JUST PASSING THROUGH:

I am neither a number, nor a name,

I´m not photo in locket, upon a chain,

Not vote in ballot box, in your election,

Not test mark in exam, for your inspection,

I am just passing through.

 

I´m not pin, card, code, I´m no number at all,

I am not graffiti scrawled & left upon the wall,

I am not a document ticked, nor paper signed,

I am nothing important, that´s ever underlined,

I am just passing through.

 

I´m a seed, conceived in love, & planted on earth,

Embarking on the journey, that started with birth,

Merely tiptoeing lightly, & softly touching, as I must,

And at the end of all my learning, converting to dust,

I am just passing through.

HER OWN WOMAN:

According to people, she did life all wrong,

Ever out of harmony, she sang her own song,

Up with the birds she rose, each silvery dawn,

She would dress to kill, just to greet each morn,

She was her own woman.

 

Perfumed in opium, at the dawn of each new day,

Great chunky earrings from her lobes would sway,

Rings upon each finger & blooms within her hair,

People, at her, would merely point rudely & stare,

She was her own woman.

 

She would don her pyjamas, at every stroke of noon,

Saying, “I have no bloody time to wait for the moon”,

A glass of wine in one hand & her broom in the other,

She´d dance to the blues, singing, “Who needs a lover?”

She was her own woman.

 

She would sit under trees, upon shady park benches,

Reading poetry to birds, about pirates & bad wenches,

Her hair dyed violet & lips daubed in bright scarlet red,

A woman who lived in her dreams, with no need to wed,

She was her own woman.

BEYOND DREAMS:

She wended through folk´s silly un-reasonings,

By-passing their blasphemy & hot cruel barbs,

Ignoring iced thorny stares & their unfair jibes,

Leaping over critics at their suet-worded feasts,

“I shall not quaff from their poisoned chalices,

I shall not sup at their suppositions”, she said,

And turning on her winding heel, away she went,

She swam over old oceans & seas of spitting ire,

Through rivers of blood, sweat & well wept tears,

She climbed over high mountains of tiring effort,

To where life´s reality could never ever reach her,

Where she settled, beyond the realms of her dreams.

 

CROW:

Crow, the carrion devourer of vacuous gutted tombs,

Crow, omen of predicted death & all that awfully looms,

Who deemed you good enough to grace this godly earth?

Was it God, through egg, who brought you to your birth?

 

Crow, bringer of death´s missive, upon old rooftops cawing,

Crow, impatient at the plots, where dreams do their pawing,

You, roosting & regally awaiting, upon ivy cladded tombstones,

Watching as souls leave their bodies, of flesh & limbless bones.

 

Crow, upon spires, rooftops, old steeples & hallowed domes,

Crow, no sinner will you be, that is scribed in ancient tomes,

You are merely feathered avian, of ebony night-time plumes,

One of God´s small creatures who sings in graveyard moons.

 

DRIED:

Her hair was of silver spider webs spun,

Lined face, old lemon rind dried in the sun,

Breasts, sapless petals, of long dead rose,

Her back bent, as ancient carob in repose,

Fingers, twigs, now gnarled & hard folded,

Her lips, rutted, creased & meanly moulded,

 Butterfly wings pressed & lost on sad breeze,

Her old limbs swaying, loose as autumn trees,

Eyes, obsidian olive seeds, spat upon the sand,

Her laughter, yet un-dried, echoes through the land,

Body of shriveled pod, upon her journey, now dried,

Her sepia flesh desiccated, yet her soul has never died.

IN LOVE:

They waltzed as butterflies & they flew like birds,

They drifted like leaves, with no need for words,

For they were in love.

 

They flowed like old rivers & they leapt like seas,

Their skin in soft shivers, kissed by waft breeze,

For they were in love.

 

They sang like the wind, through chiming of bells,

Their tears of joy, replenished all wishes in wells,

For they were in love.

 

They floated on clouds where they made their soft bed,

Vowing to stay together forever, within their poetry read,

For they were in love.

 

THE GIRL WITH A LIMP:

They were friends together from childhood days,

He of sound limb, she, sorely walked with a limp,

He carried her on piggy-back, what fun they had,

With him at her side, her limp was never too bad.

 

They grew to lovers & he promised her the world,

“In dance halls of Venice, we´ll waltz a fine whirl,

I´ll make you fine slippers for your dainty wee feet,

And like a small gazelle, you´ll dance light & fleet”.

