Cross Country

We have left the Brighton to London

Commuter line

And are travelling cross country

No longer heading for the city

The carriage is quiet, nearly empty

And outside an early frost

And watercolour sky

I spoke too soon

Into the carriage pour

A hundred school or more

School children

Why do they shout?

Why such loud conversation?

Why are their voices so shrill?

The cacophony and impatience

of the i-phone generation

Oh, where is the quiet girl, reading a book?

Where are the two boys engrossed in chess,

Where is the boy with the nervous glances
And unrequited fantasies?

Forecast

The guillemot

Gazes at the sky

And hopes

That today’s weather report

Will be more accurate

Than yesterday’s

Artisan

Her hands,

large, but delicate.

Her fingernails,

Bitten, cracked, unadorned.

She is painting an old,

French, sanded-down headboard,

Antique gold.

Why is she painting so meticulously,

Her face, masked in concentration?

I knew you would come, she said,

As she removed her apron

And, naked, moved through the cold room

Towards me

The Night of the Knives

In the Pizza Express

The young man on the next table

Asks the waitress

Do you have the new knives?

She says, We are supposed to have them by now

But they haven’t arrived yet

The young man continues,

Because I was in Stratford the other day…

He lets the sentence hang

And does a cutting pizza mime

Then, as she walks away he says,

They’re one hundred times better.

Counting Spiders

Six mischievous spiders

Tumble out of the dice shaker

One has the gift of healing

One is poisonous

One is drunk on fly brandy

One is a loser

One has no redeeming characteristics whatsoever

And one can never stop cracking jokes

It’s your move.

Better

(after Leonard Cohen)

Better than the chaotic hunger

Of Brighton gulls

The ordered beachcombing pigeons

Of Villefranche-sur-mer

Better than noon sunshine

The early-morning light

And the buildings’ palette of whites,

Ochres, yellows and orange

Better than the bass tones

and wind-snatched muzak

the stereo-panned swish and swash

of the Mediterranean

Better than neatness

The secret order

Of organic growth

Better than a reality check

A fantasy boost

The Last Lines of Leonard Cohen

And this is the book

You get married

A single step

And there’s no one left in Hell

Jikan Eliezer

You’d sing too

You are listening to Radio Resistance

They’ve wanted all these years

And raising kids

Better and better

Is a comb

My turn to resurrect

I prefer my stuff to theirs

In other little ways

The patient forgets to suffer

“Do not kill”

Why should I want to smile forever

Over my enormous hard-on

Old Jikan smoking

Apologies

Apologies from Sarah. It’s her throat.

Not just the karaoke and the booze.

It is the ‘flu’. And Mindy’s sent a note

Her mother’s had some tests. Might be bad news. 

I’m on my hols in Lanzarote. Well

Yes, yes, the conference... But half-price flights?

The secretary, Cath, who makes the coffee,

Is at the school. Her Zeb’s been in another fight. 

You’ll have to write the minutes. Tom (tall guy – HR)

Has e-mailed his report. He’s on a course

Eighteen holes (his little joke). Bill’s crashed his car.

And Natalie has fallen off her horse. 

Clare has run off with the caretaker, and so

There’s only you. Please, turn the lights out when you go.

Moth

Four in the morning

I am naked

Watching the jet-black moth

On the white bathroom tiles

Unfold its wings

And take off

Seven forty five

In bed, a cup of coffee by my side

I am writing this poem

My wife appears, naked

Her hands cupped

I open the window

We release it to the wild

Call to Prayer

Here the sun-loungers

Worship their own

Brown-fleshed god

With sunscreen

Soak up the words of cheap novels

Drift through consciousness

Like boats

Loose in the bay

A wind rattles the sunshades

Flaps their bleached white folds

Tosses the plastic lilo

Into the water

Where it also drifts

A small bird darts along the water’s edge

Dips its beak nervously

Into the blue-shadowed pool

Wailing voices rise and fall

Across the valley

From the loud speakers

On the mosque

On Geoffrey's Hill

Am I channelling Chaucer or kicking at the flotsam

and jetsam along the hard shoulder? Forget

those scribbled lines on bus tickets and travel vouchers.

Into the bin.

The moon’s umbra lost to fog

Smothered whispers and the trampling of hay

A curse. My laptop fails to charge.

An upturned pail.

Yo. Yo ho. Yo ho ho.

My sweetheart came clad

in the naked root of ginger. Barley shadows

shifting, unkind pearls strung around

her salty neck.

The Muses, lost in mundane operations,

Fetching the washing, sweeping the floor…

Their scalpels slice the beetroot so…

Exactly so.

And now? The thoroughbred that rushed

the windy fields like clouds, is slowed.

But, oh, what folly. The clasp is rusted.

The diamond lost.

