written the music
The Father of lies telling true
Heaven's loss, Earth's sorrow, Hell's pain
The Devil's a bluesman for sure.

In the East a grey line
announces the sun
the last chord is played
The devil is done.

Hand in hand, Devil and poet descend
Arguing about the C tuning
Leaving you there at the crossroads
winding and twisting and turning.

Abandoned by heaven, shut out of hell,
Tethered to earth sea and sky
dismembered and scattered and left in the dirt
you know that you never can die.

Never fuck over a poet,
who thinks that you are a friend,
Or sell him out for silver and gold
He'll have his revenge in the end.