 

When they were old & grey, he promised her in age,

“I will carry you to heaven, in spun shoes of soft sage,

We´ll tiptoe on clouds & I´ll wash your toes in the rain”,

She said, “My step with you, has never been a pain”.

 

WALK ME:

Walk me to where the old beasts roam,

Not to places of the human´s stompings,

Lift me to skies where the birds fly free,

Not to barred cages that man calls home.

 

Walk me through fields of phlox & herbs,

Not upon hard, wet sidewalks sad, & grey,

Take me to deep forests where Druids pray,

Not to those odorous places of littered kerbs.

 

Walk me through pages of life´s ancient tome,

Not through sad regret, nor rued senseless ire,

Sing me joyful hymns of all soul´s hallelujahs,

Not upon this earth, but in my original home.

WHO ARE YOU?

Who are you, who do you think you are?

Telling me where to go, & even just how far,

Who tells me what to vote, how & what to say,

What to eat & drink, how to exercise & play,

Who are you?

 

You tell me what to wear, what not & what to do,

Who do you think you are, who on earth are you?

Are you politician in his office, King within his court?

Are you someone special, to whom I must report?

Who are you?

 

You say I should listen & it´s to you, I should obey,

You say that I should be heeding, to all you do & say,

Are you the nun at her vespers or Druid in his Grove?

Maybe message in old footprint, of nomad as he roved?

Who are you?

 

You speak words of Imams, rulers, priests & preachers,

Looking down your nose at me, with potency of teachers,

I don´t need your words my friend, can you not just see?

The only mentor I need in life, is deep within only me,

Who are you?

 

BROKE:

He´s considered by society, merely one big joke,

He was one cool dude, who just one day awoke,

Then took off to the desert, in his old grey moke,

Folk riled, & within him, old emotions would evoke,

An old veteran hiding, behind his ever smoking toke,

Though rumours abounded, he was hooked on coke,

But his only poison was bourbon & his daily smoke,

Considered strange by most, this average old bloke,

Long grey hair tied in bandana, coloured egg yolk,

People made fun, & at him, they ever would poke,

But he would just slyly chuckle & raucously croak,

In his opinion, the whole world, could just go choke,

Only folk he considered, were beasts he could stroke,

Enough for him, society´s restraining tightened yoke,

With all its cruel banal behavior & it´s bigoted folk,

He´d never cause problems, nor tempers to stoke,

Around him he wrapped, the old desert´s kind cloak,

“I´m just fine”, he´d say, “My life´s just okey-doke,

So why should I fix myself, if I aint at all broke?”

 

 

THE FORGOTTEN SMILE:

She searched within the annals of her dusty mind,

For the remnants of her past, now scattered & torn,

The tenderness she felt, so tattered & weathered,

Kind words once spoken, withered as soft old rose,

Dreams dissipating in the mists of her mislaid time,

Kisses shred from lips, like torn spider´s old webs,

Caresses shattered, upon her wrinkled creased skin,

Laughter mere echoes, upon walls of her yearning,

Rummaging through her memories, now lost & gone,

The ancient & tatty bric-a-brac, of no use to her now,

Yet one treasure she missed & searched for in longing,

Digging deeper in the portmanteau of her heart & soul,

Softly whispering & slow muttering, to her old grey self,

Saying “Now where have I put that forgotten old smile?”

 

BLESSING:

May every step be an adventure, upon your journey undertaken,

May each dawn bring you joy, & new dreams within you, awaken,

May every breath you take & breathe, be of thankful beatitude,

May each smile upon your beautiful lips, be only of gratitude,

May every sip quaffed, quench your thirst, allowing you a life long,

May each morsel daily supped, keep you fed, nourished, & strong,

May every caress you ever feel, be a touch that is gentle & kind,

May each road you ever take be safe, whether straight or wind,

May every word spoken by you, be only spoken in real true love,

May each prayer that you ever pray, be heard by God from above.

 

AS THE WOMAN:

As the Girl, she gave her joy to the world,

As the Maid, she gave her heart to the man,

As the Mother, she gave her life to the child,

As the Crone, she gave her wisdom to the earth,

As the Woman she was, her life, she gave to all.

