Stones roll inwards;
Passing fiercely;
Slamming down violently;
Smashing all in its pathway;
Tossing and turning;
Without discrimination;
Rupturing creation.
Turning solid shapes to shards;
Presenting passage;
From life to the beyond;
Savage and cleansing constructs.
An end.
poetry
This land: home.
Vikings raided, settled, and persuaded;
Flags waved, distances faded.
Outliers passed over seas – islanders no more;
Old words and legends floated on seas of time.
Joy and separation folded together;
Historic sights of sites recalled;
Steps go up, and up, and up;
These dots of green on rock feed our souls.
This land: home.
Streets Apart I
Soap Street needs a wash.
High Street is looking low.
Bank Street took my dosh.
Fast Lane is moving slow.
Maine Road has closed down.
Swan Street is full of geese.
Paradise Close makes me frown.
Winter Hill, I wore no fleece.
The Road With No Name has a sign.
Sandylands is grassy still.
Bendy Lane runs in a line.
Calm House, what a thrill!
Scotland Hall Road, hall-less.
The Soapbox, stood down.
Ice Rink, only at Christmas.
Circus Walk, devoid of a clown.
Welcome to Manchester.
Now get out!
Drip, drop, drip.
Drip, drop, drip, rain begins to fall,
A soggy blanket over us all.
Pitter-patter, drop, drop, plop, it’s quite absurd,
Each raindrop whispers a moistened quiet word.
Many flowers giggle, the trees all prance and dance,
Worms pop up, taking their chance.
A puddle forms, a tiny sparkling sea –
A stranded haven for boats made of leaves, yippee, yippee!
Splash, splosh, splish, what a watery flowing treat,
Raindrops tip-tap-dancing over the street.
Forget not your brolly, dear old chap,
Or just you might drown in your very own lap!
The rain it mocks, it rattles, it laughs, it jeers,
Sneaking down necks, alongside strands of hair, tickling ears.
But oh, dear rain, you do as you must,
For without you, we’ll be dry and towels trust.
So drop, drip, drop, and have some fun,
For when you’re gone and done, out comes the red hot sun.
But until then, I’ll wear a joyful grin –
And a very large bucket hat to keep you from getting in!
Pour the next coffee
Pour the next coffee
When the cup gapes open
And the mouth yearns for another filling.
Let us know how it feels
When the drops flow with warmth
And flow down the gullet
Each ounce a production of love
Stimulating rapid growth of irises
Sharpening senses and awakening the mind
How does it feel to feel the heat?
The steamed milk and familiar fragrances
The deep brown darkness of hope in a cup
The riot of swirls as milk blends to coffee
The sound of a sugar lump dropped deep into an ocean
The reflection of soul upon the surface’s light reflection
The handle proudly standing out
Grip me, it calls loudly to you
You reach out, and the joy begins.
A seed of hope.
A Muslim hand could hold a Jewish hand.
White van man, Audi driver, and all around us should be survivors.
Creation and creatives devour words and art, feeding us new days and ways.
A Palestinian should be born under safe skies.
No guns, no knives, no fear: just lives.
The Scottish, English, or Welsh must walk together.
Whatever you believe, be able to show it. Be able to grow it.
Let the music of Bob Marley show one love.
Switch of the division. Let videos and lies fly away like fireflies.
Their dreams and plagues will no longer taunt and haunt us.
Together is always better. A community of unity.
Failure to success; pain to redress; broken to fixed. Live forever.
Some day we’ll find a brighter way.
It starts now: I give you a seed of hope.
At the other end.
Poor.
Struggle.
Underdeveloped.
Difficulty.
Issues.
We need to do summat.
RIGHTLY SO.
Does that make sense?
Does that sound right?
Why did you stop?
Shall we try that again?
What else could we do?
What else could you do?
Does it look right?
Does it make any sense?
Do we really understand?
Really?!
I’m not so sure.
Maybe it isn’t right, right?
Something wasn’t quite right.
Vision.
Through their eyes:
I see something new.
A vision so different:
It makes mine askew.
Through The Leaves
Through the leaves, voices call out loud;
Beyond the tufted grasses wraps ivy thickly.
Through the greenery trees stand proud;
Along the jagged walls, bramble juts out prickly.
The murky Lancaster canal flows towards the sea;
A summer’s gentle breeze casts along its top.
Tits, swifts, and sparrow fly alongside bee;
Blackbirds hop along the mud and crop.
Feet slapping in the mud sinking slightly;
A fragrance of wild garlic hangs in the air.
Through the gaps and spaces, sun rays beam brightly;
Galloping dogs along the path they share.
Chattering and nattering creaks as trunks rub one another;
Regal flowers attract buzzing and zipping flight.
A ripple waves outwards from cygnets’ mother;
From Lancaster to Glasson Flight, a path wrapped in sights of delight.
April 26th.
Icy morning, no wind blowing.
Bright sunlight, calm delight.
Dew under leaves, sparrows foraging.
Sky pure blue, clouds ever so slight.
Radiant colours, tall grasses.
Young soft flowers, joy reflective.
Branches reach out, squirrel passes.
