Nearly Pomes

THE SAD MAN WHO LOOKS AT PAVEMENTS WHILE HE SHUFFLES ALONG SLOWLY

Some mornings I see this old (must be) aristocrat 

wearing a long green coat, formal but almost accidentally camp,

 with one neat pleat between his shoulders,

Underneath, a waistcoat and a watch chain

 dark bushy eye brows, a frowning face that used to smile,

Tufts of wiry hair on his cheekbones

He shuffles along

 sometimes near his block outside the station, 

sometimes in the park, 

sometimes accompanied by a Thai woman in her fifties, 

(I imagine them as a couple when they met, he 45 her 25)

sometimes alone

but always not speaking, sadly looking at the pavement. 

Imagining that he is somebody, but he has forgotten who.

I thought no more of the infinitely sadman who looked at pavements until

I saw him on the telly.

 He was being interviewed on Newsnight- 

If they needed an out of touch Lord to interview to prove how redundant the House of Lords was, they had done a good job. Well done that researcher but it was a bit cruel. He IS an aristocrat- 

he called himself a maverick. He wouldn't look at the interviewer, he wouldn't look at the camera, he hid his eyes behind his eyebrows as he looked down. no-one had told him how to behave on camera. No media training. He told his story to the studio floor

He said he wants to get elected back into the House of Lords to pass a bill to prevent something happening again that happened to his great grandfather in 1891, when his family got made bankrupt.

He was a hereditary peer who was demoted from the House of Lords when they reformed it in 1997, a monarchist, chairman of the Monday club for 16 years, ostensibly a total fascist and evil man.

Or the sad man, who looked at pavements and shuffled along, he doesn't seem maliciously evil, 

but is a very silly harmless elderly aristocrat, 

who had spent his life messing around,  anachronistic,  out of touch, out of his depth probably manipulated by devious right wing politicians, who liked him  because of his looks and ancestry.

And then I googled him and found a newspaper article from about 5 years ago - he'd married a beautiful blonde Russian women writer who burst out laughing when he stood up at his wedding reception to toast the queen. 

So thats why this old man, a descendant of Charlemagne, (we all are apparently) now spends his time shuffling along looking at pavements.

THE BOY

the boy sincerely thinks  that everything he does is rational of course 

but he don't realise 

how visibly his willy drives his every move

how stir crazy seed steers his moves.

Inevitably

Jerkily

Nervously

Impatiently

TRADITION

in the land of this bloke,

where only one thing can be,

wifey,  nimbly and subtly,

nudges the naive, the brittle,

buffets and bends it gently

into agreeable pliability, 

and accepts the protection offered

by his big bluff unthinking gruffness

to which she chooses to always agree.

KEEPING UP APPEARANCES

In her house 

She had a cupboard into which things did just go

Things that could not be thrown out, they belonged in the cupboard,

It was  cupboard full of things unfinished, unneeded things undecided things,

Into the cupboard they did go

The cupboard  was never sorted

It was full til bulging,

So full that sometimes the door would just pop open, and things would fall out only to be put back in and the door pushed  shut 

The house, incidentally, was always  immaculate 

WE MET

we were drawn together

attracted like magnets

you told me

I told you 

tales of woe

 we listened to each other 

we heard each other 

held each other

we each let go

and, not wanting each other's load, 

repulsed like magnets

we sprang apart 

UMBRELLAS

It was rush hour and many pedestrians had poured out of suburban trains and as I looked at them  I saw that there was one person in the crowded street with an umbrella up. 

I looked up to the sky - it was grey and the clouds were drooping  it was not raining, but it might and who knows in 2 minutes it might rain and the person with the umbrella could be  the only sensible one there but right now he was the loonie

THE ONE AND THE MANY 

The argument between the individual and the mass even invades my early morning walk in the park; 

Is it the lone daffodil that bursts into flower ahead of all the others that is the only miracle;

Or the thousands of daffodils, now still green and small

that will flower at the same time

Making a big yellow carpet;

that is the bigger miracle?

The one or the many? Intelligent de...sire

It's the green fuse that drives the flower as Mr Thomas said;

Whatever our politics

RACHEL’S MUM

white hair, white little dog 

black coat

Hands clasped behing her back

holding the  lead

deep in thought

always wearing black

I say hello and she looks up and straight though me to beyond,

I turn round to see what she is looking at, there is nothing 

And I wonder 

what did I do ?

Is she blanking me?

or is she just somewhere else?

as she walks her dog in the park

APRIL 13th 

The sun is actually warm to day. 

Tentative T-shirts attempt to bask

and pale arms and

Legs may redden goosebump or get brown 

depending on the still chill breeze and skin type

It's all bit like a tourist brochure

there are so-o many people

with so-o many cameras

ONE FOR SORROW

A magpie and a crow sat on adjacent branches silhouetted against grey sky.

The magpie flew away and the crow stayed

 3 PAUNCHY PELOTON  POEMS

1. LYCRA, MIDDLE AGED BIKERY 

Some mornings ago I, 

out of bed at dawn,

left the house and went to the nearby park  

I ambled and stretched

And kicked leaves and stared at squirrels and got calm but, 

as I left the park and its  stunning early morning light,

I was jolted out of my  reverie 

by a sweaty paunchy peloton sevenstrong in lycree 

perched pon expensive bikery 

grunting by at speed.

There’s nothing wrong with paunches – I have one

There is nothing wrong with middleaged men- I am one

There is nothing wrong with lycra – I’ve got none

There is nothing wrong with cycling – I love my bike and don’t own a car

But when paunchy middleaged men in lycra 

on bykra, jump red lights at a 

pedestra crossing without looking - well really

I think I’ll … I’ll… er

Get myself a hi visibility jacket

 I want one now and er …some lycra

Then I’ll be loud and energetic and visible

2. LYCRA MIDDLE AGED BAKERY 

Sponsa emblazoned across their blue Lycra clad bods beneath anoraks, they leave the bikes outside

And like their bloated stomachs,

the middle aged cyclists have absconded 

from the now bloated peloton a hurtling round the park and snuck into the bakery 

Cos  they’d prefer not to manically cycle  in Lycra

they’d rather  and its  more pleasure

to have a cuppa and apastry and a banter  at their leisure 

onna sunna but chilla Sunday morn

The pretence at getting fit stopped with the lycra and the stomach and the bikes stacked outside  

LYCRA MIDDLE AGED BIKERY 3

This morning, a cold morning, 

as I crossed the road via the pedestrian crossing round the outer circle,

 the light changed just as I approached the crossing, 

green light for me, so I did not have to break my stride, 

but a red light for the traffic, 

so a paunchy peloton, 18 peddler strong, cycling close and fast

came screeching to a halt to let me and two other pedestrians cross the road. 

They glared, snorting road rage