Blockhead

 'No-one but a blockhead ever wrote except for money'

                                   Samuel Johnson

OK so I'm a blockhead

Welcome

I hope you enjoy reading from this collection

as much as I enjoyed writing it.

(more poems in 'SAO' by Michael Amor on Kindle

my overland tour around all S. America)

What makes a piece of writing into a poem?

If there isn't any rhyme or at least repeating rhythm

it's just pretentious shredded prose and not a proper poem.

Saturday night

First place - good band,

dancers shuffling, unsteady stand;

none under fifty including me

but Darby and Joan touching to see.

Second place - decent disco,

dancers bouncing on the go;

none over fifty excepting me -

sweet shop window eye candy.

Third place - home, bed.

Old yes but not dead yet

Material for myth

I rest and raise my head from a session of winter digging.

It isn't really cold but still my nose is dripping.

It's damp and growing dark. Eastward the the wind is rolling

a grey duvet of cloud across a bare hill's muscled shoulder;

westward is a skyline of skeletal trees resembling

a distant platoon of ragged soldiers surrendering.

A single seagull tacks across the wind spiralling

arabesques on the sky. Now a flotilla of more gulls

appears, a wind blown bluster of white leaves whirling.

Then I hear a call. I know the sound. Like a mewing

animal. I search the sky. There. High up, circling

around each other. Not animals but birds. Buzzards.

Three of them dancing the air, continually calling.

And now two more fly in to join them, all five ascending

towards the clouds. Five ! Surely they must stop rising

now. They are almost into the bottom of the cloud.

But no. One by one they disappear into the grey fluff.

I wait for them to re-appear. Nothing. I keep watching.

Still no sign of them. Eventually I tire of waiting,

shoulder my spade and start to walk home wondering

what an earlier, more superstitious age would have made

of the event. Some secret place in the clouds welcoming

the birds home? An avian country ? A kingdom of buzzards?

A day in May, weekend in June

and weeks in April very soon

were distant memories in view

of all the rest of life in you.

GOODBYE

Leaving I gave my love a rose

fragrant, royal, red

saying "Take this flower from him

you kept from your bed."

Glaring at me, proud in parting

sharply she said

"What am I to do with it?

Why give me this?

I don't want your gestures now

or farewell kiss."

Just as I'd guessed she would -

a chance not to miss.

"Just let it die" I said

"wither and die.

Don't ever water it

cover the sky.

Just like my love for you

just let it die."

Turning she left me with her smile

dazzling, royal, red

saying "I shall keep your flower

though love has fled.

Having no root it must of course

quickly be dead."

Just like my love for you

GIRLS NIGHT OUT

The photos will show them smiling, laughing at the phone,

these clustered women embracing the weekend evening

together at the disco, families left at home,

reviving the tingle of teenage dreaming.

The videos will show them dancing together while a stream

of men flows past, sometimes splashing a glance

of interest at their antics which perhaps may seem

inviting some sort of dalliance dance.

But any sort of misbehaviour seems out of place,

young daring ceding to mid-life propriety.

That this can happen regardless of race

is tribute to British open society.

Tweets 26

A little child skipping in the rain

ignoring the bleakness outside

by the sunshine within. 

Sheep may safely graze.

TV obesity.

MOVEMENTS ON THE ALLOTMENTS

no longer a crow int the corner of my eye

or a cocky jackdaw jigging by;

not a smart magpie hopefully tapping

but only sheets of black plastic flapping

We humans are very inventive.

We can come up with multiple reasons why we did what we did

and one, even some, of them may be correct.

Childhood is adorable;

youth is beautiful.

TWO VERSIONS

How does it work?  That's one of Nature's mysteries.  (poetic)

How does it work?  We don't yet know.  (scientific)

THE LIVING YEARS

The first two decades were childhood, waiting;

the last two were old age, life abating;

but the middle four were the meaning of life -

procreation, kids with wife.

EPSTEIN VICTIMS or DUPES ? ?

Not kidnapped, drugged, assaulted, raped.

Seduced indeed but not by men.

Instead by a life of luxury shaped

to partnering famous men.

I know there's a science explanation

about the colour of the sky

and it would be presumptuous

of me to question why

it has to be so complicated.

I give the scientists their due

but seeing as it's Some-One's carpet

I just think God likes blue.

Miracles

The first miracle is that the Universe exists:

the second that the Earth is so alive:

the third is Mankind:

and the fourth will be

if the second can survive the third.

When all is said and nearly done

then nothing really matters much.

When, without war or poverty

a life as comfortable as mine

begins to stutter to its end

there's little lost and still less won.

TWEETS 25

JAN 8  SUSSEX

I wondered why

so many cars on the road today;

then realised why -

all the ice and snow has melted away.

Changing gear is usually H

but more economical is W

ALLOTMENT

Another two hours in mud and cold:

there isn't any pleasure in it

but there is some satisfaction.

BED

used to be exciting - sex and cuddles

but now it's just a refuge from the daily troubles.

DISCO  OR  COCOA ?

One old woman in my bed

or lots of young ones in my head.

LIFE

like a fly's acquaintance with window glass

WINTER  OLYMPICS  DRAWBACK

Everybody is racing against the clock

not visually against each other.

DREAM ?

Smooth skin, soft breasts,

warm sheath, sated rests.

MORE BAD NEWS

The news seems always full of death and disaster,

a world out of control that we can't master,

tragedies of loss and grief far way beyond

my little limited life being in bond

to scrabbling for some trivial bum rhymes

and feeling guilty at being happy sometimes.

THURSDAY BAND NIGHT

The older ones are not attractive;

the younger ones need younger men.

At least the dancing keeps me active

partnering despair again.

I have a little poe tree

nothing will it bare

about my human frailty

but what I hereby share.

There's very little silver

and even less that's gold

and as for Spain's fair daughter

I wouln't be so bold

WINTER BREAK

Within this Spanish winter hotel

occasional sun warms the clientele

and stirs the dregs of teenage dreams

for so many old folks in jeans.

Can miracle births be expected when

these days there are so many pregnant men ?

We're not the wealthy but equally not the poor;

we have enough but naturally want more.

Among the sad detritus of old age

her flowing sunshine hair illuminates

the weary gloom and reaffirms

the beauty of the human race.

What I want in a woman is beauty

or at least some physical attractiveness;

lust was just an episode in the past

never intended to last.

Two sister children run their game

etching the adults' life in embers

with life in flame.

I got one hit from the Congo/Kinshasa

but no return and nothing from Lhasa.

SUMS

People like arithmetic;

they multiply.

I stand disoriented, lost in space,

devoid of bearings to locate the place

I left so recently but sadly now

cannot remember where it is or how

to find it in the quiet gloom

of vastness in this hotel dining room.