The Distance

I close my eyes and wish I were sliding on a greyscale.
Life is so very black and white.
I’ve seen the light, and it isn’t moody or romantic,
It isn’t warm or mysterious, just bright.

Because I know what I want, who I want, when,
There’s nothing to reason from rhyme nor rhythm,
Playing with meaning will not close the distance,
Life is so very black and white.

I’ve spent all the clichés and spilled all the angst,
Laced with the words running rivers of dreams,
Dripping true blue blood on my desperate blank canvas.
But it won’t close the distance, it won’t bring you near.

There’s Me,
The Distance,
You.
Life is so very black and white.

Liquid Sole Trader (the accountancy rap)

Open your books and I’ll give you the double-entry,
Throw me some looks and your receipt’ll be evidentiary.
I’m your man for the partnership,
Let me know when the party’s hip.
My company’s unlimited, my goods are set to ship.

I’m double-taking on your asset valuation,
Show me your lips and I’ll show you appropriation.
Appreciation. Yeah. My lovin’ is capital,
How else could I rap it all?
I’m the liquid Sole Trader (and my rappin’ is topical).

Take my last word ‘fore I close the book,
It’s the final account, ‘bout to let your body off the hook.
Don’t go dropping your name on my bad debt,
I’ll be rockin’ along ‘cos I’ll see through my threat.
Yo, mess with the Sole Trader: you’ll get yo ass-et.

Might tidy the meter up when I'm not supposed to be revising for an accounts exam!

Mr Smooth

I’m in despair,
Racking my brains as I maintain the stare.
Every second sucking at my confident redeploy,
Moving me crabwise from the man to the boy.

It’s twenty paces across the floor,
From me to you, or to the door.
This tidal beat’ll take me where I wanna go,
One question: Should I ebb or should I flow?

Quit the inquisitioning, requisitioning,
Time for the acquisitioning.
I’m looking at my target and I’ve got a lock,
Six seconds later: We’re alone on the same rock.

A voice declares: “Mr. Smooth and the future Lady Smooth”,
As I kino your arm with my slow motion move,
No names, its all about the mystery,
No lines ‘cos turn-offs, turn-downs and turn-outs are history.

I’ve got three minutes to squeeze out the sceptic,
Press the right buttons and draw out the amoristic.
I knew you’ve got the looks, and now I can see,
You’ve got the spirit to match and you know you match me.

Time’s up and I’ve made my impression,
Your number on my hand, not the time for suppression,
Time’s right so I take a tip from the pros,
The time is now, and I step up for the kiss close.

mrsmooth.wav (6.8mb) - Still not quite how it sounds in my head (after 12 attempts) but getting there!

All Rights Reserved.

Number 4

It’s 6AM,
Empty buses are drifting past my window,
Bathed in the lamplight orange glow,
Imagine the crispness of the air,
As they open their great lungs.
The road-sweeper rattles his cart along the pavement.

Almost empty.
Nearly all the buses have a single rider,
The early birds,
Always on the bottom floor,
Always on the right beside the pushchair space.
Evidently the best seat on an almost empty bus.

They never look up.
Even though the bus is empty but for them,
They never look to passing windows for companionship.
Never look to the almost empty streets to see who’s there,
Not even to the solitary lampposts standing guard.

I can see a well-pressed suit waiting at the bus stop down the road,
I see his breath floating on the air,
As the bus approaches, he looks to it and not the driver,
And I wonder. Which is the second-best seat on an almost empty bus,
And is it by the first?

Audio: Coffee in the Cafe

Coffee in the Cafe now released in audio format:

Click here for Ogg Vorbis.
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(c) 2006. All rights reserved.

Streetlamps

A pool of light in a darkened room.
The curtains drawn,
The latch turned,
One lanky lamp cowering
Above my head.
Safety.

I’m thinking of you.
I bet you guessed,
Watching tracks on the train,
Moving further away
Not even dreaming.
Fading.

It’s getting late.
I’d give hours of tomorrow,
To be the man you think of now
To turn your train around
Not knowing why you’ve come.
Hours.

Streetlamps below my window.
A thousand discrete pools,
Stretching from here to the sea.
Not alone and yet so lonely.
Remaining constant despite the passing nights.
Constant.