Mother's House

A memory of my mother’s house

A deep, clear lake

Sharp with colour

And the smell of the woods around

But fragmented

Like gravel

Sprinkled on the water’s surface

I could almost stand up

And walk through those rooms right now
I could walk out

Into the overgrown garden

Hang from the rusty swing

By the unwieldy climbing rose

Crimson and overblown

Left to the cold wind

See my father’s shadow

Bending, pulling a weed

The house that we sold

I've passed it since

From the road it hasn’t changed much

The holly tree in the front garden

That gave so freely of its Christmas berries

Gone

The rooms and the garden

Stealing other hearts now

Winter Trees

Winter trees

Etched into

A winter sky
Of scabby grey

Giants

Forlorn beasts

Stark

Can a tree be lonely?

Laden with snow

We feel their nakedness

We are patient for them

Or waving angrily

But we know

That anger is our own

Giant shadows

Of ourselves

Spoils of War

Imagine, after humans have left the planet
And the new owners of Earth
Are digging about for signs of our past

There will probably be a TV programme

Intergalactic Time Team

Beamed across the universe

Aliens, delicately sifting soil

Looking for ancient artifacts

Trying to discover what our race was like

Excitement as the first items are found

An ancient sword, bullets, a rusted flamethrower

An unexploded mine

Sniper

Mum gives Tarik a hug

Don’t cross the Square

It may be further via the church

But it’s safe. You’re not in open view.

And tell him, Belma sends her love

That might be worth an extra loaf or two

I know he has the flour still

And while you are there

Ask him, What news of Ivan?

Mum gives Tarik another hug

And whispers a short prayer

Go now, she says

And do not cross the Square

Learner Drivers?

A trail of smashed milk bottles

The pavement’s milky wet

Billy’s football squashed and burst

Billy’s quite upset

Mrs Jones’ geraniums

Fit for the compost heap

Mum’s vase bounced off the sideboard

You should have seen it leap

And grandad’s bicycle’s been crushed

He’s in a proper fix

And the wall where grandad leant his bike

Is now a pile of bricks

Three lamposts bent like coat hangers

Our cat has run away

You have to learn to drive a tank

And the lessons were today

The Funnel Web Spider

The Australian funnel web spider

Hides in the loo

And is likely to bite your bottom

When you go for a call of nature

Coming Soon

Last year’s fig tree

Leans over the new wall

Next year – figs!

A Certain Age

From the top-edge of my vision

I saw the blur of hair

And for a moment

I thought I had hair

I thought I was young again

But then

I realised

It was my eyebrows’ hair

Growing out of control

Which means, of course,

The exact opposite

Usually this blog is for my own poems. But this poem by my friend, the legendary singer/songwriter that is Robb Johnson,  just has to be out there!  Robb is also a reception teacher. Find out more about him at http://www.robbjohnson.co.uk/

Fonix

At skool

Yoo haf too lurn

Fonics

Foniks

Fonix

Becos yor fonnix

Teechiz yoo

The rools

Ov Inglish

And how too

Rite it

Propperlee.

If ownlee

Sillee Billee

Shakespeer

Had dun mor

Fonnicks

In sted

Ov planting

Poet-trees,

Size Mykull Goav

Wistfullee.

by Robb Johnson

© 2013

If you were the only girl in the world and I was the only boy

Of course, as the atmosphere slowly cleared

The sunsets would be less dramatic

But the pharmaceuticals would last, I’m sure

Although I’d have to learn chiropractic

We’d have fun watching the grass and brambles

Slowly overwhelm the city

We’d live on tinned beans. And wild berries

No internet. But plenty to read.

Obviously we’d have to get good

At dodging zombies

And we’d have one another

Which is all we'd really need

Scrab

Lo!

And there was a board

And it was good.

A grid of blue and pink squares

We pick a tile

And smile

How long has this been going on?

Twenty eight years

How many games have we played

Since that first game?

Too many to count

My boyish bravado

Your quiet confidence

How often I’ve been pipped at the gazebo

With a Qi or a Za

Or a seven letter word

In closing moments of the match

But hope springs

A double triple letter score

And anyway

Who cares who wins?

That’s not what we are playing for

Photograph

Here’s the photo I took

Last year on the beach

Dad, wearing the tie

I bought him for his birthday

Billy drinking lemonade

The straw up his nose

And Mum, huddled up in her coat

Against the seaside wind

Now Dad’s in France

And our beach is covered in concrete

And tangled barbed wire

And land mines

In case the Germans invade

But on that day

We’d just made

The world’s grandest sandcastle

And watched the tide

Rush in

Filling the moat

Gradually washing

The sandcastle away

Dear Mum

If you receive this letter

I’ll be gone

To who knows where?

To Heaven, I hope.

So please don’t cry.

And give my love to Lop,
Our cat who lost his tail.

And Dad, of course.

I hope that this year’s crop

Of spuds do well.

