Poetry - 5

A Jacob’s Ladder The backward glance to where we have been Gives us the assurance of making progress, Without which there can be no future. Personal history, memory, Is what makes us what we are at this point in time. We can change, not what we are, But what we would like to be. Our memory, our past, Is merely the bottom block of a tower that has no limit. It only requires a steady hand and the will, For us to build a Jacob’s ladder to the stars.

Your Presence Your presence is etched On the face of the space Where you were.

The Throne Moments of pure meditation Whilst seated here, on the throne, Transcends all known concentration And gurus perhaps better known. The stress and the strain of this living Passes, with motions, away And the deep relief of such giving Flushes one’s problems away.

Learning to Have Fun Wheeeeee! Twisting, turning, winding, Sinuous dive into laughter. Doing it again and again. Banking and corkscrewing through life. Learning to have fun.

Winter Time Trial (Kenilworth) Misty, muffled figures pedal silently Out of the gloom and warm clouds of Muted words appear and vanish In the frosty air. Racers shed their winter wool and shiver With cold and nerves. Watches are Consulted and the race against the clock Commences over there. Pungent liniments to make legs strong mingle With warm body smells in the sharp, crisp Morning scene. Shirts and towels and bikes And bags lie everywhere. Every minute, by the clock, a racer sprints Away. Arms are swung and feet are stamped Against the nervous cold. Coffee sweetly steams A vacuum flask’s fanfare. A nervous laugh, a slap on the back and They are away. The sleep and cold are gone, Muscles, rhythmic, stretch and thrust To make a time that’s fair. Hiss! go the tyres and rasps the breath. Arms begin to ache and legs deaden. A marshal Shouts encouragement and in the gut, Leaden starts despair. From misery’s depths comes swinging, winging Hope, for off ahead a tiny figure shows As, line unsteady, the minute-man loses Time beyond repair. Despair’s transposed to him who lags, new Strength flows to the legs, for now In sight the clock man waits, to end The white line’s glare. Lungs slow down as the praises grow and dead Legs find new life. The time is good but he, The winner, with modesty immodest, Belittles the affair.

Little Fred's Nick-Nack Shop “Mornin’, Fred. Yow orlright?” They always ask. “Hey, bass”, West Indian Rasta asks. “You got radio?” “Oh, gawd!” Groans Fred, aloud. “Another bleedin’ nig-nog”. White teeth flash, But in a grin, “They’s more acomin, bass”. “I’d have your lot On a banana boat”, Fred mocks an angry scowl. The grin widens, “Do dey go To Dudley, bass?” “Ignore that black Bastard”, says Fred To the Traffic Warden. The Rasta roars With laughter, “Got to go, buy a radio”. “Come back termorra, I’ve got a crystal set Yow can afford”. A cup of tea Is passed to Yellow Peril, “Two sugars, Alf?” A fisherman enters, Coarse of course. “Carp’s tekkin, Fred” “Tekkin what?” “Floated crust.” He says. “Never sin nuthin’ like it.” And Fred, aglow, Himself a piscatorial legend Is lost to further trade. Every Friday, With a cheese roll And a bottle of Mackie, I listened To Little Fred Insult his customers. Black, brown, white All received the same Razor-tongued invective. And back they came For more. Governments Could learn a lot From Little Fred.

Love Could I articulate the perfume of a rose, Spell the texture of a flower's petal, Speak the patterns of a hoar frost, Or express a single feather of a Swallow's wing, Then could I tell you how much I love you.

Praying Had a quick pray today, but You it seems were out. Down Your local were You? With Your mates, Mohammed and that fat fella Buddha? I suppose it's all ambrosia and skittles these days. Why aren't You there when I need You? Personally I think You've gone away and nobody's noticed, Or you're lying down somewhere After a night out with Your fellow deities. A sort of divine hangover. That's the trouble with sorting out the world's problems, You take a quick ambrosia to steady Your nerves And before You know it You're sleeping it off again. I'll e-mail You next time, okay?