Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category


There used to be more here
More walls of stone
More roofs of slate
More paths to walk
More noise from looms
More people coming into the valley
And then we had more water
More brought less
Less people, less looms, less noise, less stones
But less can be more
Now there is more trees, more plants
More insects, more birds
More peace and tranquillity
Sometimes less seems more
It all depends how you look at it


A coal mining child

My life is measured
By the hour I get up
My walk down the hill
To the coal pit at the bottom
The darkness of the opening
I stoop so low to enter
The crawl on hands and knees
Of hard skin and cuts
Through mud and water
To get to my father the miner
Sat naked digging at the face
To get coal to power society
In this blackest of blacks
No sunlight can penetrate
I must load chunk after chunk of coal
Onto the corve that I push
On my own, alone, back to the sunlight
And to air I can breathe
No time for rest I must carry on
Turn around and repeat this process
Till here are no more corves of coal
To push from the darkness
Sometimes it is dark before I finish
I have no food or water until I do
When I get home a quick meal
And then bed so I can repeat this
Process tomorrow
And the day after
Until I die

A corf (pl. corves) also spelt corve (pl. corves) in mining is a wicker basket or a small human powered (in later times in the case of the larger mines, horse drawn) minecart for carrying or transporting coal, ore, etc.[1] Human powered corfs had generally been phased out by the turn of the 20th century, with horse drawn corfs having been mostly replaced by horse drawn or motorised minecarts mounted on rails by the late 1920s. Also similar is a Tram, originally a box on runners, dragged like a sledge.

a second

Posted: November 4, 2016 in Poems, poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,

here for a second
we can do so much
yet all we want is more

 


pounding of hearts
sweating of hands
shuffling of feet
hands held
lives connect
never seen again



he watches intently
from the comfort
of the leather sofa
as his mother carefully erases
the memory of another
meal prepared and eaten
pots, pans, plates
knives, forks and spoons
all reflect back at her
a beauty now long gone
she passes them to his father
who with several sharp tugs
wipes clean what has been
replacing it with the drabness
of the present
reminding them both
that nothing last forever


the creepiness of waves
the nothingness of sun
became a stain
in a time, a place
decayed my mind
turned it to dust


a mind stained
by memories of the past
of families, friendships, relationships
arguments, breakups, reconciliations
friends here and now, been and gone
some here forever
others never seen again
lovers we have had
some so close you become one
others remain untouched
except in your mind
places you have been
sunsets and sunrises seen
through all four seasons
before merging into one
hills you climbed forever, never ending
bottomless valleys you never reached
books you have read
a million different words in your head
and you only remember one
films seen through aging eyes
of places and people
you will never know but you think you do
waking up in the morning listening to birds
staring at the ceiling all night
waiting for sleep to take over
landscapes been and gone
homes and factories built and demolished
to make way for a new future
running over moors in the dark
getting drunk in the park
the stain of memories
that last forever
until you become
a stain in the earth
and slowly, quietly
begin to fade away…


I believe you
When I stare in your face
And see a happy smile
Beaming back at me

I believe you
When you tell me you’re
Happy to see me
And kiss me gently

I believe you
When you hug me tightly
Squeezing me warmly
Feeling your skin on mine

I believe you
I believe every word you say to me
Every touch of your person
I take it literally

I believe you
Because I know no other way
And whether you truly mean it or not
I still believe you

 


My eyes do not see you, as you see me
I do not see the emotion and fire behind your gaze
nor the hopes and heartache that your eyes must conceal.
The fears for the future, the anguish of the past, are all lost to me.
I only see your eyes as they are,
two deep blue pools set
in a face full of familiar features,
a nose sloping down mountain like
ears leading to deep tunnels,
teeth like prehistoric monuments,
They are all the same to me.
And when I try to read the stories
that live behind those eyes,
the life they must hold,
how I wish I could read them
like I read the words in my books.
But I cannot know them.
For to know them I must be able to read them,
and that I cannot do.
So all I can do is to sit here and imagine,
imagine what sights those eyes have seen,
the places they have been,
the memories they hold.
But as I do that I wonder,
I wonder if you can read my eyes
and tell me the stories they hold?
Can you read me in ways I cannot read you?
Can you open the pages that my eyes hold behind them?
Can you see the fields, the mountains, the lakes,
the skies that I have seen just by looking at my eyes?
If you can then you are indeed a lucky man
and you are truly gifted.
At least in my eyes.