POETRY IS SO DIVERSE Number 2

Josia burnt black

By the Caribbean sun.

Stooped and bowed

Leaning heavily on a malacca cane.

Huge whiskers racing down the sides of his face,

Culminating in a production version

Of a Santa Clause beard

West Indian style.

A pronounced stutter affected mainly

And somewhat randomly

By the change in climate was evident.

His right eye watering

As if in deference

To the cold dry air encountered on his arrival in England

Yes.

He looked like an older version of me.

POETRY IS SO DIVERSE Number 1

Grey fingers grasping out of steely skies

Shards of silver rain

Bouncing off blackened slate tiles.

Splashing into the welcoming carpet

Of burnt grass almost yellowed as if by age.

Tired chestnut horses

Smelling more like horses arses,

Tred iron blued hooves

Onto hot steel tracks.

And the watery lemon sun breaks whispering,

Almost white through the saucepan sky

And razors sharply into the pale wan figures

Of promenaders on the Heath.

MORE OF THE INSOMNIACS BLUES

I didn’t sleep again last night

Something is definitely wrong

Because this just isn’t right.

Sleep.

Should help me to cheat

The long long days hold

But the commodity of nodding off

Is just not being sold.

And now I’m getting snappy,

Going batty

Feeling real ratty.

Being awake contrives to keep

Oneself from dropping off to sleep.

It deprives me of my unconscious dreams.

It actually seems

That in this waking state

I should be able to relate,

And log into the vale of sighs

Learn to close my bloodshot eyes.