Sunday, 29 March 2015

The Gravity of Apples



She likes to think of tricky things
That twist and strain her brain like tree
A creaking ranch of branches stretch
Her quest of most improbably

Letters tumble in a mumbled mound
They seem a senseless pile of chatter
As though in waiting for a meaning full
Of single strings too dark to matter

Bursting dams of countless anagrams
Where in conclusion skylight clear
Sneezing visions of a pepper pot
In tomes of onomatopoeia

Saturday, 14 March 2015

Judged


Chasing a word turns out absurd
Meanings forever pursued
Depending on how they will sprinkle or fall
Whether senses or tenses are glued

Connection collections at peace with consent
When judged by a sentence most fair
Thoughtfully pure serenely demure
In a passage well dressed debonair

Finding the phrase that one hopes will amaze
So amusing when smartly presented
Crowds gathered together in spite of the weather
Have left feeling somehow contented

Wednesday, 4 March 2015

A Dead Bod



Looking back on Dead Bod
The last time that I passed
Reflecting on what might have been
One's bread upon the waters cast

Watercourses mighty forces
Channelled energy titanic
To effect one’s flight position
Causing consequential panic

A misplaced dip of airborne grip
Provoked a spiralled twisting dive
Squealing reeling headlong down
Every sense in turbo drive

Stunningly the shifting gale
Bequeathed a lift beneath the wing
With veering grace at lightning pace
Bestowed a tightly tuned upswing

Majestically at breakneck speed
Aeronautics unsurpassed
As though an arrow from Achilles bow
The Bod dead centre hit my mast

Amazingly I caught the Bod
With care laid down upon the deck
Stiff and cold it slowly rolled
My broken heart Bod’s broken neck

No more to soar the oceans roar
Engrained in soulful cloud embrace
Fleetwood calls in ghostly squalls
Where Angel wingsails interlace

Dare we deface Bod’s resting place
Deep in our roots this pictogram
Emblazoned beacon messages
Each journey sign our diagram

What of now from down below
Dead Bod hails the newly found
Towering turbines reborn docks
This cultured haven new unbound

Defiantly the Dead Bod Calls
A guiding laid back gullible shape
Phoenix bright new morning light
This Hull and proudest cityscape


Steve Clarkson a local man of many knots  but never against the grain asked me to have a go at the above.