AT ONE WITH GOD:

I be at one with God, when lying  on my back,

I be at one with him, when down, I´m sitting,

I be at one with God, when folk give me flack,

I be at one with him, as with rage, I´m spitting,

I be at one with God, within all happiness & joy,

I be at one with him, as I stand & I am walking,

I be at one with God, whatever the plan or ploy,

I be at one with him, whenever I´ll be talking,

I be at one with God, whenever I am singing,

I be at one with him, when I feel I´m in a hole,

I am at one with God, seeing birds high winging,

I am at one with him, ever in heart, body & soul.

 

BUCKET LIST:

I shall dream of bucket lists & last granted wishes,

That don´t include the dusting, nor unwashed dishes,

But of extenuating love fests with all men I´ve loved,

To talk the lingo of the whale, lion & peaceful dove,

To sup richly, & upon more than simply humble pie,

Oh to quaff golden berried nectar, long before I die,

To cool my old breasts, in ocean´s blue foreign waves,

To walk bare-footed, within old forest´s mossy glades,

To see my grand-babies grown up, long before I fly,

Then & only then Lord, eventually, I´ll be ready to die.

 

 

DEATH IS OURS:

Death touches us all, you, me, everyone, she is ours,

The two legged, four legged, rooted trees & flowers,

Those of root, stem, leaf, scale, claw & plumed feather,

Those who swim, slide, fly, hop & walk, all of us together.

 

Death touches the rich, poor, the black, yellow & white,

The ill, the well, the old, the young, it´s all in our plight,

Those who love, hate, lead, or those who simply follow,

Though we find it difficult & at times, hard to swallow.

 

Death´s not only of morticians, surgeons, doctors & carers,

But of everything that´s birthed, not only of pall bearers,

If only we were as at peace with death, as she is with us,

Friends forever, walking together, without all the fuss.

 

STRANGER:

The key of her memory turned in the rusty old lock,

The cracked door of her mind creaked slowly open,

A glimmer of weak sunlight crept in & lit up her face,

She smiled, looking into the face of her forgotten son,

Then dark clouds rolled in & her sad room dimmed,

And as she looked into her son´s familiar sweet eyes,

All she saw before her, was an unknown stranger.

FRIENDLY STREET:

My street smells of jasmine, rose & azahar,

Peppered with voices, from both near & afar,

A place where petals dance & trees gaily sway,

And serenading birdsongs make folk want to stay.

 

A place, where under sunshine, kiddies play & tease,

Housewives chat in doorways & men sit under trees,

It´s a street where neighbours wave & have time of day,

To greet all & sundry, before merrily, going on their way.

 

A place laundry´s washed, & by Señora´s hands squeezed,

Hung in sunny patios, where it´s dried & freshly breezed,

It´s where, from open windows, aromas deliciously escape,

Of home-made soups, stews, baked bread & spiced cakes.

 

My street is a friendly place, belonging to dying lost past,

Of hopscotch, skipping & of time that seems to long last,

It´s the place of a helping hand & the ever friendly face,

It´s a street that you can´t compare, with any other place.

 

PUT THE LORD IN YOUR POCKET CHILD:

I am afraid of the world Mama,

There are monsters out there,

Put the Lord in your pocket child,

You´ll have neither fear nor care.

 

I am afraid of the world Papa,

I am so afraid I´ll lose my way,

Put the Lord in your pocket child,

That way, you´ll never have to stray.

 

I am afraid of the world my love,

I fear that our love will never last,

Put the Lord in your pocket child,

You´ll be led in the future, as in the past.

 

I am afraid of the world my Lord,

Of what awaits me, now I´ve come to my end,

Please just put me in your pocket child,

You´ll be cared for, I´m always your friend.

 

 

BUT A WHISPER:

A lonely child she was, born upon this earth,

Conceived in old sin, no one knew of her birth,

Playing alone, & talked only to beasts & birds,

Leaving no footprints & no heard spoken words,

She was but a whisper.

 

She never knew of love & no man made her smile,

Tiptoeing through this life, she walked many a mile,

Her breasts remained empty, she never bore babies,

She never asked why, nor questioned all the maybe´s,

She was but a whisper.

 

Nobody ever knew her, never recognized her face,

She always knew this earth, was never to be her place,

When entering sky´s Heaven, upon the end of her pain,

God smiled & said “Hello child, so good to see you again,”

She was no longer a whisper.

