ODOURS.

In every room we enter

He tells me

Something smells,

And I’ve searched high and low

For a perch

Where a lingering stink might grow

But there’s nothing obviously

Rotting,

So I’m left to conclude

That either the whole house hums

Or I do.

And that impression

Is seconded

When he cuddles me

And scrunches his nose up whilst close,

And I look him

Kindly in the eye and advise him

That every now and again

I might forget

To shower correctly

As I’m running around the house

After him.

But he reminds me,

Once again,

Why his smile can melt

The eldest iceberg lurking inside me,

And I don’t

Have the heart, or department,

To tell him that, maybe,

Every so often,

Even though he’s steam clean,

There may just be something unpleasant

In his pants.

TWIN TOWERS.

Two pylons

Loomed above her lens,

Green tinged

And tubular,

And even though they were unused

To being viewed

From such a peculiar angle

They managed to

Stand still

In the airstream

To reveal their top feathers

For the benefit

Of future studies.

And what fine plumes they bore,

Soaring above

A many pointed neck ruffle

In the shape of a

Delicate sphere,

Whose spokes

Were lightly anchored

For the air’s breath to

Outflank

And gather higher than the skyline

Of their quills,

Whereby their flighted tips

Will slip into the fingers

Of the wind

And be granted

Safe passage to other

Wild or walled

Gardens.

CITY DANDELIONS.

Between the

Busy street

And the sidewalk’s

Urban beat

There was

A forest

For the florist

In all of us

To come upon;

Populated

By the latest

Collection of

Spring’s greatness

Where I saw

The tall towers

Of flowers

Whose stems

Were strengthened

For the lengths

They held,

And the starburst

Crowns

That sat atop,

Scooping up

What sunlight

Filtered through

Benighted trees

And dropping

Arrow like shards

Of pretty seeds

For the pity

Of this

Windy city's breeze

To carry

Carefully away.

A DISCOURSE FOR THE DAY.

I’ve only just recovered my composure

From the previous evening,

And subsequently I’ve been unable to write

A decent line all night;

In fact I’ve had to abandon the piece I was

Working on

As it didn’t hang together that well at all

Because it’s meter was broken,

And I don’t really bother with that stuff

Much anyway,

Preferring instead to flesh out an idea

Or phrase overheard that day,

And use a language more manageable

Than fancy,

And it seems to work remarkably well

For my serenity

Even though viewing figures are down

And comments non-existent;

But that’s not necessarily why I fly-post

It all over my notices,

Or what I struggle to express to the best

Of my ability;

It’s more the fact that what was a hobby

Has become a habit

And one I can tap pretty much whenever

I have something to run with,

And for someone who always got the

Wrong end of the stick

I’m stuck with it until I lose the desire

To explain myself

And the morbidly obese world I find

Myself feeding on.    

FAIR WEATHER IS MY FRIEND.

It’s six thirty;

I haven’t got long,

And I’m running late,

And if I don’t time it right

I’ll get three strides outside my door

And get caught in a tropical storm

That will stream through the seams

Of my clothes and swell my equilibrium

Until I can’t tell which way is home,

Or the clouds will part and sunburn

Will turn my tender skin into crackling

And peel it and eat out the meat of me

Leaving me less dressed than a crab

That was grabbed by a starving man.

And the wind’s stronger than it was

And longer than it should rightly be;

With a chill that spills into the cracks

Of your backbone and only leaves

You alone once it’s grown over you.

And I can understand changes

To the climate and an increase

In seasonal disagreements,

But the rapid action of this

Current batch of conditions

Is enough to force even

The best well wishers

To support more

Stability.

LOOKING FOR THE LOST THINGS.

So we were looking for a jar full of fauna,

But

Obviously

Not just any jar:

It was a dried spice jar,

Emptied of its original zest

And filled with a handful of animals

And then, as with most things, cast aside,

But now there was a desperate need of it,

An

Unusual

But familiar want;

The kind of requirement

That loudly announces itself

To not just neighbours, but the whole

Neighbourhood and should probably be bottled

And used to scare unwary burglars away.

And

This brings

Us back to facts:

Whereby there’s a

Realistic likelihood that

The spare spaces of the house

Have colluded to steal off with his creatures

And won’t divulge secrets till other things are sought.

THE LAST FIRST MEAL.

Over the past few weeks

I’ve had to face the bleak possibility

That breakfast may be lost

To the vagaries of his ever changing tastes:

One minute the spoon was sailing smoothly

On a bowl full of milky grains,

Dipping down gracefully to take a few

And lift them swiftly to his magnetic lips,

And the next it was not;

Its velocity stopped

By a turn of attention,

Which had up to this point been spent

Learning the words of the pixel shaded

Movie playing loosely on TV.,

But was now showing an interest

In the contents of his feast..

And as simple as that

The tide turned,

The milk soured,

The cereal softened in its box,

And we were left with less options than last month,

As scrambled egg and bacon

Can only be used occasionally,

And there are only so many uses for fruit.

So it’s back to the drawing board,

Time to start over,

A moment with nowhere to go,

And unless I get inventive,

Or discover other toppings for toast,         

Then this meal will be done

And we’ll have to start

Sleeping till lunch. 

23rd APRIL.

Cry God

For Harry,

Who rides his steed into the fray

And sweeps the foes of age away;

Who sides with joy and all its trade

And makes it more than it was made;

Who hides no region of his face

And shines for those who are displaced.

Cry God

For England,

Whose age is greater than its years

And credit more than its arrears;

Whose rage has wailed both far and near

And settled more than interfered;

Whose page in history is clear

And read whenever doubt appears.

Cry God

For Saint George,

Whose build embodies our land

From head to foot and iron hand;

Whose will enables us to stand

And be the people we demand;

Who killed the fear of evil’s brand

And leads us to Jerusalem.

THE HEAT.

The greatest race,

The people chase,

The one no other wins

Is with yourself,

As nobody else comes

Even close to opposing you:

Your shadow bent over

Your shape,

As if a cape blown in the wind,

And legs outstretched against themselves

For an imaginary line

Where only one can find a prize;

Your ribs horrifically ripping

All the meat between them

As they reach for ever rising heights;

You arms in blurred

And urgent focus as they close upon

The wonders out in front,

Whilst never quite able enough

To get you there,

Or clutch the air beyond,

And so claim for their own

The title and trophy

Of life’s coarse trial,

But you keep score,

And from that sheet repeat the test

Forever hoping triumph lies ahead,

When all the time you realise

That only when you’re done

Will the end come.

LONDON MARATHON.

Good luck today

To those

Who

Take the road unto their friend,

Embracing pain

Until the end,

And making profit

From it

For such charity

As carries them to raise it.

All in their sporting best,

Or fancy dress

That wears them better

Than the bitter

Chill of London Town,

Whose crowds propel

Them on

When will

Prepares to

Leave their feet.

And all around the cobbles

They will dash

Or hobble,

Walk and talk,

And take heart

From the strangers met

And gain respect

From friends they’ve know for years

Who feared for them.

And that old town

Will guide them round

The glory of its past

And present trends

Up to the end,

Where thanks will fall

From all who benefit

Or watch it

In awe

And admiration.