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The Coughing Dodgers

They always were the dying breed,

these older souls, they’ve always been

here just for now but not for long,

and very soon they will be gone,

though sooner now for some old codgers,

the sickly ones, the coughing dodgers,

the ones whose race is almost run,

whose final song will soon be sung.

They’re dying now in herds and droves

in helpless homes with caring folks

who sit with them and let them know

how loved they were, who let them go,

then wonder if that final kiss

has left them, too, a dying gift.

We saw them all, our old grand farters

together with our great gross mutters,

we saw their crimped-up pastry faces,

the saggy bums held up with braces,

the runny eyes and dewdrop noses,

the accidental fly exposures,

the legs held in parentheses,

the martyrs to their chuffin’ knees,

the orificial sproutifoliage,

the clothes that wore the morning porridge;

we heard their shaky, cackled words

and could not make out what they were,

we smelled that ancient trailing stench

that followed everywhere they went,

we tasted bleach in every kiss,

these are the things you’re going to miss.

I miss them now, I miss them still.

I always have. I always will.

This Is The Thing

This thing has a sound.

It is the sound of distance: of unseen tyres of unknown trucks

rolling on a near-distant road; of half-heard words

spoken in gardens by close strangers that we know;

of listened-to whispers of winds in trees that we hear

for the first time in a long time, for our own time

filled our whole time all the time before now.

This thing has a smell.

Barbecued people, cooked in the sunshine,

eating at home on their own, making things,

baking bread that they read from a screen

how to do; garden flowers, scented, presented

to us like a gift, as though for the first time,

given the time to smell them that we always

never had before; the smell of your other,

your lover, never closer than now, nor for longer,

stronger together somehow.

This thing can be seen.

It is there in the spaces between us, the grace

that we give to each other in passing, walking

and shopping but not stopping to catch up

with anyone, or any thing. It is there in the look

from the old ones in masks as the deadly young

pass far too close. It is there in the unwalked paths

and emptied roads, in the full jetless skies

and the endless, unpeopled seas.

This thing can be touched.


The Season Unseen


The season of seasons, this season, unseen.

All around, the green, the jade and emerald

jewels of leaves and buds burst with life,

out of sight. Sunlight blesses sullen earth,

raises tendrils, like the green fingers

of soiled hands in prayer,

to greet it with a drowsy wave.

The frowsy days drift by.

Birds bicker and palaver in trees.

These we see, though from afar,

from a distance as safe for them

as for us. They twitter and breathe

unexpected air, drink sweeter water,

purer and clearer than they have known

before. People prisoned by the present

that we do not wish to give

do not see the glory of the season

that carries on without our attention.

It carries on, free of us, unseen, unsung.

Spring is sprung.

I Am Untouchable

Looking at my hands, fingers,

wondering at all the things

that linger there. These hands

have touched so much,

held on and let go, and

now I know that they may hold

the end of those I love.

So I will pray, though not to God.

My hands will meet

just as they should,

in supplication to the greater

good, for hands together touch

each other and no other.

Touching me untouches you.

leaves you isolated, inviolate,

and safe. Keep it that way.

Don’t touch me now, don’t

ask for trouble. Keep your

hands to yourself.

I am untouchable.

This Old Man

This old man, he played on

until all his mind had gone.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

where’s the dog and bone,

send him to the old folks home.

In her pearls, his old girl

watched him as he lost this world.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

on the dog and bone,

asking for some care at home.

All alone, on her own

his old girl went daft also.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

get the dog and bone,

take her to a different home.

On their own, separate zones,

each went down the slippery slope.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

lost the dog and bone,

each one died but did not know.

This old pair, past all cares,

burned and scattered, no one there.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

buried dog and bone,

everybody dies alone.

Writing Me Up

This blog was just eponymous

which made it SEO anonymous

so now it’s more synonymous

with something slightly fabulous

(or, maybe, less ridiculous)

and so it would be marvellous

if you would like to follow us.

A poem celebrating the change of blog name to Writing Me Up.

I felt this was a more appropriate name as it reflected the aims of the blog: the need to write up the words that come to me; the way that writing lifts me up; and how writing rightens up my mind, which can wander into dark corners if it isn’t given something constuctive and creative to do.

So – welcome to my new old blog. Hope you like it.

The Sickening

Closer comes the sickening,

the withering, the reckoning.

Closer, now, and closer still.

It always has, and always will,

be there for you, to scare for you

and bare for you your bones.

A pox is on the world today,

perhaps a curse, as some would say.

No, no, it’s just a new disease

that spreads and roams with deadly ease

to mums and dads, and older lads

and older ladies too.

The peril of the world today

is that we’re all six steps away

from every other, everywhere

from over here to over there,

and now we’re all ascloseasthis,

our sickness spreads without a kiss.

It only takes a sneeze or cough

to see your friends and neighbours off,

so stay at home and wait it out,

there is no need to run about,

just save yourself and watch the fun.

Something wicked this way comes.