PURPLE SKIRTS AND PINSTRIPED SHIRTS

I still see you in that short purple skirt,

With leather boots that came up to your knees,

And me in a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

I think of you dancing — blithe extrovert.

I recall songs about juniper trees.

I still see you in that short purple skirt.

It was our world then — our own rock concert —

A flower land with butterflies and bees,

And me in a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

I remember how you would laugh and flirt

And how you’d jest and joke and charm and tease.

I still see you in that short purple skirt.

I often dream of you — my just desert? —

Periwinkle eyes, blonde hair styled to please,

And me in a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

When the memories fade there will be more hurt

And I will forget our shared histories.

I won’t see you in that short purple skirt,

Nor me in a blue and white pinstriped shirt.

LOTS OF LIES

Do they not know that they are telling lies

As they spin their stories and plan their plots?

How can they trust the frauds they publicise?

Can you not see dollar signs in their eyes

As they promote their bogus Camelots?

Do they not know that they are telling lies?

They brook no quarrels and reject replies,

Because their venal shams buy patrons’ yachts.

How can they trust the frauds they publicise?

All their schemes are devious pies in skies —

No widespread gains, only donors’ jackpots.

Do they not know that they are telling lies?

They swarm around sponsors like greedy flies

That love the garbage heaps of vacant lots.

How can they trust the frauds they publicise?

We few, who know their world view falsifies,

Crave the day when their conspiracy rots.

Do they not know that they are telling lies?

How can they trust the frauds they publicise?

SORROW

On most days my tears are ready to flow,

I hold them back with earnest distractions.

My eyes are soon wet with my timeworn woe.

Whether the skies are grey or all aglow,

I see nought that might be called attractions.

On most days my tears are ready to flow.

The world spins round and makes a baffling show,

Dancing to songs of dissonant factions.

My eyes are soon wet with my timeworn woe.

Hurts come and stay and are so slow to go —

Some tangible but others abstractions.

On most days my tears are ready to flow.

Loneliness is part of the fiasco —

No one sees my dull dissatisfactions.

My eyes are soon wet with my timeworn woe.

When did I come to this rotten borough?

How did I lose all in all transactions?

On most days my tears are ready to flow,

My eyes are soon wet with my timeworn woe.

JUNGLE

Beware of elephants the road signs said,

Beneath hills crowned with temples of strange gods,

Near jungles where soldiers’ blood once was shed.

The weathered cuttings crumbled dirty red,

Unseen breezes inspired trees’ sways and nods,

Beware of elephants the road signs said.

An access path wound like a silken thread

Around the slopes farmed in recurring quads,

Near jungles where soldiers’ blood once was shed.

Somewhere were trenches dug by foes now dead,

Freedom fighters, loyalist army squads,

Beware of elephants the road signs said.

A high peak pierced blue sky like a spearhead,

Verdure painted the same green as peapods,

Near jungles where soldiers’ blood once was shed.

How many raw youths were cruelly misled

And tricked into battles against all odds?

Beware of elephants the road signs said,

Near jungles where soldiers’ blood once was shed.

SCOTCH VILLAINY

I love the crack of whisky breaking ice

And the whisper of this water of life,

Staining glass with burnished gold once, twice, thrice.

It moves me to a place so cool and nice

Where calm replaces misfortune and strife;

I love the crack of whisky breaking ice.

I know some wowsers see it as a vice

But they know nought of this substitute wife,

Staining glass with burnished gold once, twice, thrice.

I am addicted to the malt and spice

And peat that chants of pipes and drums and fife;

I love the crack of whisky breaking ice.

There are times when I would pay any price

For this elixir of the afterlife,

Staining glass with burnished gold once, twice, thrice.

But I’m not fussy, nor am I precise;

I’ll drink cheap and common and rough and rife.

I love the crack of whisky breaking ice,

Staining glass with burnished gold once, twice, thrice.

MONSOON

It's hottest just before the rain comes down

From the mountains of clouds stacked grey and black,

A gift from heaven’s skies to this parched town.

Forecasts are framed by faux experts who frown,

Describing nothing but the past come back,

It’s hottest just before the rain comes down.

Thunder sounds alarums like a loud clown,

And drops explode on the roof of our shack,

A gift from heaven’s skies to this parched town.

The sun vanishes fearing it might drown

And the shade sheds respite from heat’s hard rack,

It’s hottest just before the rain comes down.

Rivers swell and swerve and swirl khaki brown

Like camouflaged armies on the attack,

A gift from heaven’s skies to this parched town.

Like verses by a poet of renown

Nature’s cycle wheels on a rhythmic track;

It’s hottest just before the rain comes down,

A gift from heaven’s skies to this parched town.

CHILDHOOD BLUES

The blue of the sky reflected blue sea

And pure white foam floated in both the blues.

That was the way it seemed to younger me.

We had pleasure in being us and we

And there was much to see in two-blued views.

The blue of the sky reflected blue sea.

The mornings were clean and lit up with glee

And never knew a warring world’s worst news.

That was the way it seemed to younger me.

The sunsets were as red as red could be

And grey days were as rare as wearing shoes.

The blue of the sky reflected blue sea.

At night the heavens were spangled starry

And waters flickered flaming yellow hues.

That was the way it seemed to younger me.

As children we knew only how to be

And we believed we had freedom to choose.

The blue of the sky reflected blue sea,

That was the way it seemed to younger me.

THE WRITER

I am a teller of stories.

I live between a keyboard

And a screen lit blue,

Thinking about sagas

That do not matter

And none of them are true.

I am a composer of poems.

I live in a word-filled world

Where imaginings rhyme

And sometimes play tunes

Backed by ancient rhythms

And loves of another time.

PARADISE

 

GOOD FRIDAY

 

GREY ALL WAYS

MANGROVE GLADE

 

PERSIAN PRINCESS

We were both so raw back then.

I still have our photos

And they look

Almost primeval.

You were sharply cut

And I was chiseled.

You were like a goddess

From a fifties movie.

I was more like the hero

Of a forties western —

Grim greys and watery whites —

Ashen against your deep shades

And your eyes’ glossy lights.

But we found something

There in each other;

And, with loving hands,

We sculpted two into one,

One day — one wonderful day—

In the ancient Near East

(As diplomats used to say).

Once you were so close

That I could smell your perfume.

Every now and then

A wisp of your hair

Tickled my cheek.

You seemed so gentle

And you looked at ease

Even though

You were so close to me.

I longed to kiss you

And pull you closer;

But I could not do it. 

And yet you looked at me —

Your flashing eyes

Said you wanted me to react.

But I could not do it.

The next time we were so close,

I was just grateful

For a second chance.

So we kissed

And I held you so tight

You should have swooned

But we stayed upright.

And so it began – you and me.

Your body squeezed so hard against me

That we regretted only our clothes.