Ode-tober

October lends itself to poems,
a month of intangible things –
the restless mists which follow me home,
the sickle moon’s Cheshire cat grin.

As nights draw in and days grow short,
the wind whispers “It’s time”
to listen to autumnal thoughts,
to curl up inside and write.

With careful charcoal pencil strokes,
I pin them down to read –
words which twist like bonfire smoke,
on paper that rustles like leaves.

Happy Poetry Day!

And what better time to plug my new book – Labyrinth: One classic film, fifty-five sonnets.

According To Andrea…

All those who make a conscious choice
not to burden a crowded Earth,
those who spend months praying desperately
that this child will live until birth,
those who choose not to pass on tainted genes
or a cycle of abuse,
all those whom cruel circumstance
has robbed of functioning wombs,
and those who take vows of chastity
devoting their lives to others –

we don’t have a stake in the future
because we are not mothers.

The Fan Who Fell To Earth

(to the tune of The Man Who Sold The World)

A solitary star
up in the sky turns black
and something special’s gone
that never can come back.
A constant is no more.
Hearts sink that used to soar
and sadly it’s a fact –
not braced for the impact…

Crawl from the crash
with wounded wings unfurled,
take shaking steps
in a strange post-Bowie world.

Wake to a world that’s wrong,
and mourn for mismatched eyes,
brain full of fractured song,
soul screaming to the skies –
a scream of disbelief,
a desert born of grief,
and, choking on the dust,
drink tears, because you must…

Like it or not
somehow the time drags on
and so begins
post-Bowie world, day one.

BC, AD
are meaningless to me.
The years to come
will be dated post-Bowie.

Pictures, or it didn’t happen?

I don’t show strangers photos
to prove where I have been –
my word should be enough
or, clearly, they’re no friend to me.

Photos may jog the memory,
lead to contemplation –
sadly, this has been replaced
by over-documentation.

Who can truly know a place,
find out what makes it tick,
whilst framing a self-portrait
on a damn selfish selfie stick?

No photograph can capture
a hawk’s weight on my wrist,
the crackle of logs burning,
the awesome hush of an eclipse,

the chill wind from an iceberg,
the splash of whales at play,
the warmth of a sleeping love
at the end of a perfect day.