The Gap of Dunloe

The stranger we passed, musing to her friend
heading in a different direction.
Proclaimed; the world was comming to an end,
we had to prepare for an inspection.

Then she was describing fuchsia hedgerows,
thickets and names of forgotten flowers.
I'd met her before. Goodness only knows
when? or where? But in the early hours.

Overheard crimes of lovers lamented,
whispered promises the stars never told,
float and drift on mountain streams fermented,
that we will remember when we grow old.

Abandoned cottages, stray dogs, riders,
girls' and boys' voices that echo. Echo.
rays of sunshine aim arrows of midas.
Forever walking the Gap of Dunloe.


Capability Red         November 2017

Does This Deserve a Title?

Quarter to, quarter past,
how long's this gonna last?
Time's dragging, getting late,
bored stiff since half past eight.

No fun on your own,
waiting for the telephone.
Listen out; a knock on the door,
this place is nothing but a bore.

Back street, our yard,
on a pg tips card
I think I've said this before,
this town is nothing but a bore.


Capability Red                aprox  1973

One Night in Grosvenor Square

I tried hard to remember; things I never said,
clouded distant memories floating through my head.
Each step to the station. Is that walnut tree still there?
I'm not quite certain where I was.
One night in Grosvenor Square.

Was it but a memory? Or, was it just a dream?
Can a truly golden day be somewhere in between?
I felt the earth moving in her silver hair.
My soul stopped in the lost and found:
One night in Grosvenor Square.

Succumbing to emotion, I sat down on the ground.
I could still hear Carole singing through silence all around.
Each stage of life's journey, at turnpikes of despair.
An eagle took my photograph:
One night in Grosvenor Square.


Capability Red     2016

My Brexit Blues

Won't you lay your head on my writers block
As I contenplate this table top sale,
Where limbs of democracy, aged and frail
Hang frayed like the hem of her summer frock.
Britannia, she the proprietor
Of estuary accent, gabbling fools,
Watching frigates and gunships wave her rules
And drive a scribe towards the rioter.
Beyond such flag waving mutilation
Too many of us are still sleepwaliking,
Through a nightmare where she just keeps talking,
So: I'm back to beach hut preservation:
Where I'll gather my thoughts and cleanse my hands.
To greet refugees washed up on the sands.


Capability Red          July 2017

Did I know you in a former life?

Did I know you in a former life?
When you wore pigtails and I had spots.
Passing strangers catching glances.
On their way to who knows what.
A concourse in a busy station.
Just for a second. Wearing blue.
I never stopped. Just kept on walking.
Didn't turn to look...Did you?


Capability Red        June 2017

Rainy Day in June

Oh, rainy day in June.
Grey clouds.
Fierce winds.
Who sent you?
I look out of my window.
The fence needs mending.
Please, rainy day in June.
Smile.
I've got work to do.
The lawn needs mowing.
Seeds need sowing.
Please, rainy day in June.
Get on the phone to the sun.


Capability Red              1977

Love From The Bard

A backstreet romance, confused and mundane.
You meet in the sunshine but, thereafter it's rain.
Go visit the High Street and mortgage you r pain.
You can't drop your guard if you wanna be the bard.

I started to write a sonnet once before.
With words in French like; je t'aime mon amour.
You winced when you heard it, so I sank to the floor.
Why is it so hard when you wanna be the bard?

I've heard that lust is a sexual disease.
To unlock the cure would you hand me your keys?
It sounds so English when you make me say 'please'.
So, have some regard when you punish this bard.

For some reason or other I gave you a ring.
Promised for your love I'd do anything.
Even write you a song and, you know I can't sing.
Let me send you a card: Love from the bard.

It's not easy to express the way that I feel.
Folks say I'm a dreamer, but to me this is real.
So, if love is a banquet, may I be your meal?
Give an inch take a yard, but let me be your bard.

Reincarnate me as a pair of your shoes.
You could walk over me whenever you choose.
But as I'm still alive, I guess I'll just hit the booze.
Your mind's tortured and scarred if you think you're a bard.


Capability Red          April 2017

I Think I've Lost The Plot

I'm trying hard to write a novel and I think I've lost the plot,
People tell me that I'm Bogey but deep down I know I'm not.
The hero will be based upon a dude I call my friend
who drinks Davy's Old Wallop and tells tales that never end.
Wendy is his girlfriend, she will have to play a part
she's so loyal to the dude that it almost breaks my heart.
She'll be Little Miss Fandangle, a proper femme fatale
twittering and texting as the dude is sent to jail
on a corporate manslaughter charge, pointless to contest,
provoking lurid tabloid headlines and industrial unrest.

So, I'm going 'round in circles and I think I've lost the plot,
I know there'll be a villain but it's someone I forgot.
I see the Shadow in the mirror, I hear him on the 'phone
he haunts me in my nightmares he just won't leave me  alone.
They couldn't reach a verdict when Alice Lane was killed,
but the Shadow's true identity could never be revealed.
Yes, I'm trying to write a novel and I'm seeking inspiration
a poetic anthropologist on Dagenham Heathway station,
where the walking dead around me are completely unaware.
So I think it's time to move along and visit Russell Square.

Wendy doesn't like it, she says I've lost the plot,
that dreadful Miss Fandangle she most certainly is not.
It caused an edgy atmosphere, she sat there in a mood
as I enjoyed a seventh pint of Wallop with the dude.
Researching and, pontificating in the pub,
an affiliated member of the rags to ruin club.
So, Alice Lane was killed, but, was the dude to blame?
Struggling with the narrative uncertain of my aim.
dragged backwards through the shredder, pilloried and shot.
I'm just trying to write a novel and I think I've lost the plot!


Capability Red            March 2017 

The Fry-up Police

The other day I spoke to my niece,
she said she'd had a visit from the fry-up police.
Renting a cafe on a ten year lease,
along with her boyfriend, whose name is Rhys,
he wears a Miami Dolphins fleece.
Unfounded rumours of excessive grease,
try as they might they can't get no peace,
so they talk to me for neurotic release,
and I listen real good and then I pen this piece
which I'm dedicating to the fry-up police.
C'mon man, this has got to cease :
Who the hell are the fry-up police?


Capability Red        Feb 2017

The Hermit

Said the old man in pain:
 " We all go insane
every now and again"
We escape if we're lucky
cling to each other
sisters and brothers.
No Sons and Lovers.
Drowned in acid
we're vacantly placid.
The Hermit sits and watches the world go by.

Like marionettes
game and set
you ain't seen nothing yet.
Crying out for rain,
so tell no lies
of death before your eyes
or only second prize.
I just want to live..
Can you forgive?
The Hermit remembers days gone by.


Capability Red                aprox'  1984