damn you, winter tide
leaving behind in your wake
shells on shores of spring
*
by gail
damn you, winter tide
leaving behind in your wake
shells on shores of spring
*
by gail

*
I understand that getting old
Is just a stage we pass
But can anybody tell me
What happened to my arse?
It used to be quite lively
And a distance from the ground
Ashamed to say it though I am
It used to get around
It was nifty on the dance floor
And comfy on a chair
It was pert and it was bouncy
But now there’s nothing there
And what is there is saggy
And not worthy of remark
Not flattered much by moonlight
Disappointing in the dark
Inevitable, gravity
That’s what it’s all about
In some tired hotel lobby
My butt is checking out
Play a mournful serenade
Sound the final horn
‘Tis off, my sorry arse, beyond
The Tropic of Capricorn
If I’d have seen it leaving
I could have waved goodbye
Packed a flask and sandwich box
And had a little cry
Ageing, such a pantomime
A farce, a silly plot
“It’s behind you!” Not my arse it ain’t
It was, but now is not
So, don’t take your arse for granted
It’s for fun, and sitting on
Enjoy it while you’ve got one
‘Cos you’ll miss it when it’s gone
*
by Gail

*
Up on Bride’s Mound, where the sky meets the ground
Circle wheels within wheels, on a blue winter day
Child of the trees, of the stars and the breeze
How much we love her and want her to stay
Waft of incense on air, words of ritual prayer
Gentleness, blessing, children at play
They who confessed her, who laid out and dressed her
Scattering acorns, wormwood, and bay
No dark corner spared in the memories shared
Of the pain that she had before finding her way
Rivers of sound, through the harp, through the ground
Diluting the darkness, dissolving dismay
Herein is forgiving; the dead and the living
Made fresh by the scent of a rosemary spray
Such redemption and peace, in her final release
Leave us free to remember and love as we may
We are all of us here; she has nothing to fear
Her spirit has gone from the bier where she lay
As together we stand, on this green hallowed land
Holding dear Kathy Hope as we love her away
*
by Gail

*
Oh, when they were alive we never said
The things we say about them now they’re dead
Too far away now, too far gone to hear
Gone, never to return or reappear
Too late to say how much they meant to us
Just hollow words, and funerals, and fuss
And sorry tears, and memories, and pain
And wishing we could see their face again
That gaze exchanged by eyes when last we met
That lingered a split second, we forget
That precious image, vague, so hard to find
In cupboard corners of unconscious mind
*
Why didn’t we just tell them they were great
Too late today, too late now, all too late
We had that thought that day, we didn’t call
What if we never called that much at all
Or when we did, droned on and on and on
No chance to listen now they’re dead and gone
And our last words, a blessing or a curse?
A dirty joke or elevating verse?
*
And what if it was bad, so very bad
Unreasonably difficult or sad
Too late to shake hands now, forget, forgive
For they have gone and we have stayed to live
To reconcile our difference alone
With icy wind and cold unyielding stone
With questioning, with anger, fear and prayer
And all the time just wishing they were there
*
They change us most, our dearest kith and kin
Lay waste the landscapes that we dwell within
Leave shattered palaces in ruined wake
Leave with that part of us they chose to take
Make waves rise up on ponds in silent glades
Blast particles of light through sunken shades
Part oceans with their leaving, break the sky
Leave fish upon the shore line high and dry
*
And even those we never thought we knew
The ones we thought were simply passing through
However long the number of their days
Do change us, in small subtle little ways
Make dust prints on the table in the hall
Leave crumbs on plates, and scuff marks on the wall
Blow gentle breezes soft through window crack
That whisper ‘I am never coming back’
*
The more we loved the more we miss, the more
We yearn for some strange loophole in the law
Unwilling to concede the battle lost
To pay for love, and ever count the cost
We search in dream, in lonely mountain walk
For one last touch, for one last quiet talk
And briefly, in the corner of our eye
We see them come, and go, and wave goodbye
*
At every funeral we stand and swear
That next time we will say how much we care
Say that we love them, call them on the phone
To let them know that they are not alone
And every time we fail and forget
That well intentioned heartfelt course we set
I loved you, did you know that, tell me true?
Unanswered echoes coming back at you
Dark holes within the soul and endless night
Bright angels lost in distant blinding light
The empty vase, the upturned empty chair
Deep lesions of the heart and songs in air
*
by Gail
*
something strange to earth was sent
dropped some art then simply went
now lonely spiders left on mars
watch red shoes dance on dusty stars
and walls of televisions sing
sweet things about the rebel king
the lad insane, the skinny duke
androgynous inspired fluke
flight of peacock, coloured flash
funkin’ funky ash to ash
china diamond, cold as god
genuinely, truly odd
*
by gail

