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In which the party machine writes the greatest inauguration poem of all time

(rough draft for January 2017)

Good morning Vietnam, I mean America.

How y’all doin’? Are you having a good time?

Have you been on all the rides yet?

My personal favourite is the one that makes

Your hair stick right out, so you look like a mad man,

A person no-one would ever trust to run a country.

Am I right?

Am I freaking right?

I mean it worked for Ronald McReagan.

Who’d vote for an actor, they said,

Who’d want a cowboy turning D.C. into Dodge?

And he did OK, didn’t he? A-OK.

The president’s brain is missing, my ass.

Whoever said the president needs a brain in the first place?

He needs a solid team of speechwriters,

A wife, a total disregard for the environment,

A few good suits and a baseball cap.

Can I get a ‘hell yeah!’?

The world needs ‘hell, yeah’s.

So let’s get this celebratory poem thing rolling along…

Superbowl, Super Tuesday, Supersize shrink…

Greatest country in the world!

Greatest country in the world!

Jeez, even I feel uncomfortable saying some of this crap.

Did I say ‘greatest country in the world’ yet?

Shall I say it again?

How about Normandy?

Does anyone remember Normandy?

Basically, the hard truth is

You losers sent a woman to do a man’s job.

But I won’t say that out loud.

This time.

Maybe on twitter.

Women are... other,

Keep ‘em looking in mirrors, that’s what I say,

Or maybe do some more yoga, honey.

The farmer wants a wife.

And now here I stand, Donny champion of the world.

I have smashed corruption
(Or something)

With my big, hard head,

And as I walk the halls

Of my new white palace

I can’t quite believe it.

Well, really, can you?

RF 2016

Photo taken this morning. The poppy was already there.

More about waiting

Headlines

The news comes fast,

Unless it’s slow,

A heart that hopes

Has far to go.

And news seems bad,

Until it’s worse,

The heart contents

Itself with verse.

RF 2016

I put this on facebook just now... so those readers who know me there may have seen it already. I don't often put poems straight onto FB but the small ones fit on there quite neatly and I'm sometimes tempted. I have yet to tweet. In any sense. 

Anyway, see you on the other side.

In which I have written a poem about 'Desert Island Discs'...

S.O.S

There are so many islands,

Crammed into small spaces.

Which are you, my friend?

Do you know, can you say?

Are you long-term sick,

Are you lonely rock,

Are you waiting, waiting,

For something, someone?

On our sofas, or chairs,

Our beds, or whatever,

We need signs of life

And lights from afar.

We need warm voices,

Tales of survival.

Without them we harden.

Set. Crack.

We turn to the sound

Of our desert’s guide.

Her voice has a glow.

How can that be?

She hangs with the great,

The funny, the strange.

She asks them questions,

What’s more gets answers.

We can sing along too,

Down but not drowned,

A little more encouraged,

A lot less lost.

Why this week alone,

I had brunch with Barry Manilow,

Cooked crumble with Jackie Kay,

It’s a world away.

RF 2016

I started this poem a couple of weeks ago but it wouldn't come out right... today it seems to have found its shape (or a shape anyway...). For those of you beyond our shores it is about listening to the BBC radio programme 'Desert Island Discs' - currently enjoying a golden age with its best ever presenter, Scots marvel Kirsty Young. She gets the tone just right, I think, and gets great interviews as a result. All episodes of the show (with Young and all the previous presenters) are available on the website in the castaway archive section. Whatever you think of the BBC in general (and it certainly has its critics up here in Scotland these days) this bank of shows is still an amazing resource. 

Journeys...

Long night (1991)

We're in a car,

It's daylight,

But nothing like morning.

Is someone driving?

They must be,

How else would we be moving?

The streets are almost empty

And we are somewhere lonely,

In London, England,

It seems kind of unlikely.

Somebody says something

About us being in the east

And there still being miles and miles to go.

The car rolls on and on and on.

When we get where we're going

We drink tea, call it home.

RF 2009 (I think)

The photo is not connected to the poem (photo is a Montrose morning, September 2016). The poem is an old one... I find that as I review poems past some grow on me with age and this is one of those. It might make it into the small pamphlet type thing I am considering getting together as a 50th birthday present to myself (that's only half a joke). The nightclub years are quite a distant memory now and mostly that memory is pretty vague and blurred but this night and its sensation has stayed with me, largely because of the poem I suppose. Maybe we should write all our memories into poems and then we won't forget anything. Only (half) joking.

Anyway, I did a lot of staying up far too late in the 1980s and '90s but one of the definite pluses was the whole 'being around when hardly anyone else is' business. For me you can't beat an empty city (unless it's a real war zone of course...) and I guess that's why so many of us love the zombie apocalypse fantasy genre so much. But I've had a cold this week... and I'm rambling...

Change of pace

Around people

Some people are sweet,

Some people are mean,

Some people laugh blue,

Some people cry green.

Some people stride forth,

Some people don't know,

Some people feel lonely,

Wherever they go.

Some people eat no meat,

Some people drink gin,

Some people stay hungry,

Whatever goes in.

Some people hunt comfort,

Some people need less,

Some people like questions,

Some people love mess.

Some people feel different,

Some try not to feel,

Some people seek perfect,

Some people want real.

Some people say “what's that?

Real – did you say?

Don't you know real

Isn't real anyway?”

Some people get tired,

Some people give in,

Some people keep at it,

Some people drink gin.

Some people love winning,

Some don't mind defeat,

Some people are mean,

Some people are sweet.

RF 2009

An older poem. I've not been writing much rhyming verse of late. I think I miss it sometimes.

And the photo was taken in July at The Lighthouse in Glasgow (a detail on a window). The company responsible for the detail (and many others around the building) is called O Street. I really like a little detail that manages to be so simple and yet say so much. Some people make big buildings, some people make the little details on the buildings... and so on, and so on...

In the trees...

No name

Never used to be this vague,

Had definition,

Had pronouns,

Went places,

Knew things.

Now, lately, amongst trees,

There’s merging,

Less edge,

More wood,

Gaps blurring.

Could make fear,

But that’s spent.

Time is a record

With new groove.

Oak, larch, pine.

RF 2016

It seems the poetry sickness is back for sure... it's not even Friday yet and here I am. Anyway, to quote Stevie Wonder, "I don't want to bore you with it..." but I will continue because it doesn't hurt anybody and I know some people are reading (despite comment sparsity - the stats say so and so do actual human beings.. when I encounter them...). There have been tree poems before (old one here, back in Poetry Bus days...). There will be again...

Today's photo was taken in a tree in California in May 2011.

Another Friday...

Another Friday, another poem. Not sure how long this run will (or should) last. Today's poem is new. The photo was taken up Lossiemouth's Covesea lighthouse in July this year. I like windows.

Gapping

Sister, I never knew you,

Not your stories or your places.

I barely knew your name.

There are waves between us.

Extreme mysteries.

Lifetimes.

I try to read your eyes,

Open gates, make roads,

Unfold a future.

RF 2016