 

NEWS:

Communication overload, the television on,

Newspapers thumbed & everything´s wrong,

Kidnaps, famine, drought, fire, war & flood,

Abuse, cruelty, corruption & sorry spilt blood,

Blasphemy & bad manners, left right & centre,

In world of mad media, I don´t want to enter,

Everything has gone viral & nothing´s now real,

Prozac, pot & whiskey just to handle their spiel,

The politicians, charlatans & those of cut cloth,

Lives, frail & as disposable, as wings of old moth,

Turn the other cheek, you can´t take any more,

Turn it all off & then merely walk out of the door.

THE LAUGHTER OF WOMEN:

Oh how I love the laughter of little girls,

Of giggling secrets & their bouncing curls,

Rosy cheeked mischief & smiling schemes,

Their laughter, running into maiden´s dreams.

 

Oh how I love the laughter of maidens young,

Of chortlings rolling off sweet trilled tongues,

Painted lips forever ready, to peal in chimes,

Their laughter, defying cruel passing of time.

 

Oh how I love the laughter of mothers wooing,

Of gurgling babies silenced, by Mama´s cooing,

Milky lipped in smiling, of ever love maternal,

Their laughter within hearts, remaining eternal.

 

Oh how I love the laughter of silver wise Crones,

Of wicked cracklings’, replacing age old moans,

Splintered voices echoing, through life´s long halls,

Their laughter, living on, within old history´s walls.

 

 

TELL ME:

Tell me pretty things, my little one,

Talk to me, only of your happiness,

Tell me of your friends, those Angels,

Talk to me of all your deepest dreams,

Tell me all the secrets within your heart,

Talk to me of places you go in your sleep,

Tell me please, what your future will be,

Talk to me, but only of your pretty things,

Tell me, so that I may know your beauty.

MANTLED MEMORIES:

She wrapped her memories around her like a cloak,

As tight as softened nut-skins, to keep them all safe,

Binding them close, within her ageing heart & mind,

Keeping them in places, where she was once so happy.

 

She garbed her memories around her old Crone-hood,

Keeping warm the images, of all the men she once loved,

Protecting all the gone babies, she had long ago birthed,

In those places of her womb, where once they were safe.

 

She enfolded her memories, around the soul of her being,

Soft shawled as clouds, around the spinning ancient moon,

Her memories, now frayed in forgetting her very own name,

Now torn as  spider´s silken webs, her mantilla of madness.

 

IT´S A SOUL THING:

Love´s not flowers, cards, chocolates & dining out,

Not the trinkets & champagne to remove all doubt,

It´s not garbing in satins & silks, to merely impress,

Love is a soul thing, stripped of dross & all that dress.

 

Love´s the look, the touch & the “just being there”,

Not the lace covered breast, nor the pearls in hair,

Love can be the argument, that niggle & that nag,

Love is a soul thing, outliving the wrinkles & sags.

 

Love´s that place, where hidden dreams are kissed,

The nitty-gritty of life & all the things you´ve missed,

It´s words of endearment, & sometimes well barbed,

Love is a soul thing, at times easy, at other times, hard.

CHARITY:

Sir, I´m a beggar at your mercy, & I´ll not purloin,

I will ask for your charity, but it´ll not be in coin,

I´ll hold out my hand, but not from you to take,

Please would you be so kind, to give it a shake?

 

Sir, I´m a beggar, but I´m not asking you for much,

It´s your charity I´m needing, of your gentle touch,

All I want from you Sir, is your warmest of smiles,

Just knowing that you cared, I could walk for miles.

 

Sir, I´m a beggar, yet nothing kind I´ve ever heard,

It´s your charity I´m wanting, in your kindest word,

Please look deep in my eyes & then be on your way,

Having given me your time Sir, you´ll have a good day.

 

SEDUCTION:

The river came, snake-like & conquered land,

Meandering languidly, over her rolling hilly hips,

Sliding down her magnificent breasted mountains,

Caressing shimmering shivering skin of her fields,

Leaving traces of sweated dew upon her limbs,

River laughed & tickled land´s moist & ferny vales,

Kissing with wet lips, those dark & forested places,

Breathing words of love, with her breathy mists,

Land, captured & enraptured, now had no choice,

But to fall hopelessly & deeply in love with the river.

