My poems
The Curse
This poem is about dementia – not a specific condition but the general loss of memory and confusion that afflicts sufferers.
Memories glisten like a million stars
A million memories
She knows every single one
Recalls them at will
Polishes and refines them
A million secrets
Hopes and dreams
Today the panic grows
Again
More fading stars falling
Unique fragile snowflakes
Melting into the ground
Gone
And the strange people
Tell her not to worry
She just wants to go home
The strangers tell her
You are home
She doesn’t think so
Not any more
The Dopers Lament
Doping in sport has been around for a long time. In cycling the first death attributable to doping was back in Arthur Linton back in 1896. He was trained by Chopper Warburton from Haslingden (just up the road from here) who trained three champion cyclists all of whom died before 40. The use of performance enhancing drugs wasn’t banned until 1965!
At a time we are looking at the cheating side of drugs in sport I find myself thinking of the harm it has done to some many over the years. It’s not just unfair it is genuinely tragic.
To be legends of dream, heroes
No way to win without the dope
They fuel the myth, recruit the young
The only way, the only hope
From strychnine to amphetamine
EPO, steroids, cortisone
Blood transfusions, needles and pills
HGH human growth hormone
The end of innocence came
Eighteen Ninety Six Linton died
Nineteen seventy’s new rules fell
Too late to turn this drug-fueled tide
As Tommy passed on Ventoux’ slopes
The pirate taken by cocaine
And fit young men died in their sleep
The knew the risks, we saw the pain
Fallen Heroes, battered beaten
Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide
Reputations gone, lives destroyed
The cost of greed the cost of pride
Broken
Some are impossible
A far cry
This is a poem I wrote some time ago when the campaign to ban foxhunting was underway. Although the campaign was successful it isn’t necessarily permanent as another tory government would probably reverse the ban. I often used to see foxes whilst walking my dogs early in the morning or late at night and yes I really did smell them and watch their young play etc. These are impressive wild animals and have more right to be there than we do.
It’s a far cry
A far cry from nature
From humanity
From civilization
I know, ‘cause I smelled the foxes
In the cold morning breeze
‘Cause I watched them grow
‘Cause I saw them play
‘Cause I heard their cry
Far in the distance
And the foxhunters? They
Watched them die
The hunters
Caring, caring for the countryside
Caring for nature, caring with their hatred
Their seething anger, their aching lust
For blood, for fear, for power
And yes, their lust for death
All their fancy jackets
Expensive tweeds and shiny boots
Sitting high and mighty, toasting their success
With blood-red wine on a pedigree horse
A pedigree horse groomed by stable hands
Delivered by Range Rovers
Polished and paid for by the working classes
Charging through the countryside
Like some long lost cavalry
Red coats bright, bugle calls shrill
But these brave toy soldiers
They won’t see battle, they won’t feel fear
Or wonder when their final moment comes
They won’t lie forgotten
In some God-forsaken foreign desert
No! the hunters
Defending their privilege their “Way of life”
Looking after the peasants and paying a pittance
To keep them in their place
To keep up traditions
To keep flaunting their power
To race through your back yard, or mine
Hounds baying for blood
The blood of a fox, or a family pet
Who cares? “Stand aside! we’re coming through”
The hunters days are numbered
But they still can’t see the truth
That there never was a god-given right
To hunt the fox, to ride roughshod over our land
Over the working classes and over our laws
But they still can’t see
Because they never smelled the foxes
In the cold morning breeze
All they smell
Is diesel fumes, polished leather
Warm wine and horses and dogs
The pungent sweat, the sickly-sweet scent of blood
The sharp reek of fear and the stench of death
And all they hear is
Snorting horses, yelping hounds
Tearing flesh, breaking bones
A vixen’s cry and her last breath
I know, ‘cause I smelled the foxes
In the still night air
And the hunters? They
Watched them die
The Bottom of the Cup
In the bottom of a coffee cup
Only in my dreams
Another poem I wrote a few years ago. This is about a place that has always been special to me but it is also about the way that the human race has always messed with nature and continues to do so.
Carabeg,
A peat bog in Ireland’s West,
I travelled here every year,
Often more than once,
Sat there beside brackish pools,
Breathing that cool clear air,
I dreamed my dreams,
Deep in thought,
Totally at peace,
Light grey mist swirled in wispy veils,
And in the distance the curlew called,
Here once was a primeval forest,
Here there lived great trees,
Fearsome insect eating plants,
Early mammals and birds,
Then,
Long, long ago,
The forest died,
For thousands of years,
Below the surface,
The ancient forest remained,
Preserved in the peaty mass,
New life came to Carrabeg once more,
Frogs, newts, water dwelling beetles,
Butterflies flitting from flower to flower,
Dragonflies patrolled the ditches,
Horsetail grass that ancient survivor,
And the cotton-wool flax waved in the breeze,
Early men, hunter-gatherers lived nearby,
This was a mystical, magical place,
The earth shook under my footsteps,
Ancient tree trunks, bleached by the years,
Broke through the surface,
Like great white skeletons, long forgotten,
The Will-o-the-wisp,
Glowing eerily across the bog,
For thousands of years man and nature,
Shared this place, side by side,
Not now!
