Hush of snow
The hush of a heavy fall
Of snow drifts
And grey mists
Mould the hills above us.
A prayer for the return of the seasons.
RAC
Frankensteen matters to me.
Frankensteen matters to me.
Lowes 570 Second Avenue
A dollar cinema
All day in air conditioning
A cinch for elderly citizens
The bill of the day
Young Frankensteen
Outside the air was green
An electric storm was brewing
In the darkness
I lay back and watched
Old people holding meetings
While the screen roared
With a Hollywood storm
Black and white lightning flashing
And that rumble of thunder
Outside same thing was happening
The two merged a sheet of rain
Fell from the ceiling
Sending old people scuttling up the aisles
Meanwhile Gene Wilder’s eyes
Wide open
Reflected the scene inside.
A tribute to a nice man.
RAC
Walls-Muriau
Walls
Muriau
Walls are like scars Some are easily seen
Some walls that are Invisible to you and me
Scars like walls almost Invisible even to the keen eyed
Some scars are like walls So easily seen
Then there are those walls Others like to build
To prevent themselves From seeing scars
From feeling
So we build high walls To protect ourselves
But protect us From what exactly
Ourselves? Everyone?
Them?
Us?
We?
Walls are like scars Some don’t want to see
Walls that block Out all feeling
Walls that stop Us becoming involved
Walls that need To come down
So that scars can heal And stop more harm
To ourselves. To everyone.
Them
Us
We.
Some scars never heal While there are walls
That stops us From healing.
Stop us from hearing Ourselves!
Stop us from seeing Ourselves!
Walls keep
Us
Apart
Lament for the girl of the morning sea
Lament for the Girl of the Morning Sea.
A premonition of merciful peace has emerged
In the morning of this day.
And as if in agreement
Your hand opens to the waves.
In a movement of gratitude,
A moment of quiet acceptance.
I have heard you sing
To the waves crests,
Rise, rise from your depths
Rid me of all pain
I am alone wash over me.
In this bright early hour
You are at once transformed.
Peace adorns you,
Rests on your face.
I have seen you whisper
To the open sky
Touch me, cleanse me
Rid me of all fear.
I am alone wash over me.
Your hair hangs tangled
Stiffly on your eyes,
Green-water droplets
Trickle to your lips.
Your fingers grasp
The waters edge.
The shoreline pierces you,
Welcomes you, calls to you.
I am alone wash over me.
And you lying unseen
A curved silken spine
Broken by spite
The savagery of indifference
And the brutality
Of unmourned death
Move without moving.
Knowing nothing, knowing nothing
In your quiet sadness.
I am alone wash over me.
I have heard you sing
To the waves crests’
Rise from your depths
Rise from your submerged stillness.
I have heard you sing
To the open sky,
Touch me, cleanse me,
Rid me of all pain,
Rid mew of all fear.
I am alone wash over me.
Your mother cries for you in her silence
And mourns for another in her isolation.
I am alone wash over me.
Published in “Uncertain Times” Octavo Press 2016.
Book Launch Octavo’s Cardiff.
The book launch at Octavo’s was a great night. I want to thank Mike Jenkins of the Red Poets, Suzanne Iuppa poet and Rhys poet for their readings and support. Also Cara Cullen my daughter poet and songstress and Fiona Cullen my wife and magnificent singer for their musical contribution and support.
Suzanne Iuppa’s reading of my poem “Lament for the girl of the morning Sea” will stay with me for a long time.
Last but not least a big thank you to the listeners!
It was a grand party!
Life
The cock on the church spire
Fixed its face to the west
And on a cloudless day
We walked to your funeral
Along the path in the park
By the shade of the river
It was my task to make you smile
Or even laugh and lay to one side
The greyness of your widowhood
We were here to remember you
I remember your stoical grace
Your delicate grey eyed smile
And know how I will miss you.
In memory of Sheila Little died 28th August 2016 aged 80 years.
Friendship and love
You looked out toward the sea
A cool September evening
We had planned coming
We watched an empty sea
The news dulled our hopes
It was a cool darkening evening
We sat outside silently watching
Waves riding the beaches slopes.
Hopes shattered lives challenged
And we hold each other silently
Standing close together quietly
Our love cannot be expunged.
Waiting for storms to pass
Waiting for storms to pass
Standing under maples
Waiting for hard rain to pass
Watching iron black
Towered thunder clouds
Rise over the mountain
I remembered you
And wondered
At the reason
The memory
Was brought back
It was the day you decided
You were leaving
You told me
This place is not for me
It’s not for you either
You told me
Don’t worry
You’ll find
Your own way
That was the last
I saw of you
But the memory of your
Strength of conviction
Has been a source
Of great strength
Doing what’s right
Is all that matters
I think of your courage
A woman who knew
What was wrong
What was right
And I cherish
The memory
Of you then
The briefness
Of our friendship.
RAC
That Generation of men
That generation of men
How long did I work with abused people
Thirty nine years maybe forty
But always that resistance and absolute denial
By that generation of men
The so called decision makers
Thirty eight years trying
To get through a wall
Of concrete doors
Of silence, of ridicule,
It seems ridiculous to me now
The ends they’d go to
To avoid listening
I’d get phone calls
From experts in the States
My boss shut his door
Stopped answering his phone
The message on his door
I’m out in a meeting
Outside my window
I could see his car
That generation of men
Men who thought abused children
Asked for it in some way
Or that the abusers were right
It didn’t do the child serious harm
After all they’re still alive,
They’re still breathing
What’re they complaining about
Forty years of listening
Forty years of fighting
That generation of men
And now I worry
Nothings really changed
Another generation of men
Are not talking about what they really think
Two children are murdered each week
One woman murdered a fortnight
The majority by men’s doing
These are things men need to sort out
Meanwhile men are silent
Sitting on their hands
Talking about sport
As if it’s the be-all of this life
This generation of men.
RAC
Celfypridd 