a ninety seventh new poem ... 'sea'

The willow bends

Where the river ends

And the river meets the sea.

There are ups, downs,

Crevasses, crests and crowns - 

But the sea is always the sea.

The seagull goes

Where the sea wind blows

And the sea wind makes the waves.

There are peaks, troughs,

Treasure found, cargo lost - 

But the sea is always the sea.

The whale sounds

Where the sailor drowns

And the sailors are you and me.

There are sundecks, wrecks,

Rocks, sirens of every sex - 

But the sea is always the sea.

a ninety sixth new poem ... 'bandages'

Someday, lover,

The bandages will come off:

You’ll be a source of life for others

In your woundedness -

Don’t believe in mirrors,

Walls of steel and glass,

Smoke and gin soaked henchmen,

Senior members of the cast.

Charade, they are, my lover,

Parades, pomp and circumstance,

Never was there time or place

For this florid dance -

Don’t believe in pillar boxes,

Crates of brandy and champagne,

Someday you’ll embrace your need to heal

And sunbathe in the rain.

a ninety fifth new poem ... 'resurrection'

Love is what makes me believe in resurrection,

Love is the self-giving strain of imperfection,

Love is me, reaching darkly in the night,

Love is you, holding me safely in the night.

Tightrope walking down the days of our lives,

Searching for eternity in the corners of our eyes.

Living as jack and joke, yoked up cow poke,

Sacred cattle in the rat race, struck out in a stroke.

Love is what makes me believe in resurrection,

Love is the self-giving strain of imperfection,

Love is me, reaching darkly in the night,

Love is you, holding me safely in the night.

Sightseeing London from this dirty river bed,

Celestial  spires of fortune, looming overhead,

Axe-maker, ice-breaker please fix us up -

Crucify our nightmares, pass the plenty cup.

Love is what makes me believe in resurrection,

Love is the self-giving strain of imperfection,

Love is me, reaching darkly in the night,

Love is you, holding me safely in the night.

Fight, well I ought, but only by your side.

Pulling up the blinds or hiding all our lives?

Can’t envision Heaven, can’t compare to Space,

But I’m here again, oncemoreagain part of the human race.

a ninety fourth new poem ... 'components'

In the grip of winter - 

Arms behind your sleepy head,

Invincible in summer,

Diagonal on this icy bed.

Pillow crossed with moonshine,

Tiny tears shed,

Innocence of a soul,

Raking up the dead.

In the grip of winter - 

When the sun is breaking through,

New glass fills the windows,

Blocking out the view.

Magnolia flowers to early,

Fragile buds of May,

Looking for an exit,

Looking for another way.

In the grip of winter - 

Skimming stones on bitter lake,

Treading with some caution,

Afraid the ice will break.

Tending to this garden,

Putting down the hoe,

Waiting for the fire,

In the vestigial shadows.

In the grip of winter - 

Stow away the gun,

Holster your conviction,

Hold that narrow tongue,

Paint a pretty starbrite,

Lunging for the air,

Your sleepy head, turned away

From my vacant stare. 

a ninety third new poem ... 'tim peake: brand ambassador'

Tim Peake is the latest brand ambassador ...

For Rover, Clover,

The white cliffs of Dover,

British Steel, jellied eels,

Village greens, slot machines,

Margate, Harrogate and Milton Keynes;

The Queen Mother, Sporty Spice

Timpson Shoe Care, Fisher Price,

Shearer/Sutton, as well as the RNLI,

And on the ISS just yesterday he
Was filmed munching on a
Melton Mowbray pork n' pickle pie
(The crumbs went everywhere).

a ninety second new poem ... 'tennis academy'

Andy Murray’s wife

Had a low-browed baby,

Born with a shrug,

Snaggle-toothed, then was

Wrapped in a rug and

Parcelled on to Judy’s

Tennis Academy where

All the little kids

Learned to flip their lids, spent

Days in crèche rehearsing

Cursing, fist pumps, racket throws,

All the time nursing their

Glow in the dark balls or

Vomiting green wool up the 

Vaulted rubber walls.

a ninety first new poem ... 'wimbledon semi'

Henman’s confidence was

Like eggshells and his toothy

Beak might as well have been

Squawking the word: ‘FEAR’.

He prayed on the eve of

Every Wimbledon semi

For bird flu so that his chicken

Feet , tennis wings and

Goose-pimpled skin sack o'bones wouldn’t

Have to come out from

Under the eiderdown, where

He was laid up
All fluffy with nerves.