Notebooks

A new notebook
full of clean and crisp white pages
sits on the top shelf in my office
and waits patiently

Meanwhile
my old notebook is open
on the white duvet that covers my lap,
as time slows,
and the mist on the fields
slowly evaporates
and cars pass,
making an early start to the week.

And as I sip my coffee
the last few empty pages
of my old notebook
also wait patiently
for a new poem,
the fragment of a memory,
a crossword clue, perhaps
a doodle of children
with uncertain hands
or your name
in block capitals
cross-hatched
and filled with inky hearts

The Always Chair

When we were kids, eh?
I remember Mum
Rubbing the white burn from the polished table top
With ash and a potato
The smell of polish and boiling clothes
In the copper
And buttered toast
The chatter in the kitchen
Behind every door an adventure

Now Mum sits
In her always chair
Bills and documents to hand
In an awkward cardboard box
The conservatory cuts the light with dust
But there’s nothing to see anymore
The orchard’s gone
Just the blank end wall
Of the town house
Shadowing the ruin
Of Dad’s shed
The smell of cats
Rust

I remember those houses going up
Us and all the neighbours
In our gardens complaining
And rightly so

Dad’s chair is empty, of course
Although Mum still chats to his ghost
She has troubling getting about now
And her memory’s no longer a scythe

So…
She sits and knits
And chats to Dad
From her always chair
When we were kids, eh?
Always sunny, never raining
Behind every adventure
A door

Cruise Poems

1

An ocean full of water
A sky full of air
A boat full of people
Travelling from there to here

The water’s waves reflect the sky
The sky is full of cloud
The people full of wondering why
Travelling from loud to soft

The rise and swell of evermore
The blue-lit hands that hold the Earth
I sit inside my head and cry
Travelling from birth to death

2

You’d think
across this vast expanse
of breathing sea
you’d never see another boat
but I can

see

three

Crazy May

Still haven't had a chance to visit everyone's blogs. I wonder what everyone's up to. I'm still rushing around like a fly with a blue bottom. Still haven't posted any new poems. Written lots though - just haven't had time to redraft them. Hey ho.

And we're off to Brussels first thing in the morning - to the Jazz Festival. Nice. We have to get up at a really silly time. Ten to five in the morning. Not so nice.

Ah well. It's just a crazy May. Things will get back to normal in June I dare say. Have a great weekend everyone.

Good Intentions

I laid a few slabs in the Good Intentions road this week. Didn't get to do any blogging. Sorry blogging pals. Just trying to catch up on admin. I used to get more done when I had a proper job before I was a poet. Hey ho!

Tomorrow we're going on a cruise. Heading across the Bay of Biscay down to Lisbon in Portugal. I'm doing some poetry shows for kids on board. Should be fun.

Meanwhile we're trying to find a name for the new children's book out next year. The last two were - I Did Not Eat the Goldfish and The Monster That Ate the Universe. So something slightly wacky - which would appeal to 7-12 year olds - would be good. Current front runner is Why Otters Don't Wear Socks. If your idea gets chosen I'll give you an acknowledgement in the book and a free copy. Well, you can't say fairer than that.

Best go now. Up early in the morning. See you when I get back. Peace and love.

It’s a Tough Life

It’s tough being a poet
Up at the crack of midday
Thinking of rhyme schemes and rhythms
Trying to think what to say

It’s tough being a poet
Strolling along the beach
Searching for inspiration
When inspiration’s a wave out of reach

I sometimes think that a poet
Is the toughest thing you can be
As I walk in the shade of the forest
Trying to think of a rhyme for tree

2 AM at Crazy Pete’s

The end of a long night
We’re playing on the cramped stage
At Crazy Pete’s
Following the familiar bluesy path
Exploring beats and rhythms
Cadences and silences
Harmonies and melodies
And the punters and the staff
Have long gone
But we’ve still got the beat
2 AM at Crazy Pete’s

A drunk sleeps in the corner
Pete hadn’t the heart to turf him out
His body draped across the table
Sticky with spilled beer
And here's the man himself
Tall, awkward - with a squint -
A trophy from his days as a getaway driver
And he listens for a while
Sheds an unlikely tear
And he sings, I’m for an early night
And he sings, I’m dead on my feet
And he sings, When you leave, turn out the light
2 AM at Crazy Pete’s

We play on, almost scared to stop
What do we have to go home for anyway?
Only the day job -
Another stint in the Tunbridge Wells office
Examining paperclips
As a means to a slow, slow suicide.
Then - the exit door bangs open
A chill breeze scatters cigarette ends and beer mats
Rattles glasses and optics
And she walks in
As though she owned the place
Her face pale and indistinct
She drifts between the tables
Like a draught
Easing aside
The heavy fog of stale cigarette smoke.
She sits beside the drunk
Like the dull whisper of defeat
Like a mother’s shadow
2 AM at Crazy Pete’s

Well, we can’t play forever
And Mick the drummer gives us the cue
We pick our way through the sharps and flats
Find the familiar bluesy path
And head for home
The bass brings the twelve bars
To a familiar end
And we hit that last note
Which hangs like a corpse in the air
The visitor has gone
And the drunk
Slides from his chair
Slumps to the floor, dead
And as the drummer makes
The final beat count
It's 2 AM at Crazy Pete’s