Tag Archives: Poetry

Greenberry Street NW8

On Greenberry Street
the light shines through
mansion block windows.
The dark falls discretely
in random corners.
Echoes of past times
mark their presence,
with a lingering odour.
And there’s never an end
to people who trail past.
Taking in a name,
but nothing else.
Just Greenberry Street.
Remembered in motion.


Valentines Day, 2014

Cold Camden Town,
basement kitchen.
Breath freezing.
Steam rising,
from a coffee cup.

I climb the stairs
of my broken-down house.
Hair disheveled.
Face unshaven.
Legs stiff and unyielding.

The heater has taken
that chill from my room.
Plastic window covering,
crinkles.
Cars move outside.

I place a twelve inch
on the turntable.
Forget Me Nots,
by Patrice Rushen.
It’s for you.


Light

The light that shines.
Revisit those lines,
like they were newly minted.
And we watch again,
the falling of the rain.
Through windows half woken.
Remind me was it snowing
when we spoke last.
I recall a dusting of silver
on all the cars.
Time went and we
barely noticed its passing.
Living those accelerated lives.
Filter-feeding great
droplets of experience.
Summon-up something new.
Hold out a hand.
Guide me on my way.


Sleepwalking

Two weeks have gone,
and nothing much
has happened.
The general mood
is bemusement.
A stoic resignation.
Winter refuses to go.
And all that chitta chatta,
it deadens the mind.
Takes discourse to
a new low.
God help everyone,
including those who
talk of appeasement.
Because they like us
are sleepwalking
on the way to ruin.


Nice and Tidy

I like it nice and tidy.
The kitchen separate
from the lounge.
A sea view.
And some shops.
A garden at the back.
A place to bury –
the bodies.
To keep it all nice,
nice and tidy.


The Boiler

The comfort of cold air.
Small drops of nothingness.
Collecting coal from outside,
in a scuttle made
of zinc and tin.
The end is bent
from numerous pressings-
A black ragged mouth,
that gently spews.
Over old newspapers and wood.
Creating a halo of black.
Shut the door,
and let the furnace grow.
Heat blessed heat.
Roaring inside a metal tomb.
No on or off, no thermostat.
Just uncontrollable flame.
Converting cold air into warm.


134

Upstairs on the bus
smells of swimming.
All wet hair and chlorine.
It’s cold outside.
Condensation is building.
A woman in green says:
Christmas tree dumped,
baubles n’ all.
In a moment we will
round the Cape Horn.
Slip down the sails,
in a stop-start progression.
Leaving behind those
mid-morning dippers.
Evaporating all the way
to Bayham Street
and beyond.