Pausing on Tower Bridge

Whose river this is I do not know,
Wandering through capital,
Yet unhurried by the tide,
Not bothered by high taxes,
Nor when interest rates will slide.

Th’incessant patter of the rain,
Which crumples suits,
And washes words from papers,
Swells his peaceful progress,
Whilst human traffic tapers.

The rising of the moon,
Which sets the city sleeping,
Casts a glow upon his way,
And slowly snaking with the flow,
Not begging for the day.

And so I stand upon the bridge,
No longer marching to the clock.
Instead I close my weary eyes and fly,
Upon that silent river,
And dream that Time has passed me by.

Balloons

The air is tightly strung,
Like a rubber sheet,
Inches above my head.

Each strike of the minute hand,
Strums the silence,
The reverberations beat against my ears.

Your entrance breaks the rhythm,
The tension snaps like a small boy’s balloon,
He looks up, and so do I.

We are suddenly aware of how quickly things can end.
You drift towards me,
And smile sadly.

I am left with a tear and a piece of string.

Meaning

The wired world has stolen words,
Sound-bitten and spun out,
Buried in digital dictionaries,
Stripped of colour,
Expressionless.

Poetry is speechless.
Drowned in tired wit,
Caked in "contemporary" prose.
Wallpapered with the everyday.
Tasteless.

Why is Muse so silent,
While so much stands or falls
To be won and lost?
Have words truly lost their meaning,
Or has man's scratching lost its sight?

The Poisoner

I am the poisoner,
I breathe the pestilential fog
Which fills my lungs
And clothes your pores with hate.

I am the darkness,
The heaviness that rests
On sultry nights
And steals your borrowed sighs.

I am the vision of despair
Which sets your sleeping lids
Fluttering.
The queasiness you felt when passing that word by.

I am the lock on your Pandora’s box,
Rusty keeper of your secrets,
I know your secret hope
When a noise breaks through the night.

Yet still you call my name,
You search for me by daylight,
And tread my shadows by the moon
And no forgotten lover will ever doubt your quest.

Out of Frame

Time is passing in your photo album,
Flash by flash,
Another's smiles alongside yours,
Page by page,
I turn with fear and loathing.

Over and onward,
Frozen seconds burn my fingertips,
I picture a thousand more intimate,
Which the camera did not see.
Looking for faces which might have been me.

I am breaking down,
My edges are torn,
My memories are peeling away,
Victim of a life of turning,
Because the first page was too good to be true.

On Closing The Window

From the desk at my window
I can see the chapel silhouette.
Beyond the window-sill,
The bell tower,
Dwarfed by cranes,
Building tomorrow.

Jazz notes sparkle on the pond,
Blues playing out
The last few bars in Cambridge.
The grand old tree,
I'll never be that tall
But to grow I must move on.

So why do I wish away
This window-scene
Just because the books are blocking out the light?
Each minute peels the corner of my soul away from home,
Each tolling bell is closer to the last.
But to grow, I must move on.

Spinning out the Wait

Fortune, you look so sad,
Your fettered feet are caught in my despair,
Your flightless wings are torn to shreds
By doubt.

A doubt that is the feeblest of our foes.
For brooding certainty lies in tempted wait,
She sharpens her claws and contemplates
Our fate.

Why am I so sure I know the answer no?
The coin is spinning,
And yes is on the other side,
Just wait!

Cinquains 4-2day + 4-2morrow

The 3
Day rule. So much
Waiting - so little time
To think. I only wish it was
Two-Day.

+

I see
The future, now.
She calls, but I step back
I prefer the present's soft lies.
Don't you?

Storm-Safe

I thought I was a sailing boat,
Driving to windward,
Looking for a purpose,
A reason to weather the storm.

But you make me question my charts,
Spinning my compass like roulette.
You raise my eyes to the stars,
Together we run with the gale.

So I’ll change my course in an instant,
If your star shifts an inch to the right,
For although the seas will be angry,
I know your safe haven’s in sight.

Coffee in the Café

I sat in the café and waited.
Sipping at coffee,
And watching the strangers go by.

