Patina
the patina on the bell’s surface
was anathema to Brother Jacques
Sonnez les matines?
Ring your own damn bell!
Patina (Ring Those Bells)
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Oganesson (for dVerse)
Sarah, over at dVerse , is asking us to brave the elements and visit the Periodic Table. This is a slightly revised version of a previous post.
Oganesson
the heaviest of elements
always obsessin’
about its atomic weight,
the size of its orbitals.
Four Expressions Using The Word “Hell” (poem)
Four Expressions Using The Word “Hell”
that’s one hell of an expression
it’s all going to hell in a hand basket
they were scattered all over hell’s half acre
hell hath no fury like a president impeached.
The Land Called Where You Are Not (poem)
The Land Called Where You Are Not
that place you will never go
it can be one hundred miles away
it can be a stone’s throw
but there is one thing that is sure
there is one thing that you know
in the land called Where You Are Not
you will always be a no show.
(I located my inner Seuss over Christmas)
Taking part in Open Link over at dVerse
When the Twittering Stops (a slimverse)
When the Twittering Stops
it’s all fun
and games ’til
the body
bags come home.
Top Posts 2019 #3:The Wrong Way Home (a ghazal)
I picked this one because it was an attempt at writing to a form that was somewhat successful.
The Wrong Way Home
happy hours and peeler bars
he’s taking the wrong way home
a friendly toke, a line of coke
he’s taking the wrong way home
the night is young, pass that bong
he’s taking the wrong way home
a McFlurry, an Indian curry
he’s taking the wrong way home
a pounding head, a stranger’s bed
he’s taking the wrong way home
early dawn, suitcase on the lawn
he’s found his way home.
Top Posts 2019 #2: The Beautiful Game (The Lads’ Poetry Project 2 )
I’m including this one mainly because the subject matter of the poem – sport and the level of discourse associated with it – is somewhat neglected in the world of poetry. When you read the poem you may conclude that that is actually a good thing.
The Beautiful Game
Me and the lads are warming up
for our Sunday morning kickabout,
the weather’s not so good:
a black cloud loiters over head
spitting occasionally;
there’s a chill in the air.
Not that we care.
We are here for that moment of magic:
those three short passes
that raise life above the ordinary.
It’s all going well.
We’re stretching, squatting
sprinting, jogging, popping
Esther and Abi*
when up steps Paul
all sanctimonious-like
and starts to rattle on
about how this is a family park
and we should watch our language
and surely we can play a game of football
without accusing each other of onanism.
The lads are confused, gobsmacked even.
My face adopts an expression
which would later be described as quizzical
Onanism, I inquire,
what is that wanker talking about?
*Esther and Abi (Ofarim): rhyming slang for ibuprofen, a popular anti-inflammatory. Esther and Abi Ofarim, an Israeli singing duo, had a hit with “Cinderella Rockefella” in 1968.
Top Posts 2019 #1: Todd and the Time Machine
This is one of my most viewed posts in 2019, I’ll be posting one each day up to New Year’s Day. I’m picking posts from earlier in the year to keep things fresh!
Todd and the Time Machine
I
Todd’s time machine
has three settings:
time was
time is
time will be.
II
Sometimes
the time travel sickness
hits him
like a five alarm flu.
III
Returning through the time hail,
through the accelerating centuries
he hears his wife yell
from the ever present
from the basement stairs:
I’m turning off that bloody time machine
your dinner’s getting cold!
That Smell from the Fridge (tanka)
That Smell from the Fridge
that smell from the fridge
yes, it was the Camembert
noisome, and then some
wet dog, feet sweat, camel’s breath
a toilet door opening.
Reggae Justice (haiku) redux
Reggae Justice
the sheriff is dead
failure to shoot deputies
is not a defence.
Christmas Shopping (poem)
Christmas Shopping
lost in Costco
abandoned in The Gap
feeling stale in Joe Fresh
seems like everything here
is made in Bangladesh
‘tis the season, I guess
deck the halls with human folly…..
Post Grammatic Stress (poem)
Post Grammatic Stress
like a lot of nouns
he had spent a bit of time
in declension centres
discussing cases
with case workers
it wasn’t that bad
he just wishes
they weren’t all
so accusative.
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 4
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 4
he was the envy
of all the envoys
because of the size
of his diplomatic pouch.
Hard Times Haiku 2
Hard Times
he felt deleted
like a worn-out expletive
declined, like a noun.
Photos: Waiting for the Drop
Leonard Cohen’s Final Album (plus Poem)
Fascinating Interview (in The Guardian) with Adam Cohen on completing his father’s final album.
https://www.theguardian.com/music/2019/nov/24/leonard-cohen-adam-thanks-for-the-dance-interview
A poem from the past:
Driving Home with Leonard Cohen
Despite what he says
not everybody knows,
not everybody knows
like Leonard knows.
Not everybody knows
that the best songs
are about loss,
about endings;
about so long
ways to say goodbye
closing time,
and that age
can be laughed about
but not at,
if I had a hat
I would raise it to Mr.Cohen
perched up there alone
in his tower of song.
