Pictures of Me

I look alright in black and white
but any other tone won’t do,
for my pallor is pale as though I’ve set sail
on the good ship Titanic Two.

Classic Christmas

Oh lord what passes for Christmas anymore?
it aint got that spirit that knocks you out like fire
and makes you open to good fortune
whatever that is. You tramp through the snow
As though Chopin personally chilled the sky with his nocturnes.
The overpriced coffee almost makes the stinging chill
worth it. With that new reference book you’ll find out
which frogs are poisonous and how long did Henry the Eighth
reign for anyway? Then you slot it in between a travellogue
and a hardback collection of Dickens. What about a time when
neighbours showed up like they were made of plastic
and shivered at the notion that you might know about their orgies.
What a treat to know that your fathers wages went to something useless
again this year, but he’s drunk now and a new year is coming.
Maybe this will be the year that he leaves us for the Bahamas.
Oh how he wishes.

New Clothes

I’m caught between being completely furnished,
like a melody composed with simple notes
constructed to seem almost Greek,
and having the stitching be infused with the dust.
I suppose one has a future, but i don’t know how to wear it;
The other is the home that I’ve outgrown.
Still the money trails behind like shedding feathers
and i’m watching Scout and Jem, wishing Halloween
could be like that again.
If I could figure out what’s to be expected of me
I would play that part for them.
I act in fine tailoring, and live in the rags I can’t leave behind.

Small Southern Poem

Big delta heart aged one hundred and three;

Crossed a mighty river,

Showered by the tears from the high hanging trees,

And that steamboat never slowed down.

His crooked cemetery smile grounded the crows

That followed like the band;

And they sang in the sermon weary night

Till it got out of hand,

Still that steamboat went rolling on and on.

Seagulls

I always loved the sound of gulls in the morning.

My father complains. They no more shatter the dawn

As the arriving cars. They are the music of the sea

And the sun shines with them. Who cares if they steal

From time to time?

Today

It didn’t take me very long to get up this morning, but I did spend a great deal of time getting out of bed. I walked immediately to the bank, because I like money and I wanted to look at some. I was dressed to the nines at a quarter to ten at a fiver for a four pence. The banker, a nice man named something, eyed me suspiciously. I told him I was due to stand in a field in an hour and I didn’t have a moment to waste. Well I left the bank satisfied, and made my way to the 24 hour chemist across the road from the conservative club. I begged for penicillin or at least something that could dissolve in water. The nun behind the counter was having none of it (he said, knowingly). So I spent the rest of the day at a wedding reception at the local tennis club. The drinks were free.

Harbour.

The dusk sky on a harbour front –

Oh, it makes me drunk and happy.

The pubs are full and uproarious,

And the human sound in the air

Is footsteps, and the rhythm of the tide

Matches my breathing.

This is a land of ancient stone,

Unchanged roads, songs of autumn death

And songs of spring reborn.

Share the City

I want to share the moment I fly down the few stone steps

Out of the town hall and into the cold breeze;

And when I choose whether to walk through the open square

Admiring the space, or walk hidden by the columns

And look into the windows of the library I’ve never been in.

I want to share the moment I sit by the fountain too early in the morning,

And people are rushing into the jungle of cafés.

I want to share not knowing which way to go

With no intention of making up my mind,

Which is inconvenient when trying to find a place to stop and eat.

But maybe my confused steps are funny,

And we don’t need to plan, we can just get lost together.

Today

I am singing through the voices of my heroes

Here on a grey day in February

And the wind is yelling at me to stop.

I have burned through Neil Young

And now I don’t know where to turn.

I want to paint the mellow autumn

That he describes, only my drifting fingers

Repel the brush. My own voice can’t hit

C sharp minor 7. I want to drown this creative sorrow

In a bar, alone, with quiet music,

But I am too nervous to live out this cliché.

Bar Singer Blues

The Spanish tones of your silver guitar

Betray the place where you actually are

But with a smile you describe how you’re a falling star

While outside the vandals steal the wheels from your car.

 

My words offer only quiet sympathy and shame

Though by tomorrow I’ll have forgotten your name

But I’ll be sure I was probably happy to see that you came

And your repertoire remained the same.

 

I’m watching your fire slowly flicker and fade

And I wonder if music was truly your trade

But you showed me all the money that you had made

A paper note and a fists worth of change.

 

I was warmed by the honesty on your face

Your tree trunk arms and your hair out of place

But now you’re gone without a trace

And I don’t care enough to give a chase.

 

I just remember your songs

Though you got most of the words a little bit wrong

No matter where you go your spirit is never gone

And all I say my friend is ‘well… so long.’