I sat in the café and waited.
One eye on the clock,
And watching the strangers go by.

I sat in the café and waited,
My heart beating faster,
Knowing the hour was past,
Staring with fear,
At the hands on the clock,
As they beat our lost chances away.

But you caught the last chance to the café,
You wrested my sight from the clock,
You walked through that door,
And time fell away.
So we sat sipping coffee in the café,
And watching the strangers go by.

Girl

Hello girl,
I need you but I’m done with flirting.
I’m through with the chase,
My feet are hurting,
I want to stop and rest with you.

Hey girl,
Can’t we skip the missing heartbeats,
Skip the questions,
Know the answers?
I don’t want to play this game no more.

Girl,
I’m not saying you aint worth it,
‘Cos you are worth a thousand miles,
Just wish this once,
Things could be simple,
And we could be one.

Words Alone

You didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t love me yesterday.
At least I saw you face to face so you could tell me so,
You whispered it with your eyes,
And mouthed it with your smile,
But today is different, and only the memories are left to do the talking.

I never even thought you’d fade from view,
I thought we’d find the time to talk and laugh,
Never getting close to you tore me apart,
But never being near you,
I never even thought.

So this is how its going to be until the end,
Long moments of emptiness,
Short pangs of awkward joy,
Meeting in the queue,
Speaking with words alone.

Yesterday religion stood between us,
Formidable yet asking to be challenged.
Today passing friendship joined the blockade.
I’m starved without your smile,
But I won’t turn my back to the sea.

Poem of the Week

Porphyria's Lover (Robert Browning, 1812-1889)
First Line: The rain set early in to-night

A Night With An Old Flame

She's licking at the window pane,
Curling the glass,
Distorting her twisted frame,
Pressing for release.

Don't let her near the bed, they said.
Don't let her out the door,
She's bent upon destruction,
And evil to the core.

She's in your room by night,
Creeping up the walls,
Smearing fingers down for spite,
Questing for a breath of cool night air.

And then she's gone.
That mistress of the twilight hours.
And all that's left is the mess you made,
The two of you beyond your powers.

Loving Pandora

If only her face appeared in dreams alone,
If only she were a hazy morning memory,
A spectre drifting from my door as I awake,
Her smile just mine reflected in a mirror.

To be her friend is to recall my loss at every turn.
So much happiness locked away by faith.
A trust, to which I have the key,
The key I'm afraid to touch.

It's innocent enough, that key.
And in my dreams I hear it turning.
Over and over in my mind,
Yet even there I never turn that handle.

For that small step might open love,
Or split Pandora's box,
Spilling its contents,
And tearing my very life in two.

Watchmaker

I wish I were a watchmaker,
Steady hands nudging fine cogs
Or perfect crystals
Measuring the passing flood of time

But I only see the face,
Two twitching hands embracing
Celestial complexities,
Concealing secret operations.

I wish I were a watchmaker
Seeing the feathering tick
Behind you and me
Calculating for infinity

But I only see two hands,
Joined at the centre.
While you can see the wheels turning
And the faults that make them stop.

Poem of the Week

Tonight I can Write (Pablo Neruda 1904-1973, Translated)
First line: Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Why Poetry?

Why is it that
Sometimes I can write
Long lines of verse
While other times
No words come?

Why is it that
When I am sad
Sadness flows in words
While happiness
Languishes in feelings?

Why is it that
Poets talk of love
Of daffodils and lakes
But hardly ever
Touch on all the other things?

Why is it that
Some things can only be
Expressed in poetry
Woven line by line
Saved from memory?

Fides

My soul is clenched as I stand at you door,
My legs quake as though I stand in a dying tree,
A small boy with all my weight on one branch,
Waiting for the crack of your voice.

I ask you where I stand (though I think I know),
I can feel the branch bend beneath my feet,
Though my eyes are shut I hear the surging creak,
I hear the truth, and fall.

Though I can stand anywhere but by your side,
A whole world brimming with places and people,
They are not enough.
None are lit by the smile and sparkle of your eyes.

Every time my feet touch the ground, I will be shadowed by your belief,
A reminder of where I will never stand,
For I believe in you.

And that is not enough.