Limbo Blues (aka Existential Boogie)
Limbo Blues
today I remembered limbo
you can’t stand too far from the track
today I remembered limbo
you can’t stand too far from the track
the first line is about memory
the second is a disconnected fact
Bob Dylan mentions Rimbaud
Van Morrison does too
Bob Dylan mentions Rimbaud
Van Morrison does too
today I remembered limbo
Jean Paul Sartre, Albert Camus
existential boogie
do that existential thing
existential boogie
do that existential thing
you can do it in your armchair
summer, autumn, winter, spring.
Taking part in Open Link Night over at dVerse.
A Tanka for Boris Johnson
A Tanka for Boris Johnson
morning has broken
Boris is talking bollocks,
the sun’s going down
Boris is talking bollocks,
sun comes up, yep, you guessed it.
Too Many Questions (slimverse lite)
Too Many Questions
U is at?
Is u at?
At issue?
Is it u?
*a slimverse using only 6 letters
Bones of Contention 2 (poem)
Bones of Contention
Bones to pick
bones to chew on
Anderson, Chris and Don
but there are no metrics to measure by
so the discussions drag on and on
and the screen splits into two heads
and the screen splits into four heads
and the screen splits into eight heads
a pundit arrives
a pundit leaves
a pundit gets indignant
a pundit gets emotional
a pundit gets that gotcha smirk
there is talk of smoke and fire
there not been one without the other
and I see this distraction of pundits
this deflection of pundits
this confusion of pundits
standing looking at the horizon
across an open plain,
oblivious, while behind them
Rome burns.
Peripatetic Blues
Peripatetic Blues
The signs along the highway
are leaking semiotic fluid
psychotic cacti strike a calculated pose
linguistic lizards parse the parched desert floor
Slim’s feeling demotic,
neurotic, anecdotal, over-used
he’s looking for a sanctuary
the fisherman and the shoes
he’s got those my way is the highway
peripatetic blues.
Taking part in Open Link Night over at dverse.
Verse Form Freeway (poem)
Verse Form Freeway
a derelict lai
an abandoned sestina
a rusting rubai
the iambic sun beats down
tarted-up tankas roll by
articulated sonnets
pantoums, tricked-out villanelles
a herd of haikai
a herd of haikai
Participating in Open Link Night over at dverse.
Good Song Blues
Good Song Blues
there’s a distance between a good song
and one that’s just okay
there’s a distance between a good song
and one that’s just okay
you can travel that distance in a minute
you can travel that distance in a day
but sometimes it takes forever
sometimes you can’t find the way
there’s a distance between a good song
and one that’s just okay.
and while I’m here i’d like to give a shout-out to one of my favourite music blogs – Zoolon Hub. Zoolon is George Blamey-Steeden, a very talented singer, songwriter, guitar player, composer and a witty and engaging blogger. Check out his blog ( for all you guitar players out there, he offers backing tracks to jam to, and for you poets, he will put your poems to music for a very reasonable sum).
Slim’s Sudbury Vacation ( a poem and a post-poem interview) 2
The Stack
And what a
beautiful
plume we have
here, Nigel,
a plume with
time on its
hands, look at
it loping
across the
sky like a
giant Chinese
dragon, let’s
hail a cab
to find the
plume’s end, where
the last wisps
of vapor
drift upwards
and a blue
mist hangs, yes,
there it is
in the sky
to the west
stalking the
cars in the
parking lot
outside the
big box mall
while the sun
bawls and the
sky gets all
indignant.
Post Poem Interview
You played well out there tonight, Slim.
Slim: Well, you know it’s not about me, it’s about the poem, I’m just part of the process.
Are you suggesting that you are perhaps some kind of conduit linked to some higher power, some higher resource.
Slim: No, I am just mouthing platitudes, isn’t that the idea?
Quite, so I am sure everyone is wondering, who is Nigel?
Slim: He’s my cousin.
That’s a very English name.
Slim: That’s hardly surprising, he is English.
Do you call him ’Nige’ for short?
Slim: No!
It sounds like he could be a member of one of those floppy-haired synth bands from the eighties, you know, like Soft Cell or Human League or The Pet Shop Boys. Didn’t XTC have a song about a guy called Nigel. Is he in a band?
Slim: He’s a welder.
Does his hair not get in the way?
Slim: He’s bald, where is this going?
(mumbles) somewhere slow or nowhere fast. So tell me about the structure of this poem.
Slim: I took the 3 syllable line, 4 line verse , I have been using, and applied it to a poem that I was never happy with and it worked, at least it made me trim a lot of the fat and I came up with a better poem, I think?
……….what? Sorry I nodded off there for a bit. Well, I’m sure you are itching to get back to the dressing room and join the rest of the lads in a lukewarm bath of diluted sweat.
Slim: Can’t wait!
The Eve Of Hallow’s Eve (2)
The Eve Of Hallow’s Eve
no more séances
these days, it’s hard to find a
happy medium
Thom Yorke takes a walk on Halloween Night(2)
Given the week that it is, I decided to bring this poem back from the dead…..
Thom Yorke takes a walk on Halloween Night
The dead move slowly
through the graveyard,
they are few at first
but as they pass
each row of headstones
grey fists punch
through mounds of earth
in a manic salute
and the throng grows
and the throng grows
and the night howls
and the fog curls
and a thin cloud
bisects the moon
and at the edge
of the graveyard
is an old well
and at the bottom
of that well
is a little boy
and that little boy
is crying for help
and that little boy
is Thom Yorke.
Taking part in Open Link Night over at dverse !
Stopdraggingthepanda 