Category: Poems

As the autumn leaves begin to fall

A childhood memory I now recall

Bright blades adrift seen with awe

Alongside Mum and Dad so tall;

So many moments we did share

Wanting always to be in their care

But as in winter and trees are bare

When I look up they are not there

On day of Burns all was a whirl

So long awaiting sails to unfurl

But at last the joy of a baby girl

And in no ocean a greater pearl

John Atyeo died today aged sixty-one,

A heart attack;

As if yesterday

I watched him attack defences,

A man with a lion’s heart;

Hungry, a predator for goals,

As if yesterday

I was a boy with dreams

Willing to die for my hero,

Alive with him every moment

Scoring for Bristol City and England.

His goals were wondrous and sublime

As when upon the crowd’s roar

I hammered shot after shot crashing

Into an unsympathetic neighbour’s fence;

I only did it for Bristol City,

But I was misunderstood,

Constantly penalised for bad conduct.

This never happened to Gentleman John,

Exemplary behaviour on and off the field.

I loved the man and all he stood for;

(Making me stand in an orderly line

Holding on to his photo hoping he’d sign).

So, the dream ends?

For me football was truly a beautiful game,

John so burly but with surprising skill,

A huge heart that beat loyally for Bristol;

(Not cynically sponsored and measured for loot

But wholesome and blessed with a magical boot).

For the urchin from Hartcliffe striving to be a man

It was Big John of the City scoring great goals

Forever stirring the heart, but so much more,

He fired the imagination,

And in looking skywards

I began to believe that one day

All my dreams would come true.

I am your novel

Cover minus gloss

But a clear title

Look inside me

Absorb the print

Not a classic

But pages swell

With thoughts of you

Lengthy chapters

Waves of wonder

Revelation splashes

And words unsaid

Dialogue deepest

On passion’s flow

Varied style

Unique character

Marked face

As destiny spills

Romantically

Or not

So come into my plot

Spoon me up

Digest me

Abide with me

Witness a climax

Not a conclusion

As you read

I will write

Endlessly

Lover please

Never

Punctuate me

No bells to ring

Or poet’s cry

When in night’s cloak

The half-sleep moment

Love is confirmed

Not with alarm

The awakening

But in brief exchange

Simply

Silently

With a touching of hands

 If not in primeval soup whereby life beget

Then begs a puzzle no one’s solved as yet;

Did the chicken come first or was it an egg?

Did yolk claim the honours or was it a leg?

Did both egg and chicken first creation plan?

Or an Almighty scramble inside the pan?

What I see in your poetry is a fiercely pure and deep perception

Of how all life and existence is connected to an original energy;

A magical mix of wonderful words and classical interpretation

But essentially the charge of youth reacting to those demonic days

When succulence of desire need never be sophisticated or explained,

Nor the values of existence measured in the acquisition of blank gazes.

For all mortals you created pictures brilliantly from the garden of gods

Whereupon in plotting to scoop richness from the entirety of earth

There came a loveliness to see but not hold and in touching came torment

As you suffered pain given to those who reach for stuff gods gorge upon

And out of agony came an immortality borne beyond beauty and the truth

It’s quick

It’s simple

As a child

See magic everywhere

Some bad

Mostly good

See

Nothing to fear

Everything enjoy