poem

Thistle Regrets

Dreaming of the way her hills of green surround me, how her waters flow, that flower on Mum’s brooch.
That bonnie lass kissed me, and I was in love until I backed off and left her standing still, crying like an angel.
A bloody git with no love to give; I sit on park benches wishing for a bit of ‘The Guard’ treatment once a week.
The lassies don’t love an old cock, so I use face paint on me face to enhance my features, but it don’t help.
To think I feel ancient at 30! Not even Belle and Sebastian can save me ass, as she’s getting married today.
I swore I’d pop over, stand up like Elton John wanted to, and say I love you babe and I wanna kiss the bride, yeah!
Her vagina is for him now, so I can’t be taking a vagina that’s been freely given in the pleasures of consensual coitus.
I’m shite at love, yet there’s always hope in the valleys and the Loches that are 21st-century ladies and lassies.
Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t a sheep shagger; I just didn’t know love when it bit me or hit me between the eyes.
Speaking of the devil, there’s a lassie coming my way. Could it be her? No. Yet she’s like strawberries and cream; I might have a tub.

Young and Foolish

Lips of rose, powdered ivory cheeks,
dark long hair moving as she moved,
eyes of violet ice, mitten coal hands.

She was a flower in full bloom dancing
for freedom on the lake that snowy day.

I was only a young, foolish boy, watching
the way she moved, captivated, knowing.

Lips of rose turned white, ivory cheeks froze,
dark long hair became still, her eyes closed,
the mittens no longer danced in the snow.

I fled from her stillness, forever running from
that beautiful face I never stopped to love.

Entitled

Saturday morning blues.
‘Let me sleep for one more hour!’
you yell yet whisper.

Dreaming of something
to do with Russians, mowers,
and manicured moustaches.

You’ve got a thing for the
Way moustaches grow, move,
and fly about demurely.

The Russians excite you,
as you think about bedding
another Oligarch or two.

Today will be a random kind
of day where you become
a semi-exciting philosopher.

The cat looks at you with
her resting bitch face;
she’s plotting your demise.

You knew when the two of
you met that the cat was a
capitalist, yet you melted.

She reminds you of your
tricky dilemma: Justifying
21st-century slavery.

You move from your Egyptian
Cotton sheets to your lush carpet,
then to your opulent shower.

‘It’s a hard life being so philosophical’,
you say quietly, yet you’re a CEO of a
company and you just fired 40 people.

Looking in the mirror, you can’t see it;
there’s an entitled air about you and
it moves with you through your life.

You play the down and our philosopher,
yet you don’t care about people;
just the clinic of gold bars in your safe.

The cat looks at you with disdain;
She swipes your leg with a paw, then
runs away to her food bowl.

You know she is just like you,
yet you better go and appear as though
you care for all those slaves.

Eat your fruit and vegetables

Taking the piss,
hating the morning.

They made a tape;
called it, “Eat Your Veggies”.

When dawn arrived,
they turned up the sound.

It was the sound of a fierce
wind against their windows.

Underneath,
a subliminal message repeated
the words,
“Eat your fruit and vegetables”.

After a couple of mornings,
gardening utensils, trucks,
and gloved hands appeared.

The street is known as,
“The Fruit Bowl Street
of the South-East”.

Now for another experiment.

Shadows at Dawn

The moon’s outline in the sky
tells my body it’s too early for another day.

Trees once danced in numbers,
now sparse; replaced by houses, people.

The wind whistles down from the hills,
moving through my nightie, blowin’ my hair.

Forgotten clouds appear shyly,
creeping closer to the moon, hiding her outline.

The darkness and the light interweave
leaving strange shapes and shadows at dawn.

Whispers from the shadows and the wind
call me back to something known, yet unknown.
I retreat inside, knowing well I should have listened.

This Land

Moving in the wind,
the full fabric moves
in this ancient place.

Burning heat sears all,
as the sun burns down
upon this arid land.

Colours of the Earth,
different burnt colours
not shades to dispute.

No European delicacies
need remain here,
for the sun burns it all.

Singing moves on the wind,
an ancient song forbidden,
to pay tribute to this land.

The Special One

A small finger points
to the sky, as
they lift off the ground.

The meadow, distant now;
Hearts pound hard, fast.
Fear mixed with awe.

The small one shows
them the flowers, meadow,
the horizon, beautiful light.

A small finger gently releases
them from the spell of levitation,
as they smile, kiss, hug,
and drink a toast to the special one.

Afternoon Tea

We sit together for tea
with cups, saucers and
the old willow teapot.

The afternoon sun moves
closer to the end
as the chatter moves on.

Wishing wells and time
come to mind for
many unknown reasons.

The teapot empties
staying that way for a while;
we continue appearances.

A sound from the teapot;
no, this must be a mistake.
The teapot becomes a shell
and, the music of the sea plays.

No one else seems to notice
the teapot, playing songs.

She’s calling me to her side;
I decide to visit the sea
and ask her for her hand.