life

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.          

After all the poems I wrote about you

Wherever you are

There is love,

Wherever I am

There is love,

If we meet,

There is love,

If we don’t,

There is love,

If you meet another,

There is love,

If we meet again,

There is love,

All loves lead home.

 

Ballad of Will Killingsworth

He used to hoard his poems in a plastic bag –

They were heavy but the burglars threw them on their

Backs with the rest of his life – fill the cracks in theirs

With more crack.

 

Later, he came home and found it

Gone and worse, his poems taken, and he knew that

Somewhere, soon, they would decompose in the stink

Of rotting  food.

 

Nothing was left, he had no insurance, he had

No chip that housed anything good he’d ever said

With dread the sink dripped and he thought how stupid

He had been to put his poems in a plastic bag that felt like money.

 

[To be continued]

It’s called Spring because it lifts us up to Summer before Winter lets us down

The heaviness has

Gone

Whatever made the beach sand pound has 

Gone

And is now ebb and flow

In softer

Dapples to the livelier light.

 

Then the grey torpor 

Heaps

Sifted through Day’s warm mesh,it

Sits

On the bottom of the sea waiting

To be ground

Again by Winter’s deepest tide.

Last bad SAD poem before Spring, I hope

 

I am done with this day

Put it back on the shelf

Or in my bag, that way

 

I can read it on the

Bus, if I change my mind

For one that wants to be

 

Reading something new.

Now is old, blank and clean,

That extra page preserved

 

For silent doodling, no-

One watching or listening

Now that ‘The End’ has passed.

SAD, never mind, anticipate Spring.

 

This is the time of year when

Music needs to dig deep

To find us, rap a rope

Around our waists and wind

Us up to the light.

 

This is the time of year

When summer sounds are

Hollow and clatter round

Like flies scanning for jam

Round  an empty jar.

 

This is the time of year

When Love’s warmth is

Set in relief against the

Grey, when any ray is welcomed

 Like a hero from the war.

 

This is the time of year

When something as tiny as a

Crocus bud is all the hope

We need to prove again that

Life springs from mud.

Beggars all

The culture floats
In and out of
Any tiny
Fibre we call ‘I’

As it repeats,
Relish spills us-
Darkly we tap

The floor for new sights

Other people’s
Trash comes at us
With scraps of Right,
Written in Life

Tramp steels herself
To approach us
For a tenner
To loose the cold.

We give over,
Forget the gap,
‘I love you miss!’
Not a bad lie.

What made us think?

We looked at the world.

We took it all in

In colours and smells and

Thorns in our toes.

 

We smoothed down

The bark, carpeted

The mud, wove over

The stark panic

 

Or stole skin

From creatures better

Equipped for a trip

To this planet.

 

We woke up

Morn after morn and

Wondered what had swung

The orb lights round,

 

Seeming kinned

To the glints in the

Rock; mine it, let it

Wink at its clan.

 

Danger prints

On the track brim with

Odour, boding blood-

For it or us,

 

Suddenly

We revved our heads and

Span a thought sharper

Than a sabre’s tooth.

15th of August is my new birthday

Today Bart’s hospital

Opened its doors

To my head at 7:30 am

To usher in a new

Gamma Life for me.

My scorched brain

Lives again, disarmed

Nose breathes

Teeth sing

Tongue taps

Its roof with pink.

Tonight my soul will

Shake its head till

Every hair winks

Wildly at the moon.

Thank you dear universe.

 

 

               

Lunch with William Killingsworth

Homeless in New York

2:10 was late but

He waited, knowing

I’d said ‘If I don’t show,

Consider me dead’.

 

In a bistro we

Drank wine next tabled

To secure couples,

Tangible assets

Hanging from cool ears

He misfortunes told,

His grandness thinned to

A grey T with black

Cotton rough-rimmed to

His dry throat and wrists.

Fading from his eyes

Down; stolen, buried

And forgotten, left

Drop bruise scratched, kicked up

By a fox or wolf .

I finished quickly,

He sipped his slowly,

Kept it real, fitting

Calm along lines of

A life that is thin ruled.