EL PUCHERO DE TU MADRE:

“Nunca haces el puchero como lo hacia mi madre,”

Me dices estas palabras cada vez que te lo preparo,

“Mi madre lo ha preparado con chorizo Colorado,

Con morcilla sabrosa y costillas saladitos y también,

Con un buen trozo de tocino blanco y sabrosa zurrapa,

Vamos, con pringue como Dios manda. Ai mi mama,

Mi madre me quería mucho y quería que yo creciese

Sano, fuerte, guapo y gordito, con rosas en mis mejillas,

Y rollizos en mis brazos y piernas, como almohadas.”

 

“Ai mi vida, si, tu madre te quería mucho, no dudo,

Y te cuidaba preparando tu pucherito preferido,

Pero ahora soy yo quien te cuido, yo quien preparo

Tu pucherito, pero no como hacia tu madre, no,

Yo lo preparo con mucha verduras y legumbres,

Y nada de grasa, sano y solo con caldo y amor,

Mi vida, no como tu madre, pero con mucho amor.

Tu madre cuidaba un niño, pero ahora me toca a mi,

Ai cariño, si señor, ahora me toca a mi cuidar un Viejo,

Soy yo quien cuida tus venas, Corazón, próstata y,

También tu tensión, tu colesterol y mas cosas,

Y si mi puchero no sabe igual, como lo que hacia ti madre,

Es simplemente porque yo te quiero muchisimo”.

MY PRIMAVERA:

Cyan blue sky, kissed with clouds of Angel´s breath,

God´s strewn gems, of plumed flocks returning home,

Ready for love games, released now from winter´s death,

Bud-headed blooms, shot straight from dark silted loam.

 

Firework flowers, exploding upon balmy awaiting world,

All Splattering floral graffiti, upon kerbs & concrete walls,

Emerald fringed leaves & tendrils, so creepingly unfurled,

Spanish primavera waltzing, through joy bedecked halls.

 

Operatic bird song, serenading in trilling love-lorn tunes,

Summoning pretty hens, dressed in springtime plumes,

Primavera weaving magic, with help of ancient moons,

Air now heady, with the uncorking of Gaia´s perfumes.

 

 Soft petals, leaves & feathers, all dancing & pristine new,

All daubed by nature´s paintbrush, in God´s invented hues,

Tripping through floral fields, inviting me to skip & sing,

Primavera, my primavera, I love you my Spanish spring.

 

 

WHERE DO YOU COME FROM GRAN?

Please tell me, “Where do you come from Gran”?

No matter how I look, I cannot see your plan,

You don’t use the computer or mobile phone,

Not even those old videos, did you want or own,

You cook on wood stove, not knowing microwave,

You don´t go to banks, but in piggy box you save,

You wash clothes by hand, never trusting machines,

Saying, “suds, hands & sun, makes everything clean,”

You scrub floors on your knees, just loving the shine,

Saying proudly, “nobody´s floors are as shiny as mine,”

Your dresses turned, & Gramp´s trousers are patched,

All dyed, stitched & mended, yet nothing is matched,

No fast food do you want, as you love everything slow,

Home grown & prepared, upon soft simmering glow,

Sometimes I think Gran, that you belong in a coven,

As I watch you bake bread in your cavernous oven,

“Where do you come from Gran? Please do tell me so”,

“I come from the past child, a place you´ll never know,”

 

BETWEEN:

He walks, lost between the old pages of time,

Moments, seconds, minutes & passing of hours,

He dances between words of old music & rhyme,

Between poetry, songs & tales of ivory towers.

 

He sways between memories of familiar old names,

Of days, weeks, months & the cruel passing of years,

Recalling paths, between ageing & childhood games,

Lost now, within his sad confused & irrational fears.

 

He lives between love & hate, the good & the bad,

He´s a mere pendulum, within the life he has lived,

Yet he´s learned the difference between happy & sad,

He now knows the secret, of a life truly well sieved.

LAMENTATIONS OF THE PILLOW:

Pillow of goose down & gentle plumy feather,

Scented with lavender & soft Scottish heather,

Memories locked, beneath linen & every plume,

Upon beds, within the most intimate of rooms.

 

The place where heads laid, within agonies of birth,

Thrashing at the entry, of every life upon this earth,

Tossed in torrid passions & creased within all loves,

Laundered with care, & as soft as young white doves.

 

Stained with crimson lipstick & sweat of fevered brows,

Perfumed & tossed into corners, on lover´s tiffs & rows,

Greyly crumpled by the ill & the dying upon death´s bed,

Lamentations of humble pillow, where all life lays its head.