A Dangerous Smoker

Mists fell into valleys, onto rivers, like a ghostly swathing shrouds.
Hard rutted ridges stumbled feet, iced over puddles creaked but took weight.
Trapped bubbles scurried from beneath the boot.
Hoarfrost needles whitening boughs gleamed in the moonlight. Orange
tinged clouds, canopied those ensconced in distant hearths and home.

Night cries signaled unease, alert wariness. Denizens of dykebacks
nervously puffed up their feathers. Hunters eyes winked malevolently in the
moonlight. A palpable watchfulness, an expectancy pervaded the night.
The age old deadly game of hide and kill begins, and I, am very very dangerous.
"Mother natures law," some will die that others may live.

I lit a ciggy, leaned on the five bar gate, blew smoke out into the clear cold air.
Funny how things are different at night; sound will carry, glow of the fag;
worse, the stink of baccy. Now that'��s what will give old Reynard his best chance,
and he better take heed, as I will kill him. Still, me with the twelve over and under
beside me, will be alive in the morning; unless these things kill "Me."

A murder of raucous crows, chaos'd the stand
of leafless trees.
Stark boughs creaking, groaning; told winter was upon us.
Hawthorn dykes glistened, as the night dew settled about them.

A witches moon sailed a wispy veil, voyaging
deep purple skies.
Stars above twinkled, in the cold of that infinite stygian wilderness.
I kicked the dirt with well worn boot, no give there, non expected.

Frost hits hard this time of year; biting at nails;
steaming breath.
Dripping nose ceasing its sporadic dribbling; teeth chattered.
Tired eyes seeking a homely light; gave rise to thoughts of log fires.

The Arch of Time

In my daydreams I took to wandering; the byways of my mind.
A lifetimes remembrance archived in languid thoughts. Recollections of
poignant sorrows; but radiant happiness too.
Sights and sounds awakening, pulsing, powerful; cathartic vibes.

Perhaps to dream of dreams, finding tomorrow was yesterday;
In that imaginarium of trick or treat. Wisps of understanding; a choir
of voices singing for release.
Clearcut rainbows of emotion, the backdrop of those times.

Rising and falling, a carousel of winners and losers, sometimes going;
"Always coming back." The greatest show on earth, the hoppings
back in town.
"Whenever I go a wandering the byways of my mind."

Collective Nouns?

A gray cloudy afternoon in northern England. Cars scattered,
four by fours littered.
The daily pickup time from school. The self induced mayhem of,
mums, dads; grandma'��s
grandads; uncle Tom Cobley and all. It reminded me of the first
line of one of my poems.
"��A murder of raucous crows chaos'��d a stand of leafless trees."��
How apt I thought.
We certainly cause the chaos but what about the collective noun?
A horde of noisy children?
Might be true but… A mob of, no that won't do. A murmuration
now that sounds better.
Unfortunately that'��s starlings. Now let me think about my grandson
as he dashes out of school.
The smile as the light of recognition beams from his eyes, the look of
unqualified love
I have it, how about, "��A Wonder of Children."��

R

An early Morning Walk

Belching, I raked at my balls. I should have had a wesh but the morns
morn; even next week would het ti D'.
My belly seemed to have this ability to lever up ma vest, and the strap
on me flip flop has bust again. But hey needs must, and mebe the
charity shop will have something to rig me oot.
I yawned, scratched my arse, spat in the gutter, carefully farted so
as not to follow through. Then furtively looked around to see if anyone
had seen or heard my ablutions. I'm good, but my work often goes
unnoticed, and a D' like an audience.
Anyway I needed the bog, so I walked with those quick dainty steps;
that tells everyone you're dying for a shite. Teeth gritted, buttocks
clenched as if holding a sixpence; ignoring the "Call of the Wild."
I draw the line at unloading in the street; I'��ve a tidy mind yi kna'. Mind
you I'm sure I could get a note from the "Quack." Bloody Guinness,
total arse medicine.
So lips drawn tightly across my teeth in a demented smile, I made
my way to Wetherspoons, to see if there were any under-graduate
waiters wandering the tables, with a unclaimed "Full English brekky."
"A kna, a kna" am taking the piss, but a man's gotta eat like, and
I'��d just cleared my heed, great lavies here. Now If I could just get my
hands on one of those free refill mugs I'm coffeed up for the day.

R

The Arch of Time

In my daydreams I took to wandering; the byways of my mind.
Languid thoughts stretching, reaching for the past. Sightless eyes, deaf ears;
saw and heard all that had been said and done.

Cathartic rhythms surfaced, a little ways off the beaten track.
Perhaps a dream of dreams, a tantalising vagueness, smoke on the breeze.
A road to understanding; the backdrop of those times.

Tomorrow can come as it may; each day dealt at random, or slid
out from the bottom of the deck. A trick or treat of memories;
"For when I want to look back?"

R

Sausage Egg and Chips

Blue sky fading the cold seeped into my bones.
A street graffitiist shaded the pale blue with light
Turneresque strokes of pink. Well this is Ouseburn.

Lights in houses brightened, a homely beacon to
some. I couldn't buy this portrait I didn't need to.
Knew I would see it again one of these wintery nights.

I made my way towards the city. You can't eat money
Money can' buy that atmospheric canvas, but it sure
could get me those sausage egg and chips I craved.