Those times are gone,
A plantation,
Man made!
Un-natural lines,
Of un-natural trees,
Men chose the trees,
Men drained the water,
Men killed off the frogs,
The dragonfly, the sundew,
And the cotton-wool flax,
We’ve thrown away our past,
Lost our link to those few, early hunter-gatherers,
We took away the mystery and magic,
Those beautiful plants,
And birds,
And animals,
That history!
That journey of a million lives,
Lies buried,
Lost, beneath the firs!
I still see the Will-o-the-Wisp,
I still smell the brackish pools,
I still taste the sweet, clear air,
I still feel the spongy earth beneath my feet,
I still hear the curlew call,
But only in my dreams
On the Edge
I wrote this poem a few years ago on the day my cousin Chris O’Grady died. I was out walking around Blackstone Edge above Rochdale and the poem almost wrote itself when I got home.
It’s wild up here, properly wild,
Surrounded by earth, rocks and sky,
Windy, always, even on the stillest days,
Rocks carved, smoothed by the elements,
But touch them with an un-gloved hand,
They’re sharp, rough; they’ll tear your skin,
An unforgiving piece of wilderness,
Not nature as a soft and comfy friend,
But powerful, strong and hard as nails,
Small loose stones that twist unwary ankles,
And should you fall the grit-stone rocks,
Will bruise your body, break your bones,
Here nature forms a wild frontier,
A watershed of life and death,
You’ll find your soul in a place like this,
I’m here today, seeking peace and inspiration
But memories, emotions flood my mind,
And I share them with nature, my old trusted friend,
Almost fourty years ago,
With my cherished childhood friend,
I played in rocky fields,
Ancient warriors roaming where they choose,
Raced across wide open places,
Prospectors seeking Klondike gold,
Built shelter of sticks and fronds,
Desert nomads hiding from the searing sun,
Watched our ships of twigs and leaves,
Rafts braving the wild Orinoco’s falls,
Hunted frogs among the rushes,
Pharaohs stalking crocodile beside the Nile,
Searching out eggs,
In the depths of King Solomon’s mines,
Jumping out from the ditches,
“Your money or your life!”,
“All for one and one for all”,
Culmore’s own small band of Musketeers,
Standing high on the wall,
Hilary and Tensing on top of the world,
Early today she died ….. we knew she would,
If not today then someday soon,
We all knew it was ….. “for the best”,
That’s what we like to say,
Emotions and body sheltered in our home, I heard the sad news,
We’re all grown up now, so I mustn’t cry,
Stood here on the moors, with my old trusted friend,
Like nature’s child, my heart unfettered, my mind runs free,
I mourn her loss, question, curse and finally I weep,
My dear cousin, my childhood friend, left our world today,
But for an hour this afternoon, Chris O’Grady is here with me,
Running and playing, hiding behind the ditches,
Hair blowing in the wind, around that freckled smile,
Here we stand, as we always will,
Facing West, on the Edge, drinking in the essence of life,
Its wild up here, properly wild
Nowhere and back again
Something
Seahorses
This poem is about how things were when I was at primary school. I’ve changed the name of the teacher but he could be one of thousands. We no longer see his harsh methods as either acceptable or effective but when people were brought up in such times and did as was expected of them did it make them bad people? I don’t really think so.
A collection of straps
Different colours
Different lengths and widths
All stung outstretched hands
When Mr O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses
Mr. O’Brien
He had two pens for marking
Red and green
Hard and soft
Red crosses stung hands
Green a chance to correct
Good! Meant good!
In any colour
Mr. O’Brien
Taught right from wrong
Imposed his discipline
With fairness
In an old fashioned
Outdates, discredited way
Mr. O’Brien was never wrong
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
And he had seahorses
Mr O’Brien
Taught what he knew
Knew what he taught
Held his beliefs firmly
Led by example
Cared deeply
Seldom showed it
Jack O’Brien
Was an old man
With steely eyes
Age set free a thin
Wry smile
And bent his once
Rod straight back
And his hands shook
As he spoke
and he spoke of the past
and the pupils he taught
When Jack O’Brien spoke
Everybody listened
No more straps
And he drank warm milky coffee
With skin on
But the seahorse
Were gone
Reawoken
Yes I can do romantic – wrote this one for Maggie
Happy Valentine’s Day XXX
I’m awake
Not un-sleeping
But awake
More awake than ever
Awake to today
Awake to tomorrow
Awake to life
Awake with your voice in my ears
Awake with your smile on my face
Awake with your hair in my fingers
Awake with your fragrance in my mind
Awake with your taste on my lips
Awake with your wonder in my heart
You may sleep
Wrapped in my arms
Head on my chest
Breathing shared air
Skin under my skin
Scent on my body
Warmth by my side
I’m awake
Watching, dreaming
Hoping, holding
Shielding, protecting
I’m awake
Don’t ever let me sleep