a wave breaking
my writing hand aching
fifty days of poems painstaking
it’s goodbye to a friend
as we witness the end
of the line upon line of poetry penned
though the burden has gone
its a habit switched on
and the words will keep pouring after the fifty are done
so please dear reader, let me tell you
although the original challenge is through
this moment signifies a birth, rather than an adieu.
I’ll be back. – Arnold Schwarzenegger
with starlight as a backdrop
I take in criss-cross haze
the river naked slicing through
a knife cutting through my gaze
as buildings encroach upon the night
turning pitch black into greys
I stand and face this growing monster
yet marvel at its ways.
Our world is built on bones my friend
a reminder of the past
scattered on the battlefields
when mankind fades; they last
As grasses bow before the wind
another season born
those fallen rise up with the sun
to dance amongst the corn
Far sweeter return we could not wish
for those who’ve gone before
who flourish with every plant in bloom
and with birds of prey they soar.
Banter and rabble shoot back and forth
the players never miss a beat
to tear and slash at the hated foe
jeering the villain as he gets to his feet.
Our suited hero swaggers out
his comic gig complete
another rival pinned back down,
crestfallen in his seat.
“House of Comedy” the sign should read
“The best gags in town by far!”
paid to entertain folk like us
but that’s forgetting who the jokers are
For this is the magical world of Parliament
a sea of political ties
where taxpayers’ money and voting’s repaid
in half-truths and downright lies.
Still, amidst all the joking
this show’s back next week
when further cuts and more bad news
will be masked in laughter and cheek.
a banner snaking across the heavens
a downhill skier of the stars
kicking up plumes of stellar smoke
which cling to the night
unyielding for decennia
to be the lords of mankind’s legends
and the seeds of mankind’s hope
guarding the skies from sunset to dawn
arcing over our entire existence below.
no buzz of conversation
no smartphone beeps
just the rustle of newspapers
and the underbelly rattling of the city.
everyone needs a dose of Tube time sometimes.
The world has rendered works worthless
and museums make a mockery of masters.
If you want Van Gogh upon a mug
you can bloody well have it, you mug.
Sparks fly as midges on the breeze
pointed nowhere yet lingering
dancing around fiery pits
in which old wood dogs are slain
their souls curling skywards
to join in the night and love like the stars
ephemeral glory on the backs of the clouds
so we pin our hopes to their slowing dances
as they spiral out of sight.
As I emerge from the Underground
the world takes my breath away,
Sun tugging at the edges
the city’s on display
Few tourists are about yet
as commuters make their way
Coffee shops start filling up
to serve the customer melee
The roads are filled with colour
and for a change the sky’s not grey
This gorgeous Friday’s shaping up
to be a truly London day.