poem

The Spear Tree

/ The Wombwell Rainbow / Leave a comment

witches ride this polished barkskin
while stag beetles skitter across it
babies are passed through this mother hole
rooted in three worlds of water air and fire

Limbs wear helicopters or keys full of samsara
that spin down to unlock moist earth
dog’s mercury wild garlic dog violets
coronet, brick, centre-bowed sallow

and privet hawk moth haunt these leaves
barkskin for spear for axe handles tough
hardwood that does not splinter
but burns to warn off to charcoal heat

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r Ash Wednesday

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Thas gonna mucky me forehead
wi old codgers ashes what we burned
yonks since as if it could remove
our guilt and sinfulness for doing so.

As Tha finger paints a cross on me bonce
al see our ancestor crinkle and pop
Like it were fireworks and watch all
harshness and fret go up in smoke.

Al have to go mi sen a wesh afore
a sees our lass else it’ll get her
all wonderin’ an we don’t want that.
Don’t want folk pryin’. No need.

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Salvador Dali

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teenager I was a poster
Christ crucified in a sky
above a cove
and dried blue tac
on my bedroom wall
lets Christ
lets me
fall at one edge

I was a swan reflecting elephants
the need for it to be other
my fingers mirrored rocks.

I was a spoon on crutches,
anything but me.

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The Town Bike

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Thas been wi her too.
Gang on us on her sofi
playing wi her little ‘un
she’d come dahn stairs

like, int dressing gown
an us lads in school togs
an grab one on us
by hand an tek us up.

weren’t burralass hersen
while we were fourteen
she were only eighteen.
Wondered what happened.

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Iceskin

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A trepidation of iceskin gentle timpany wavers on tremblewater for freeze forward or rewind to water. A reluctance of snow settles into puddle now it is oceanbound A hesitation of flakes wet scarfs, gloves, coats nudge out the word ‘snug’. via WordPress for Phone http://goo.gl/j6Fzhf

The Cage Drop

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Pit demolition crew joke all will not be there, a memory.
Pit security guard
I laugh. Cage drop, ears pop, reach deepest Barnsley
Bed. Never knew vast gusty dark, blue hat hard.

Its lamp helps avoid stumble on railway tracks,
see yawn of cathedral roof, crumbly soil, root
rot, pit support steel arches. The Drift darkness
I often stared into when above now stares
mute

where once much clank, heat, scrape and busy dust
there is left the gust and heat slow dust. “Turn light
off.” says Deputy. These eyes cannot adjust
to absolute dark, cannot see this hand. “Turn light

back on.” says Deputy. He heaves open small,
latched white wooden door to limewashed storeroom,
discarded tools in stone trough. Once pony stall
where they rested between shifts to feed and groom.

To fresh air, cage rises one last time and date,
To “Land to Let” and Industrial estate.

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The Snail

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Employers say ‘Can I have a word?’ Talk to side,
‘Are you happy here? Sorry, must let you go.’

‘You are a nice person, get on well workwise’.
‘We needed work done faster, must let you go.’

‘There is no problem with your work quality.
You are thorough, but, sorry, you are too slow.’

Business wants workers always accurate and quick
When you work too slow. no choice, they ask you to quit

Slow workers move from job to job always expect
the phrase ‘Are you happy here?’ and always regret.

 

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The Harsh Light

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Gentle light should enter these open eyes slow.
Sat on slagheap blue sky midday watch flit white
clouds pass shadows over pit, ripple and flow
girded redbrick coal washery
over bright

puddles, empty slurry tanks, across concrete
bunkers of unused sand, lime. gravel.
Recall
dark days ago nightshift veins freeze
blood heat
ice encrusted hands on ground concrete
hurt all

when I fell one snowed Winter day heavy
weight
hauls postal bag down, I slip on an iced drift
to letterbox bottom of door number eight.
I push prise open. Whole hand with letter lifts

sprung letterbox fringed with sharp stiff brush drops cold
letter quick pulls out and metal lid slams shut
in face. Shadows never what they seem in
bold
iced night. Come morning bushes, metal gutted

old men slumped down after pit work, cloaked gentlemen.
Whoever I meet wants to hurt these eyes. Brash
people are like harsh lights snapped on. They urgent
my thought. I do not think fast. Slow thought clouds pass.

Last girlfriend she dimmed harsh lounge light before sex
on sofa. Her ten year old son she said
did not
know we had sex would call out, ‘Mum. When you fetch
ing to bed?’ Like a harsh light, or rushed
reflex.

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The Childhood Tree (Sonnet)

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Gang found it side of canal down Lovers Lane.
Canal too full to flow of ancient bedsprings,
glossy wheel trims. Over a fag scratched their names
in its skin, shinned it, slung a rope round a limb.
over the water. Who could swing out further
without a wet? Then big lad Wayne had his turn.
Expected happened. Limb snapped. Told his mother
he’d slipped in a puddle while we’d all sunburn.
Later, some of them, like him and wife when courting
would boast of these cracks. Even then tree looked ragged.
All wrinkly and scabby wounds. Still some sporting
sap all over hacked their names  ‘LUV’ or heart tagged.
Then big lad Wayne overreached on a joyride.
Took collectors Chevvy, dumped and set it aflame.

Too close. Childhood Tree went up. Now waterside
him and wife see younger carvedhearts in it’s remains.

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The Big Pit

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has long drive from main gate a rich house. Six
Security guards sit in one floor old building , play cards, warm ourselves
ogle gash.

Door reached through slurry tides
slosh into wellies.
Coal packed trucks roar past their tyres twice your size.

Walkroadside. Don’t wadethrough. Slurrysea yawns
causeway edge to middle.You are blind. Some potholes sink beyond deep as England.

Pick your way with care over gantries.
One guard lost grip, Caught hold
just saw his
blue
hard hat somersault thirty feet down hit
brown wet mud and slip under duvet smooth.

Keep two-by-four handy for up top
where
coals piled up. Eastwards from village
come up
tonight. Sell it door to door when it’s nicked
and we’ve not given them good hiding.

Mrs O’Brien gives us Christmas dinner Christmas Day. Warm plates in Tommys microwave.
Little Billy’ll be bring his t.v., again.
And after your snap if you get bored
you can
always go on patrol outside.

Don’t forget your Walkie Talkie for
Takes good four hours trog round perimeter.

Watch for Mad Monk as he walks in mud
All pits have ghosts.
Monasteries under slag.
Don’t tell no Archaeologist.
Stop production. Jobs on line.

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