There is Another Spectrum

Slate grey stillness, balanced on it's fulcrum.
Sparks shooting away from grinding wheel gloom.
Can you see; there is another spectrum?
Stalking in silence, inside of the womb.
Another spectrum. Another rosette
worn by disciples of dark confusion.
The fulcrum rests on it's stillest point yet,
the grinding wheel creates an illusion.
Such fragile illusions that wax and wane.
On the horizon ; a distant mirage
sanity lost but, the disciples gain
from lending nightmares without any charge.
Another spectrum exists all around you.
Grinding wheel gloom cocoons and surrounds you.


Capability Red            December 2019

I cut myself

Yesterday I cut myself, you know how things are.
Next week when it's healed, I will still have a scar.
Now, the cut's bleeding, so I'm wearing a plaster.
If I was a wizard, I'd make it heal faster!


Capability Red           November 2019

The Green Table

Saturday afternoon at the Green Table
where sunshine mellows a sharp chill from the east,
and it's a pot of tea, rather than a feast.
The poet asks: But when will it be our turn?
People listen but feel they're still unable
to grasp the nettle. When will they ever learn?

You'll find a micro climate, over there, somewhere.
Families discuss buying a windbreaker
and gasp at the cost of an undertaker,
avoiding revealing how much they might earn,
but openly compare standards of Au pair
as they set out the stall for when they return.

Someone is busy drying out wine glasses.
This could be England in Nineteen Thirty Eight,
The Green Table is neither early or late.
But meanwhile the Estuary Arms far away,
hosts regulars for whom time never passes
as they revel downing pints of yesterday.

Woe to be in England, in Twenty Nineteen.
This green and pleasant land that I was born in,
where sun rises in the east in the morning,
but hope sets, and the children are unable
to glimpse a future beyond those shifting screens.
The poet loads his pen at The Green Table.


Capability Red               May 2019

Dawn

No cockerel crows. Goodness knows!
It's morning, I'm yawning.
This is as good as it will get.
Dawn.


Capability Red     aprox'  1972

I Wrote a Postcard

I wrote a postcard at a moment in time.
Wherever I was, is now another place.
It made no sense and, the words didn't rhyme.
But, when read it echoes, somewhere out in space.


Capability Red          May 2019

Interference

Not on my wavelength. Very interesting.
The man in the electric suitcase.
It's a song?
But it comes across
as a Bill 'n Ben job.

In the sitting room:
Conflicting views.
Go and rearrange your face Jane.
Old folks dancing.
Ben's into astral projection.
Interference.


Capability Red             aprox' 1979

Have you ever written a love letter?

Have you ever written a love letter?
Not an e-mail, a text, or a tweet.
Are you still waiting for that love letter
which completely sweeps you off your feet?
Love letters from the heart, via the hand
and the pen, sealed by your lips with a kiss.
Sweeping her flat like waves across the sand
then, retreating with the love you both miss.
So, if reading old love lines brings on tears,
don't reminisce and let yourself be sad.
Indulge those blues in the love you once had,
love you both thought would only get better.
But, which has diminished over the years
and, now trickles into this love letter.


Capability Red             March 2019

For Those Who Were There

A first glimpse of Venus, or so we thought.
Then somebody said: "Hey, you know that's Mars!"
Forgetting lessons I was never taught,
as I stood with friends gazing at the stars.
Tell me: How many times has this red sky
haunted and threatened those cold, dark grey hills?
In Ortygia the sun said "goodbye"
for now, but depending on how she feels.
So, I wonder: Will I ever return?
And if I do, would it be to proclaim;
older and wiser, but never to learn
sunsets and sonnets are rarely the same.
Ending or beginning? Glimmer or glow?
Sunrise or sunset? We, will never know.


Capability Red       Feb 2019

Sore Throat Number Forty Four

I've got a sore throat.
Number forty four.
I've been counting them
and I've got one more.
It's coincided
with the Brexit vote.
Painful when I speak,
this sore throat.
It really hurts,
I'm losing my voice.
A bit like Brexit;
not much choice.
I'd like to argue
and say some more.
But, I've got a sore throat,
number forty four!


Capability Red            Jan 2019

What is going to happen next?

The watering can performs it's duty as you sleep.
Out of every dream drips a single tear
of happiness? Or, maybe fear.
And when that pool is overflowing
the garden surely grows.
The hanging basket knows.
But, do you know?
What is going to happen next?


Capability Red         aprox' 1974