And give my love to Ruth

I know I promised her

That we would marry in the spring

But tell her that I love her

(And you

And Dad

And Lop, the cat)

I have to go

The big offensive’s come

Don’t worry, Mum

Oh, and please give Ruth

This ring

From John

Your ever-loving son

No Ordinary Person

And should you see her

Walking up the road

Braced against the cold sea breeze

In her sensible black coat and scarf of pink

And her hat with ear flaps

You might not think that she was special

And she might nod, or smile

And that shaft of sunlight

Striking the shingle, like a jewel

Could be coincidence

And should you meet her in the library

You might not spare a second glance

But you might share an idle conversation

That turns to bookish things

And you might just begin to understand

The well of her knowledge

And should you mention, maybe on the bus

Or on Polling day, the plight of the poor,

The disadvantaged, the sick, the greed of the rich

You might be touched by her rage

And passion for justice

And should you see her with her family

You would wish for such a loving person

In your family too

And should you marry her

Why, you would simply think yourself

The luckiest man alive

Hole

There is a hole

In the space around me

You can’t see it

But it goes everywhere with me

It’s Border Collie shaped

And it doesn’t come when it’s called

For it’s just a hole

It’s empty

And it’s not called Judy

Fly

I

Am only

A fly

Misunderstood

Am I

All I want

Is a little food

A mate

Some warmth

Some love

I am not selfish

Like the mosquito

After your blood

Or aggressive

Like the wasp

In a bad mood

Or secretive

Like the beetle

Destroying wood

And so I ask

Why

Do you persecute me?

I

Am only

A little fly

Slug

Glug

Glug

Glug

Slug

Ug!

If I Were a Carpenter

If I were a carpenter

And you were a lady

Would you marry me anyway

Would you have my baby?

If I were an accountant

And you were an MP

I would add up your figures

And be amazed at your fiscal policy

If you were a fire officer

And I were a clown

And I had climbed a wonky tower of mirth

Would you help me down?

If I was a referee

And you were a Chelsea Chick

I’d never whistle you offside

And I’d award you a free kick

If I were a sailor

And you were the ocean blue

I’d dive into the water

And grow fins for you

If I was an Arctic explorer

And you were a painter

I’d build you an igloo

And we’d brave the long winter

I were a firework

Would your oohs!!!  be so loud

As I burst in the night sky

You would drown out the crowd

If I were a lady

And you were a carpenter

Would you carve me a necklace

With your heart in the centre?

Something is Happening and I Know What it Is

You are my bright-eyed lady of the low lands

You rescued me from Desolation Row

You were, you are! the answer when the winds they are blowing

For you were, you are! a vision, singing around the Joanna

My tambourine woman

In your brand new leopard-skin Flit Flop shoes

So absolutely sweet, baby, I never did have to think twice

I never look back

For you never give me

Those subterranean homesick blues

Pumpkinseeds

We are the pumpkinseeds

Dressed in silver and yellow and blue

The fashion models of the sea

Preening on the cat-fish-walk

We hang cool

We are not grey and drab

Like the chubby chub or green crab

Who wish they were us

Pumpkins

As you probably know

Are beautiful flowers

That grow on the shimmering moon

And scatter their seeds

Into the ocean home

Even our name

Is rather beautiful

Pumpkinseeds

The Canadian Black Bear

And at the lay-by where you stopped to dine

On M & Ms. Got stroppy just because

There were none left. They wonder why the sign

Says Bears. Beware! You think it’s obvious.

For one, you’re big. Five hundred pounds of power.

For two, you’re tough. For three - you have to eat.

You open screw-top tins. You scour the tip

But pickings there are slim. You stroll down Main Street

Flick the door latch of a house. You wander through

And grab what takes your fancy. Back on the road

A parked car offers tit bits. And you do

A little dance. You like to work the crowd.

But just remind them that you can’t be bought

When M&Ms run out – your temper’s short.

Big Fonts

Substance over style

A rose by any other name

We have to talk much louder

But our love remains the same

As Kierkegaard Might Have Said

Ring-a-ring of roses

A pocketful of posies

Entropy

Entropy

The planet drifts into the meaningless

universe as so we might as well

give up now, really.

The Next Song

The next song

Doesn’t really need

Any explanation

Just to say

That it’s not autobiographical

And I would just mention

That verse 7 refers

To the year that

Thatcher came to power

Verses 11 – 15

Do go off at a bit of a tangent

But, there is a reason for that,

As you’ll see

The chorus is self explanatory

And please join in

Just remember

There’s no chorus

After verses 3, 11, 15 and 17

And that there’s a double chorus

After every other even verse

It starts in the key of G

But changes to A for the last verse

And there’s a short introduction

I'll just check I'm in tune...

Good. Off we go then…

Eastbourne Pier

The pier

That has witnessed

Over the years

So many amazing sights

The sea front barricades

And the bombs

Falling relentlessly on the town
In 1941

The three pound two ounce plaice

That Ian caught

On that particularly low tide

In 1964

The grand wedding

Of Steph and Joe

The sea scattering sunshine

Like a diamond

In 2012

Advice

I was once given

This brilliant piece of advice

And decided to act upon it

Live each day

As if it were your last

So, I made a will.

And I sorted out my kitchen drawer.

I overdrew on my credit cards

To my limit

And gave all my money

To a children’s charity

I ate four very large

Chocolate and cream cakes

And drank a whole bottle

Of booze

I phoned BT

and told them what I really think

about their service

I sprayed orange paint

On the windscreen of the car

That always takes up two spaces

So that I’ve never room to park

Then I changed all the clocks in the house

To different times

And, feeling pleased with myself,

Settled down for a snooze