Spring to summer, natural selective.
Hand in hand
I want to walk hand in hand with you
towards the storms.
I want to ride the roads with you
higher and further.
I want to sing and dance only with you
with no worries.
I want to share and show and tell and know
anything and everything.
Just with you.
Dream/Nightmare
What are dreams?
Broken shards of unfulfilled hope?
A dealer with an empty bag of dope?
Remnants of longed for lifestyles?
The gap along unwanted aisles?
What exactly are dreams?
A blur of shattered imagination?
A squiggle of smudged reflection?
The wings of a squashed mosquito once fit for flight?
Between day and day is there no longer night?
Where are my dreams?
So, if a dream is supposed to be positive, why does a nightmare grow from good news?
Will joyous elation ready for skews?
Is good news a mask for darkness?
Are all answers but a wild guess?
What makes dreams?
Is the craved mountain peak eternally too far to reach?
Is the hourglass open like that of a beach?
Do dawn and dusk merge as one?
Which silent bell tolls for the gone?
So, what are dreams?
STRONG(ER)
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Really?
Overused and overly spoken dross.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Parodied aphorism!
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Resilience and affirmation for overcoming adversity?
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
“Out of life’s school of war…“
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Twilight of the Idols, an unread book on the shelf I’ve yet to install.
“That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”
Friedrich Nietzsche, I don’t believe you.
Take suffering as an opportunity to build strength.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Kelly Clarkson sang about standing “a little taller.”
“Aus der Kriegsschule des Lebens.—Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich starker”
It never feels that way.
Shadow.
I feel the ache.
It’s like a shadow inside of me.
My mind questions.
It’s as if an enigma wrapped around my soul.
The nervous worry.
It’s an endless shadowing movement walking beside me.
Wobbling legs beneath me.
I feel I’m sliding uphill on ice facing downhill.
Not quite right inside.
As if I am a carpet grip with no carpet.
Every doubt exaggerated.
There’s a shadow, and I feel it’ll claim me.
Immigration.
You can’t ever imagine how it feels.
You really can’t.
The worry that shakes the ground beneath your feet;
the storm brewing and paperwork left unfilled.
You have been settled, untroubled by these challenges, unaware of the steps we have yet taken.
You sigh and carry on regardless.
Master
How do we master the theory and put it to practice? Can’t let the search for answers distract us.
Those educated guesses, insights accumulated; control learned to halt ourselves frustrated.
Who will believe in our ways forward?
Guide from the sea, our lost raft, shoreward.
Daring do.
Daring do.
Boldness brought about by fate;
The chutzpah of the moment, raging inflate.
Determination by the bucketload;
Jaw strutting out, standing proud and bold.
Destiny unknown, holding your nerve;
Fearlessness to catch the serve at every swerve.
With courage and dauntlessness;
Batting away fear with dabs of recklessness.
Petty safe ground abound and found;
Hopes and dreams sound around yet downed.
Compliance of darkness swept aside, under a mound;
Chasing away gloomy twilight, each and every black hound.
Life (For Living)
It’s the pull and the push;
The sprinted finish rush.
The days are moving, the days with halts;
The bolt and jolt as nerves send volts.
The twists and turns as drama unfolds;
The seconds of voices delivering their scolds.
The wrestle of conscience whilst conscious;
The admitting of behaviours found stupendous.
The alterations of mindsets and the picking at nits;
The nagging, scriking, and getting on someone’s tits.
The feelings that flow like rivers so strong;
The knowing that we’ll get on fine, get along.
The possibility of possibilities that bubble up and fizz;
The rush, the speed of it, and that wanting to whiz;
The secondhand ticking as the stomach metabolises.
Nerves that swerve and give little of what is deserved;
Results dished out and served.
Only then will we know, which way it shall flow;
But, why oh why, does it feel so slow?
Unseen Variable
It’s not the thing you see and know. It’s the thing they see and know.
It’s the shadow across broad daylight, revealed in radiant rays of newness
It’s the stillness of the pond on a windy day and what lies beneath.
It’s the calm skies ahead of a mighty mammoth of a storm.
It’s the drumming of Earth’s heart, rattling along lines far below the surface.
It’s the invisible rays passing from great solar storms passing through unknown to all.
It’s the grit under tyres and the silt beneath that spins the wheels above to new angles.
It’s the push of the wind against the flow of traffic slowing down the morning commute.
It’s sounds unheard yet given to the air, triggering an avalanche of unlocked actions.
It’s the soliloquy spoken softly to an absent audience ahead of silent auditions.
It’s an array of unseen variables that tangle hairs and twist cotton threads.
It’s not the thing you see and know. It’s the thing they see and know.
Lighthouses in a storm.
I’ll never be Benjamin Zephaniah. Nor will I be Jimi Goodwin.
I’ll never write a hit poem. Or sing to the crowds of Berlin.
I’ll never be a preacher on a hit TV show. Not one play developed.
I won’t start a foundation. I won’t wrap words up well-enveloped.
I won’t mourn who I didn’t know. I will pass on my condolences.
I won’t dwell on the passing of life. I will celebrate the old and look out for the new.
