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Archive for the ‘Spain’ Category

The hills are the spine of the world

The clouds bumping together in their haste to find the valley’s spillway millrace.

Now only their spine’s mark

All that’s visible in the rain clouds advance.

Below the village pushes up the umbrellas

Maybe shivers

As those hills disappear away again.

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Days of cold winter
Of clear light
Of Friday morning’s bustle
Of people in town before lunch
Of being free then
To tootle about doing that that needs done.
No shade for the van
But clear winters sun won’t do the dogs any harm waiting inside.
A haircut.
Then
Past that cafe were things didn’t work out for teaching
Into another for a skewer of shrimp and small beer.
Across the square,
By the crowd of parents
Waiting for their kids to finish for lunch.
To the Bank
Money for Luz-light-electricity then.
All my tootling on a free morning tied up with things to do.
Bustle and movement of scarves and winter coats
But a moment of clarity
Though in these moments all is so unclear
As my stumbling nowhere steps are revealed
By
The woman who works
In the bank
-Who has something of the image of a past lover-
Came in the door as I went out.
And outside the same winter’s sun
No tears but that lump in the throat’s there all the same.
For the woman who’s sharp teeth would cut my tongue’s root with each kiss.
I’d rather be dumb now Than singing this song of the clear light of winter.

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I’ve taken to cleaning the smartphone’s screen with a cloth
My skin’s oils smear today’s world’s gadgets
But if I do dishes without gloves or read newspapers my fingertips burn for
lack of oil
A legacy from carrying papers to sell on the streets maybe.
Maybe a reason too
Why I love another’s skin
Beauty skin deep as my drying digits
If let
Would suck the other’s skin to the marrow.
Hunger of skin and all therein.
I write to leave marks but some I hurriedly must smear away.

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From The Prisons Of Our Own Minds

It is the sea that makes us realise
That we are indeed small
From the blade of grass
That we are indeed big
And for me
The memory of
The whitest light from the smile once
From of the face of my girl
She waiting at the top of my Street
To then
Go work her Saturday job in the hairdressers
And me mine in the garage.
That makes me know that I have indeed lived

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‘A bag with a zip but no baffle

Will be colder than a bag with a zip baffle’.

Well that’s me anyway

Always well baffled

Creaking up the stairs

Now bumping into the furniture

Walking into the corner

The Sharp pointy bit of of a day

Not quite sure where things were left.

To seize on to, to catch

To hold on not to let go

Never worked

The draughts still got in

Twisting and turning in the bag

Caught up in lining

Too warm too cold

A quality bag will have no zip so no need of bafflement.

Cozy too

Hell yeah

Always well baffled

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My Laboured Breaths

The heavy set thump of white tailed deer

As they charge away across the streams wet clay

They caught in its tight slippy narrow confines

Their panic palpable

But short lived

As easy their powerful strides carry them up and away from me and the dogs’ agog

Dun red and the orange of this years bracken Oak leaves under foot

Their crinkle patterns as we slog by this glorious winter’s day

Promised for snow

Now sleety biting rain

Breathe you fool

Another day is the day for sorrows

Not today

My laboured breaths as I push uphill

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Fish and Chickens

I like the folderol of blue embroidery

On the white tablecloth’s cool brilliance

Today’s breakfast coffee spills join

Yesterday’s

Drips and crumbs of our meals together

Are lifted and shook out

Before the cloth is put away on its shelf

Ready to be smoothed out table set

For our next meal together

Or we’ll maybe wash it

And use the one with the fish and the chickens

They instead marking out

The songs of our days.

 

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Hello

Here is an old poem by my bearded friend Paul Holland which I re-read recently. Hope you enjoy it (again!).

Riding the Madrid Metro

1.

I didn’t see the band get on.

The mum and dad

Both wearing Disney shirts and their kids tied to games machines,

The old woman I stood for, after trying to read the metro poetry,

Yes; I saw them.

But I didn’t see the band get on

I heard and stood across from the giggling girls talking in Portugese

I saw them..

But then the band put to play.

2.

The band of Indians

Peruvian?-They’d skipped the ponchos…

I hadn’t been prepared for the band getting on.

Hadn’t seen them put to play.

I had been thinking of you of course

Of our newly found love.

Of how to change this

Make that work what I should do

The details and such.

They put to sing in that dark hole of the heights.

3.

And the band got on and I knew of the depths

That she and I had fallen

Of the coffin nails driven deep into what was a marriage

Of my broken nails in my attempts to free us both.

Of her despair.

And they sang in that hole of the heights

Of joy and hardship

They knew of the yearning of the exiled

Of the long distance of a view.

4.

And I thought of you my new love.

And I remembered

That the winds will blow And thought I don’t mind

For it is of you, not the details or such, that they sang.

As now I’ll be ready for the winds to rage

And for the screaming distance of a view.

I saw that the Portugese girls were laughing.

As before me they’d noticed I’d put to cry

Sweet salt water tears.

I could no longer hide when the band got on.

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Lace Petticoats

The trees run up
Over the hills here
Sweeping snow
With
The sullied lace petticoats
White
Of hoar breathing
Angels

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