Where did it all go wrong?

I used to write from inspiration,
sitting on a bench near Temple station,
watching a woman; no relation,
swallowing hard to avoid frustration.
I had real time for contemplation,
spilling into my citation,
I'd return without hesitation,
but I'm the last of that generation:
'Cos the kids on fast food are going berserk.
And I don't want to go to work.

You'll never find an explanation,
through a process of elimination,
does it warrant a police investigation?
seven hours, thirty six subjugation?
alienation in an alien nation,
skin infecting irritation,
is it me? or is it degradation?
it reeks of pure capitulation:
And the kids on the bus are going berserk.
I don't want to go to work.


Capability Red , February 2011

Who is he?

Note: 'Who is he?' was a very early poem of mine, written in 1972 when I was fifteen years of age. It reflects how confused, vulnerable and gullible I was. The photograph is the actual cover of the poetry notebook containing 'Who is he?'. Somewhere in there exists a creative talent that has been struggling to get out for fifty four years. Will I live to eighty two? Who is he? :





An old grey man of eighty two
plays snowballs in the sun,
his shoes are made from cooking fat
and he laughs at everyone.

Although everybody sees him
he isn't really there,
God sent him to write a sermon
and cut his silver hair.

He's a man of a thousand voices,
a poet in his right,
the owner of four A levels
Man, he's outa sight.

Tomorrow he had to go
because yesterday came too soon,
and although you see him standing there,
right now, he's on the moon.


Capability Red early 1972