Posted: April 21, 2015 in nature poems, urban poems

at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/ today we’re going all octet

Harsh chatter cuts through the baking
air seething across our roof tiles.
They are arrogant, ice-eyed, chopping up
a blackbird’s melody that’s been flooding
the river’s beat. Theirs is not birdsong,
just nature’s practical edge.
Functional. A rooting in the ordinary.
Like that faint rocking of traffic.

Dry Stone Wall Builder

Posted: March 31, 2015 in nature poems

at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/ today we’re writing about vocation – when something is more than just a job

This one particular stone
has its place.
Weighed in his hands,
turned over,
turned round.
His keen eyes scan surfaces for
flat spots.

Seeking for a point
where it can interlock
with the wall that already
armadillos away
down to a gate.

The day is hostile, cold wind
slicing everything needle rain
hunting for anything.
Ragged moorland sheep,
constantly chewing nothing much,
hunker in the lee of the grey wall.
All the time he carefully adds stones

making sure

compressional forces alone are binding.
He’s found his place.
Repairing an enclosure
that cannot contain an impulse
to extend the past into future.

Light is Falling

Posted: February 24, 2015 in history and art

at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/ today we’re writing about a medieval tourney with knights, costumes, games, art, courage … so this is my take

Light is falling through branches
and the knight’s horse is all muscle and nerves.
It shifts and twitches,
hamstrung by the joust field hum
where colours and sound are swirling around.

In his corner tension shreds the edges,
the groom constantly pouring whispers
into the destrier’s ears, patting it flanks,
wiping off sweat as it pin-pricks the flesh.
He puts on its heraldic caparison, blood red and gold
flowing off its back, places the chanfron
over its head, while the knight
is armoured by his squire.
Breastplate, gauntlets and hauberk
swallow him up.

He fills his vision with the endless sky then
puts on his helmet. Crowd noise is reduced
to distant surf; the day reduced to a slit.

Everything framed in a rectangle:
the ground,
a mailed fist and the butt of a lance,
his charger’s head,
an opponent at the end of the line.

A storm blows up. A ton of metal,
horse flesh and humanity unleashed.
After the crashing and splintering there is

for the knight

a moment of no weight in all that plate,
as if gathered up by a breeze.
Then he recalls a shudder and pain
before hitting the ground.
Somewhere light is still falling through branches,
he stares at the letter-boxed sun,
watching it fade,
knowing it will shortly be gone.

Seven Poems

Posted: January 30, 2015 in nature poems

So let the stars stay up there,
you can still touch them in the river.
After the storm
nature silently surveys
her violence.
In the dead of night
only the river
talks to the moon.
Out of a slate sky
rain hammers nails
into the window panes.
Rain so fine
it’s dust in the air,
cobwebs in my face.
If we bothered to listen to it,
the river would tell us
about an epic journey from the moors.
Pen held out in the wind
and ink streams away
scrawling poetry across the sky.

Chasing the sunset

Posted: November 25, 2014 in default

at http://dversepoets.com/this-is-us/ today we’re stepping into the world of fantasy ~ see how our imaginations are running…

Two shotguns let go
and echo through woods.
A thunderclap of crows
explode from the trees,
flecks of soot
swirling on the breeze.
Gathering their wits
they flap slowly over fields,
drifting low as if flying
is not worth the energy.
and gradually this flock morphs

into dragon smoke.

It catches an air current, writhes
down river, chasing the day
to its flare-out point.
This sinuous darkening cloud,
as it smokes downstream.

Heat draws it on
to the setting sun.
As it reaches the estuary
a glow beats in its heart.
Turns into a flicker,

Flames swallow smoke.
Dragon fire blazes,
then flares apart.

And a of flock fire birds heads out to sea.

Piano man of Valletta

Posted: November 19, 2014 in urban poems

piano man bw 3

A straw hat tilts over his eyes
and sun weaves
through the square’s umbrellas
to bounce off his white shirt.
In this gentle flare we sip our lattes
and Americanos as he seamlessly
slides through a practiced repertoire
on an upright piano that has lived

in a different age.

And she,
she dances barefoot
outside the Café Cordina
while the hum of our voices
rises and mixes with music,
pigeons, Maltese flags stretching
in a gentle wind.

Looking down on us all
from the wall
of the Casel Del Comun Tesoro
a plaque tells us that
Coleridge worked here for a year

where I am working now

where a thousand poets and writers
have worked in between