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Showing posts from March, 2021

ON BEING KINGS OF LEON - NEW POEM

  ON BEING KINGS OF LEON   Here’s what no one says: It’s hard to be a man these days; Probably harder not to be, To be some other identity, But that’s their story, and good luck To them, but if we’re about saying Truths, then this is one, just the same: When I was born I was slapped With a father’s name, But no fathering came to me. At least none I could see. The car I could have driven Remained locked; the golf course I might have mastered with a steadying Grip is wintering under ignorance. I barely know how to drink. Watching the new Kings of Leon Video, shot to look resonant of An age when black and white imagery Was meaningful, it is hurtful To sense how little these four white Men have left, apparently more sober now, About their business with a parental sense Something else is more valuable Than backstage rotgut and upfront groupies. Maybe. I see men sweating, ageing, growing beards And bellies, the look of the lockdown, N

NEW SPRING POEM INSIRED BY CHARLES MOSELEY'S NEW BOOK

  The idylls of the fool – 5 sonnets and a coda.   Nothing is convenient, and there is never A good time to be sacrificed to the gods Of fame’s indifferent gluttony. As The epitome of the discardable, I’m not for recycling, a wrapper For a sweet invented by pacifists, Now owned by war-makers. I cavort in a high-ceilinged vacuum, A dying king’s court is barely ideal For hijinks. Still, playful idolatries, Sidelong glances, petty affairs Pass the time between numb life And a lavish funeral ceremony That will bankrupt the next potentate.   This kingdom buries their entertainers With the pharaoh, I’m date-stamped, And due for a tomb without song. Strumming my lyre, winking at a princess, Few if any spy my misfortunes, Being squat, secondary, an epiphenomenon. You may think being a cut-up cut-rate Trickster in motley is a good gig, Complete with belled cap for a wig, As I take innumerable swigs of mead, Have little need for a new role,

NEW POEM FOR METEOROLOGICAL SPRING

New Spring Poem in 33 Couplets   Spring is the word again. Spring is a happening waiting   to accident. It surprises by always showing up. Spring is your best lover,   the one you turn to in the night to remember how good things can be.   Spring is the opposite of an ending. Spring contains a spark plug, a paradox   and a big box of matches. Spring dances drunk at a wedding   between the sky and earth. Spring is every god at once.   Spring is the Shakespeare of seasons. Spring votes   for the sun. Before spring is only everything still to play for.   Spring does what it says on the tin. Spring is an end   of the middle about to begin. Spring wears a gold ring   on every wee finger. Spring owes us money. Spring always pays   its debts. Spring is a reliable witness. Spring is uncontrollable   science on the floor. Spring is alive and kicking at the door.   Spring enters like a happy bear driven wild by bo