On the subject of the unwanted water feature down Wobbly Way…
*
Water, water, everywhere
In rushing rivers down the wall
As loud as grand Niagara’s Fall
In to the Wobbly Bog
Pouring, pouring, endlessly
Insistent flow of running streams
Unwanted runnels carved through dreams
Swelling the Wobbly Bog
Soaking, soaking, soggily
The puddle deep, the muddy ground
‘Tis said there was a postman found
Drowned in the Wobbly Bog
Dropping, dropping, gravity
Bleaching brick with scale of lime
On damp of wall the mark of time
Shadows the Wobbly Bog
Gushing, gushing, noisily
Unbalancing the Feng and Shui
No wind to dry the churning sea
Flooding the Wobbly Bog
Madness, madness, sanity
By white noise of incessant drip
Is sunken like a sodden ship
Wrecked in the Wobbly Bog
Misty, misty, spookily
By moonlight come the boggy sprites
With mischief and their tiny lights
Haunting the Wobbly Bog
Wishing, wishing, hopelessly
That some good knight with tool or sword
From Aster or the Water Board
Might conquer the Wobbly Bog
Watching, watching, grumpily
The paint that never dries; dismay
As Wiltshire waters pour away
In to the Wobbly Bog
*
by Gail

*
“Knock, knock” “Who’s there?” I haven’t a clue
What day is it? Who’s at my door?
“Here is some breakfast I made just for you”
Says some stranger who slept on my floor
The sight of the eggs and the bacon and tea
Turns my stomach inside upside down
Migraine’s the price that I’ve paid for the glee
Of a banging night out on the town
“‘Ere, it’s New Year, do you fancy a beer?”
“No thanks, mate, I’m feeling quite rough”
I may have blacked out after midnight I fear
But now I’m…remembering…Stuff
Slowly but surely it’s coming to mind
As glimpses emerge from the fog
Of a twist and a twerk and a bump and a grind
And my new Christmas phone down the bog
I thought I was hot but in retrospect not
In the morning light nowt could be plainer
And that I remember I like not a jot
My naked and drunk Macarena
Oh me and my mates, we do get in a state
And last year we gave it some welly
But if anyone had not enough on their plate
We’d do onesies and pizza and telly
My mates are my life, we’re a pretty tight bunch
They’re alright, mate, they’re really all right
But last night I must have been well out to lunch
For I reckon I started a fight…
It was something to do with a girl I once knew
And a joke that she did stuff for money
And a fine upper cut in the queue for the loo
Well, I thought the punch line was funny
Oh, what’s in my pockets, this isn’t my coat
As I’m clearly not Super or Dry
And what are the words that are writ on this note
‘Bell me, baby, you’re totally fly’
And I’m going commando; hilarious bants
Will be had in regards to my loss
Much mirth to be had from the sight of my pants
On the top of the Market Cross
It’s not looking good, and tucked in to my hood
Are two gherkins all wrapped in a bra
Half a kebab and a squashed Christmas pud
And a wing mirror nicked from a car
I think I’m experiencing chemical guilt
And at some point I’ll have to atone
But right now I’m going to hide under my quilt
Crying blubbery tears for my phone
*
by Gail
Brad is admin of the Writers’ Group on Facebook…
*
A kindly sword and savage pen
Are the marks of a writer and leader of men
Blessed be he who came to teach
The wildness of wisdom and freedom of speech
Where fainter hearts might fall and fail
He stands to serve the Writer’s Grail
This ancient sage; this humble youth
This herder of cats; this teller of truth
Is he we know and love as Brad
Our literary Galahad
*
by Gail

*
Outside my kitchen window stands a single hopeful tree
Such beauty in the ghetto is a saving grace for me
In the spring at night its silver buds shine like tiny stars
Twinkling by the bin store and the white vans and the cars
In summer green its vibrant leaves shade cat shit covered grass
And flicker subtle shadows on my kitchen window glass
In the autumn there are berries, for tiny birds to eat
Glowing brighter than the sunset, falling red on grimy street
So many contemplative pigeons seeking sanctuary I’ve seen
So many blue tits, sparrows, robins, adding colours to the green
Squirrels, blackbirds, starlings; quarrels, lovemaking and chat
The cuckoo of a carrier bag, the stranded curious cat
One day they will chop it down and all that will be left
Will be the tarmac and the garages, and I shall be bereft
In the meantime, it is winter; naked branches cold and bare
And a single lonely magpie, every morning, sitting there
Usually with magpies, if you wait a little time
Another bird will come, to bring you joy, as in the rhyme
I watch the skies with hopeful eyes from early dawn till late
Can he be the only magpie in the world without a mate
The magpie sits alone and waits, he’ll be alone tomorrow
Billy No Mates Magpie
And his sorrow
*
by Gail

*
Church on Christmas Eve
Experience of spirit
Secular delight
…
Candles flickering
Stirred by one communal breath
Casting bright shadows
…
The choir whispering
Mournful cadenced melodies
That bless the silence
…
Drunken folk giggling
Respectfully hiccupping
Noisy chundering
…
Strange and precious faith
The uninitiated
Wary, questioning
…
Through agnostic eyes
Such peculiar mystery
Custom, novelty
…
The truth hides in love
Ancient priests and children know
Its simplicity
…
The door is opened
Out in to the night The Word
Flies on sacred wings
…
Midnight Mass; the light
In darkness comprehending
Emptiness with joy
*
by Gail