Jimi Hendrix, 80 today

Today I discovered a new
Friend. Jimi Hendrix. Hello
Jimi, are there harps in heaven?

Did you leave us at the right time?
Did you find love or were you just
Confused? Did nothing really matter?

Now are you there. Meanwhile
Chickens live under a sun you had
Some part in, reflecting back to us

With sound waves celestialising the
Ears that touched them. It becomes
Sad to think of your ears, how much

They knew, how much they loved, the
Worlds they never experienced through
Time. But it’s not sad for you, you now

Are there, hearing, making, breathing
Rhythm round the planes of colour like
Light itself, your frequency is that high.

James Marshall Hendricks

Born 27th November 1942.

My dearest friend

He passed away. Did he?

Surely he is here? Surely we

Will see him, hug him, be 

Hugged by him again?

I believe he has not gone

He has

 just left his body

And is more present, true

Present, real present, as we

Are, more. He is now more

Both deeper and lighter,

So free that he can no

Longer be

Framed in a picture.

So free that there is 

Not a corner of the

Universe he has not 

Reached. He has become

One and is now everywhere

We are sad because 

We cannot see him, but 

We can believe him and 

Love him forever , as we 

Did before, our dear Dumbledore, Harnaik, Arnie.

Birthday Past

Dark cake and a pair of shoes
On the grave outskirts of Saint James’s Park, just outside the gates, in fact,

On a grey paving slab, quiet clean, but
For the crumbs and smear, like dog shit,
In its roadside homelessness, nowhere

The sweet kitchen that supported it, we presume, before it got led astray, wandered from the safety of the

Picnic blanket, perhaps taken by these shoes..
But they lost their way, neither shoe can tell tales to passing

Strangers now, both are mute.
Was she Happy when she left?
We can only guess and hope she got some new shoes

Epitaph for Grandpa Pete

Stanley
Peter Merer,
Architect, sailor, spitfire
Survivor.

Zoom up –
SWERVE, the tropics
And dales, war to peace:
Air to sea.

He ruled
New colours and     
Shapes that could tame breezing light
Like the best
Sails and wings.          

Grandparents, Reunited.

She had bright
Red papier mâché,
He, a thick oak.  

Between funerals,
The years, brittle,
Wan, now mingled
With the best ones –  

Dusty joy,
Shared; striding, touching,
Swimming through the wind.

Remembrance Sunday peace and sound

 

We ring the bells for

Babies, we ring them

Then for brides and

Grooms, we ring them

Every Sunday, in politeness

To our Father, his Son and

Of course, the Holy Ghost.

 

Today’s bells ring and ring

And clash with the drums

And brass blowing down

The street to the pound

Of feet remembering flesh

That was blown to sand

Or mud or stone, depending

On the time, the place and

The type of luck or

 Bravery that graced

The soldier who didn’t know

The shortcut was It.

 

 

Arpeggios, majors, no

Minors – Don’t dwell

On pain, keep calm

Carry on – Don’t clock

The fuss civilians

Make about bombs.

 

Drums for triumph

Beating out a time of

Red and gold and

Sabre mounted on the

Field, blast through the murmur

Of stealth or chocolate bars

Mingling with Kalashnikovs

In the long-distance lorry’s bowels.

 

Drumming stops and the

Ducks go quack quack as

They paddle in the

Lake and the leaves

Break out in chatter

Now that they can hear

Each other better without

The dreadful stacks

Of beats that back

The boots that crack

The streets to remind

Them that another year

Has passed and more

Bodies are piled on

The old ones who died

Young. God rest their souls.

Leighton Cemetery

Left there the corpses,

then the skeletons,

first alone, then to-

gether, their beloved

wives newly carved on

the head –

stone.

Left there the flowers

fade, made of nylon,

or decay, if alive once,

foil and cellophane

are blown away and

vase is

cracked.

The ground is pinned down,

there is nowhere to

be, only thin waves

lap each grave where we

wade to reach that door,

key-hole

free.

8:30 am, Heart Attack Road

Death stopped his

Clock at 49 years, 38

Days and 54 seconds.

Enough? No sense in

Asking nonsense

Questions, his measure

Weighed no more

Nor less than 49

Years, 38 days and

54 seconds. No

Use holding

A bicycle, a

Cigarette, a

Curt phone-call,

Suspect , no murder

Here, only Life

Then Death.

Rerouted

So abruptly,

Where does he stamp-stomp now –

Swear or

Hack a laugh

And scratch

His ear to

Chase a thought?

What’s that sound

We hear on the

Stairs? Silence and the

Flaccid patter of

Other people’s feet,

Not his firm

Tread.

Who’s that voice

That Northern

Lurch? – No, not

Him, too mincing,

Not his whirr from

A tar-blacked pipe.

His last weekend,

His last of

Life, what

Passed, passed

Clear and

Flat, as if

To expose,

Not far ahead,

A fork in the road.

Off he veered,

Yet visible in

The morning glare, but

Shrinking,

Slowly, steps

Grow softer

As his edges

Fizz their last,

And crackle warmly

Into Horizon.

In memory of a man, a salesman from Nottingham, fond of sailing and his 3 children.