What I will be is: inspired.
What I will do: write more.
What I want to do: my very best.
What I feel: inspired.
Benjamin Obadiah Iqbal Zephaniah (né Springer; 15 April 1958 – 7 December 2023)
R(age)
Bouncing fists off walls.
Endless unappreciated failed triumphs.
Hurdles leaped, barriers removed, all in vain.
Boxes ticked, copies spoiled, followed by new processes.
Old processes retracted, money subtracted, and added, again and again and again.
No longer stopping, looking, and listening.
Hoping for a fight to be put my way.
Not sharing or caring.
Turning milk sour. With a stare.
Deleted. No longer there. Unsent messages.
No worries. No thoughts.
Switched to off.
Void.
Black.
FOR QUEEN & COUNTRY
Fought for Queen and Country
Drives a van for Asda
Battled sandstorms, landmines, and budgets readily
Pumping oil from near Basra
Why did they serve?
Away from family for months and days
Eddie Stobart rejecting tank commanders
Bodies fed on greedily by strays
Bills at the floor of the doors as bailiffs panders
Vulnerable as all.
Criminal courts ripping up old yarns
Furiously cashing in on earned medals
Looters dashing from farms to barns
PTSD, shellshock, forgotten jacketed, outcasted rebels
Witnessed the fall.
Owen, Sassoon, Armitage, Duffy, or Agard
Signed up with support lacking equipment
Stories lost, retold, or given little regard
Brutally shown reality of near-empty shipment
Exposed to much more.
War to war, always the same
For King, for Queen and service to crown
New players in the same old game
Faded uniform blends to funeral gown
The end begins.
Ex Nihilo
Something from nothing,
Yet nothing was something;
So something was
And therefore, nothing can be.
Omnipotent presence
Surely was something;
How can nothing birth something?
Why would something grow from nothing?
Ignorance and wrath in stark contrast,
Ever the contradiction;
Biased omnibenevolence to some,
With all powerful ignorance damning many.
The chicken, the egg, the old conundrum;
Which came first?
Faith in science and science in faith,
Each with parts unravelled.
The Embrace.
Feel. As much as it hurts.
Fear. For everything you dread.
Worry. About nothing and everything.
Carry. Wherever you go.
However much it hurts…
Lose yourself. But return right back.
Find yourself. Take time to bring love home.
Try yourself. Do it when you feel ready.
Love yourself. Without belief, hope can’t grow.
However much it hurts…
Be confused. Not everything features clarity.
Be afraid. The principles of life bind us.
Be connected. Separately, we feel weaknesses.
Be inspired. Endless possibilities rise with each new dawn.
However much it hurts…
Macintosh.
Heavy rain tonight! I didn’t get soaked. D’ya know why?
I was wearing me rain jacket. Me big coat.
If I wear it, it never rains.
The moment I wear shorts or sunglasses,
I’m soaked right through.
I swear my shorts attract clouds.
But, my big jacket. The one with all the pockets.
It has never felt a drop of rain.
That’s why the clouds moved by me on the ride home.
Hear My Problems Only
If I could stop myself feeling, would I tear it out of me?
No, but I would cut this feeling from me.
Dig deeper for focus on possible positives.
If I could remove all the reminders, and the memories to make it hurt less, should I try to silence all?
I need to feel. I need to know. I need to hang onto hope.
No matter how little remains.
If I could wake up tomorrow energised, refreshed, no longer tired and raring to go, would I sleep peacefully now?
I know I can. Yet I can’t. I should. But, I won’t.
I try to release the anger. The pain. The worry.
Should I desperately reach out for hope and determination, clutching it to my heart?
Kick back the snapping, snarling, scrappy black dogs at the feet of my bed.
Today ends soon. Tomorrow starts immediately. Onwards.
Tree Fall.
Amongst the space of a lonely field,
Towering into winds never before perceived,
For many a century, the wood stood unpeeled,
History’s hardest winds never before conceived.
This night, your great winds blew, relentlessly,
Shaking all umbrellas as they wandered,
And sweeping side to side shattered panes carelessly,
Macintosh jackets thought as squandered.
Stood upright, resistant to gales,
Arose squelching sounds to tree roots,
Battered and blustery heaped on, it fails,
Tougher than a pair of old boots.
Creaking and leaning, sinking deep into,
The tree sought to stand hard on the land,
The air blew and grew as the storm did brew,
Tanned tree’s fanned roots sank into sand.
The turbulent gust gave more bursts of force,
Fierce furious and volcanic blasts slammed,
No longer the tree could hold its long course,
Rammed into it and cause it to be dammed.
Tempestuous savagery caused the tree to turn,
Leaves leapt into volatile and quarrelsome air,
Down went all branches as the trunk turned up fern,
Slumped down, did it all without but a prayer.
The ruinous remains of life situated across,
Soon, dies down the storm of the night,
New horizons lay out for its coating of moss,
Once upright, now fitted tight, susceptible to parasite.
The adaptive bole will adjust as best,
The sideways makeover, an alteration,
Its fruits shall bear once more upon its crest,
Should it steady in its newfound acclimation.
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