a one hundred and fourth new poem ... 'shadow man'

I came back from the corner store

With a tin of biscuits, knocked upon your door

Waited…

Like a shadow man.

I heard the swish of your dress

Thought: Oh God, I’m such a mess

Waiting…

Like a shadow of a man.

The bolt slid back and through the crack

I saw your eyes as dull as mine

Searching...

For a shadow in the hall.

I traced the lines worn in your face

Kissed your lips, you sensed my haste

Two shadows...

In the waste of all the years.

Later, we went out on the Reeperbahn

I took your hand, you took my arm

Danced...

Until the daylight disappeared.

You can’t pretend that all this time

You’ve been unalone, with me this time

Lingering...

Like a shadow man.

You can’t tell me now, that was then

How it cannot be so again

I’m waiting...

Like a shadow of man.

a one hundred and third new poem ... 'self-imaging'

Shrinking desires,

Finite days?

I’m counting my sins

In old-fashioned ways,

Half-finished heaven,

World under construction,

Trying to keep fragments

From the voyeur of destruction.

Window spattered in raindrops

Sweetens imagination,

Memories better than Bardot,
Any Hollywood invocation,

Soul replacing the self,

Self-image of God,

Emerging from clouds

Up from the sod.

Roots in the soil,

Hard-worked hands to the sky,

Half-rendered horizons

Neglected enterprises.

Questions need answers:

What have I got from this life?

Deep celebration?

Or unholy strife?

Perhaps the heart can see rightly

That which the mind neglects?

But I still want your honey,  

Still want your sex.

a one hundred and second new poem ... 'rebel trader'

Whispers of fated mischief

Carried in the night,

Wake up Wednesday’s child,

Turn on the bedside light.

Hear that heavy breathing

From behind the bolted door,

Skeletons in the cupboard,

Bones heaped against the inner walls

You used to laugh so freely,

You were attracted to the world,

Magnates, markets, miracles,

Suit boys and booted girls.

Where is that rebel trader?

That handsome gutter snipe?

Where is that cat and cad in

Silver, gold pinstripes?

I know they pawned your pleasure palace

Floating dream boat long ago,

They dialed up your number

And cancelled the zeroes.

Left with debts you can’t repay,

Threats you never will

Escape this vaulted prison or

Write a codicil.

a one hundred and first new poem ... 'tunnel'

We read together,

Then you close the book,

Look up, point and say:

‘See – a sparrow!’.

Through the narrow

Tunnel of our vision

There is light

Every now and again:

Shafts to the sides,

Through the leaks

In the roofs,

Attics of our lives

And at the end.

a one hundredth new poem ... 'path'

Today,

I found peace

Beneath wreaths of

Fog on a hill,

In the stillness

Breathing, seething with

Affection for

This ageless land

And the men,

Women who walk,

Have walked, the

Same path - in

Good faith -

Into the dark.

a ninety ninth new poem ... 'bee's nest'

I’m carrying a bee’s nest

Underneath my hat,

I’m riding on a rickshaw

Carrying my cap.

I’ve got a bag of piss

Hidden in my shorts,

Incontinent in the comment box,

Keypad fraught with warts.

I’m croaking like a day old

Chick hatched from an egg.

I’m flying without wings

Kicking chicken legs.

Left all my opinions

In school books long ago,

See a bath I bomb in it

Without dipping in my toe.

I’ll stand up for a notion,

Run before I walk,

See the red lights flashing,

Squawk before I talk.

I’m concealing an ant hill

On the pack upon my back,

Termites ate my library of

Truths, untruths and facts.

a ninety eighth new poem ... 'high street'

People on the high street:

Do they know they’re going to die?

That there is wisdom to be found

In knowing a short life?

Can’t sugar coat or Pepsi float the

Existential hum behind our eyes,

Immortal diamonds we may seek

But can you guess their rough disguise?

Last night I opened windows,

Heard a new born baby cry,

Choked music down a windy street

And again ole’ buzzing fly.

Can’t get set on a salvation

From up above or deep inside,

Still I carry my convictions

With a half-arsed, half-wit’s pride.

People on the high street:

Do we know when we will die?

That there is wisdom to be found

In knowing a short life?