Poems

Safe Haven

 


Another ditty for the times ‘Those Dastardly Unions’

In solidarity ‘November 30 2011′

Fragment from about 1994 ‘Licks’ when the stop the Criminal Justice Campaign was running.

‘Bonus’ a little rant while I’m feeing optimistic

Suiting Poets

Suiting Poets

Why is it the suits

Are always asking us poets

For some form of identification?

After all

All we want is their money

When they have been after our souls

For centuries.

‘Boat People’

Boat People

Mine is a seafarers history

And my heart

Like the dead of pirate ships and clippers is carved from oak.

Numbed by an the Atlantic crossing and an Arctic chill

I have long since lost all feeling.

I am the carrier spreading my human cargo across the earth

And my diseases in the forests of ancient civilisations,

I have taken the boat people on my rafts

And have abandoned them on Ellis Island.

Press ganged as a child

And tied to the mast in the service of a king

Speaking the language of the mainland

I learned to despise the huddled masses

Puking up their trials on the wave washed decks.

I taught them well and they have erased me from their memories.

Cold as their teacher

They act like they came by horse and carriage,

Talk of economic refugees

And look with astonishment at the ragged families

Clinging to a makeshift raft

And the helmsman

Who steers a passage between the coastguard and the beach.

Without a glimmer of recognition

They change channels

While I take my thirty pieces of silver

And spend them in the whorehouses of Babylon

‘The Darkside’ a winter thing

The Darkside

When I talk about the dark side

I mean the twisted carrier

Of the seed of wisdom

Roaming in her seasonal skin

Through the frozen forests of Europe,

The bare branches and black soil of the Celtic warrior,

The pre-electric nights

And footslogging it across the Donegal ridge

To the January breakers of the East Atlantic

Crashing against the cliffs near Carrick.

When I talk about the dark side

I mean the force behind the terror,

The long wait for green stems and fat bellied fruit

And the yearly path we stumble along

Towards the pot of gold

That is the rainbow.

Apparently there’s been some kind of award ceremony for Festivals. ‘Awarding Times’

Drifted back to 1970 in a fit of nostalgia ‘Walking In Iceland.’

Walking In Iceland

The mind tug pulls across the moss grey lava

To feather beds and the sweet smell of moist flesh.

Here the eiders keep their down locked tight above the piercing water

Drifting silent in the violent pools of a cut crust.

Here the flesh is wild and locked beneath the feathers it screams for naked cool.

The mind pulls chewing gum threads from a black ash blanket

Cries out for touch

And is answered by a menthol waterfall.

Her and there lie fallen songs and broken tongues

In this place

Where only luck will answer

Only sometimes.