R

In my daydreams I took to wandering; the byways of my mind.
Fleeting whispers of cobwebs bridging the passing of time.
Each strand a memory, a chord tinkled on the anvil of life

There is a note I'��m looking for, a little ways off the beaten track.
Perhaps a dream of dreams, hidden behind a wispy veil.
A road I can but imagine; only in the past.

Tomorrow can come as it may; each day dealt at random, or slid
out from the bottom of the deck. A handful of aces, wheres the fun of that?
"I can always fold or stack."

A Stalk in the Dark

Alone in all the world, or so it seemed, I watched mists fall onto rivers,
into valleys, like a ghostly ectoplasm. Hard rutted ridges stumbled feet,
Iced over puddles creaked but took weight.
Trapped bubbles scurried from beneath my boot. Starlings murmurationed
to the ground.
Hoarfrosts needles whitening boughs, gleamed in the moonlight. Orange
tinged clouds, canopied those cosseted in hearth and home.

Night cries signal watchfulness, wariness. Denizens of dykebacks fearfully
puff their feathers. Hunters eyes wink and flash in the moonlight. A palpable
uneasiness pervades the night.
Hide and seek, "��Mother natures law,"�� some will die so others may live.

I lit a ciggy leaned on the five bar gate, blew the smoke out into the cold
night air. Funny how things are different at night; sound will carry, glow of
the fag, worst the stink of baccy.
That's what will give old Reynard his best chance. Still me with my tweIve
gauge beside me, will be alive in the morning; unless these things kill me.

Thank you both

The leaves that brown and turn to gold, natures signal that
the year is...

Found your poem hard to read on that background. That don't
mean it was wrong, just means I'm getting old.

Nice though

I had a dream it was of you.
you were a rainbow and belonged to me.

R

Sheila'��s Dad

I'm here, "The old fella whispers." And I feel a butterfly light
touch against my skin. "God," how long is it since I was in his
shed? Oh my, His cobwebbed festooned hat, is still hanging
on the wall

Decaying boots lie expectant by the door; I'll have to get rid of
them, perhaps next time. The spade, the one that was always
too heavy for me, made him smile when I tried to lift it. And the
hoe tumbled by his chair

Through the handkerchief panes I glimpse the memory, hear
the echo of his footsteps. "My Dad," taking one last stroll around
his garden. While everything around me speaks of how much
he loved it. And of course me.

R

The little poem was desperate to be written. Only at the time I had
no idea. knowing it had to become that idea to be born, it flashed
into my mind.

There; now both of us were aware of each other. I didn't think it
would be a difficult birth. A bit of tinkering here a few daydreams
there and... No! looking back it was a bit trickier than that.

We were both excited. The little poem knew what it wanted, but
I had to fiddle about; a word here, a comma there. The little poem
letting me know when everything was just right.

Now when I read the little poem, it flows nicely, the words seeming
just right. And of course I loved writing it. But you know every time
I read it, I get the feeling the little poem loves it too!

R

Log Fires.

A murder of raucous crows, chaos'd the stand
of leafless trees.
Stark boughs creaking, groaning; told winter was upon us.
Hawthorn dykes glistened, as the night dew gathered about them.

A witches moon sailed a wispy veil, voyaging
deep purple skies.
Stars above twinkled in the cold, of that infinite stygian wilderness.
I kicked the dirt with well worn boot, no give there, non expected.

Frost hits hard this time of year; biting at nails;
steaming breath.
Dripping nose ceasing its sporadic dribbling; teeth chattered.
Tired eyes seeking a homely light, gave rise to thoughts of log fires.

R

I've fallen off the edge of the world, wonder where I'll land.
Made my bed so I suppose I got to lie in it. Life's a curate's
egg when all said and done.

I read my poems and surprisingly I like them. No I didn't say
they were great; just that I liked them.
Flotsam & Jetsam. Oh the lovely memories of a winter'��s morn
waking the riverside pathway, yes the one that goes down to
the sea.

A murder of crows, kicking the dirt with well worn boot. I love
that line for some reason, and that homely light giving thoughts
of log fires. Dragged that up from a visit to my sisters in France
in the middle of winter. I'��ll try the summer next time.

What about "Wind blown shadows," they came to my notice
while I was standing at a bus stop. Pays you not to daydream
all the time. And Black lacquered skies, I think I was painting the
wrought iron gate with that metal stuff when that occurred to me.
Hard to get that treacle off your fingers.

Something else has just occurred to me, and that is I'��m probably
boring you all out of your minds. But I was also thinking of us
"Poets?" beavering away all over the world, and I felt I was among
friends.

P S I'm not going to edit this, so it goes on the site just as i've typed it.

Bill

In my daydreams I took to wandering; the byways of my mind.
Web whispers drifting gently, to the caress of gossamer wings.
Each delicate beat a memory, telling of endless halcyon days.
Of a sun never to set, on the thoughts of an eternal youth.

R

Thank you dear lady, I'm glad it gave you happy memories
I am looking forward to the secession of my hay fever

R

Thank you all. The Autumns here and I've just renewed my passport

R

Pour me a wet, swing the lamp, an I'll tell ee tales of the sea.
In my life I have lived through many terrible things, most of
which never happened. That don't mean they'��re not true matey
no, old salty's word aint to be doubted.
The breeze snapped the sails full with a sound like a crack of
pistol. Seven sheets to the wind, showing a clean pair of heels,
as we raced full an bye to the bidding o' the, "Trades."
Bound for the Indies and old Kingston Town. Of dark Jamaican
we would be a drinkin, of yellow fever a dyin...

R