The Poem I Couldn’t Write

Last night I gave up again,
tossed the damned sheets
in the wastbasket,
turned out the lights
and went upstairs.

Brushing my teeth before
the bathroom mirror,
there it was,
the poem I couldn’t write.

When I frowned, it frowned.
When I smiled, it smiled.

It had all my thoughts,
all my feelings,
all my wrinkles—
exactly my age, and three
silver filings in its jaw.

When I switched off the light
it was gone.
When I switched it back on,
there it was,
speaking without words
to a wordless man.

The State Of Play

The pitch war rages; It’s kick off time
The cloth cap Kings begin to sing
Weather worn faces chant in line
Cursing and urging the team to win

But behind closed doors
There’s so much more
Than there was before
A Brand
A Label
Transfer cash on the table
Agents and players
On maximum wages

It’s the state of play in the English game
‘The Beautiful Game’ of the proletariat
The Prawn Sandwich Brigade support the overpaid
While we’re being used to feed the fattest of cats

Billionaire ‘benefactors’
Outpaying all detractors
Gangster wheeler dealers
Totaletarian ex-leaders
Sweat shop merchandisers
Buying clubs then capitalising

The punters cough up the coffers
Ticket prices always rising? Not surprising
Cheap ‘this and that’ tat that up’s the profit
Multi millions in sponsors and advertising

Grand ground improvement schemes
Who’ll build the next Theatre of Dreams?
At the cost of those who have the least
The ones who turn up every other week

We pay for those in the directors box
Who throw money around like it’s out of date
A continual profit at the supporters cost
Those cloth cap Kings outside the gates

Until…

The pitch war rages; It’s kick off time
The cloth cap Kings begin to sing
Weather worn faces chant in line
Cursing and urging the team to win

Only I know how it feels

Only, I know how it feels
In the heat of the sun
Riding on my wheels
Living for fun
Only I know how it feels

The wind on my face
As I hot rod down the trails
Soaring throught space
Only I know how it feels

Mud flying through the air
As I fly through the mud
Getting the four wheeler all muddy
Only I know how it feels

Flying through the air
Is such a thrill
Not having a care
Only I know how it feels

Guardian of the Field

The root of it all is the sound.
As always, the thready rhythm
of shoes on the earth is
a song spun from strength,
but now fading out
despite desperate gulpings of thin air.

She is free at last,
not caught behind them,
her eyes not trapped on their backs
but watching only sky.

The girls circle the track,
relentless Coppelias in still summer’s heat
striving for release, for euphoria.
And in the noisy mix of
snorts and sniffles,
stretched-thin bodies,
each finds a certain inner peace.

The familiar pressure of
the earth against her feet
has vanished. She laughs
in her bold strong way but
today it is only a tiny
puff of wind.

They end at last, noses
flushed a warm pink,
smiling even as their faces
plead exhaustion.

And she is above them,
in and among them,
Their legs are a vision of power
but her wings are a vision of grace.

One Hundred Eighty Seconds

Bow to each other. Bow to the ref.
“Fighting stance. Begin” Hesitate. Then,
a suddenly compact universe,
reduced to two. Fighters move, parry,

fighting stance. Begin. Hesitate, then
start a three minute relationship
reduced to two fighters. Move, parry.
Eyes locked, we watch peripherally,

start a three minute relationship.
I push, urge him on, move him closer.
Eyes locked, we watch peripherally,
dance, casual acquaintances. Will

I push, urge him on, move him closer.
to me? Weave, reach, move away, we play,
dance. Casual acquaintances will
anticipate, try to dictate moves

to me. Weave. Reach. Move away. We play
like not-yet lovers. A foot I don’t
anticipate! Try to dictate moves
as it slips my guard, touches me hard,

like not yet lovers. A foot I don’t
stop. Suck breath, circle, counter, block, punch,
as it slips my guard, touches me hard.
Sweaty vinyl gear smacks together.

Stop. Suck breath. Circle. Counter. Block. Punch.
Still foreplay. Nothing below the belt.
Sweaty vinyl gear smacks together.
We breathe hard, touch hard, clothes wet, still on,

still foreplay, nothing below the belt.
Finally comes commitment. Hit hard,
we breathe hard, touch hard, clothes wet, still on
guard, I watch, back off. Begin again.

Finally comes commitment. Hit hard,
again, again. Padded gear smacks loud.
Guard. I watch. Back off. Begin. Again
I mount the assault, corner him, hit

again, again. Padded gear smacks loud
against his solar plexus. My point.
I mount the assault, corner him, hit
openings, kick inside. Gasp. Heave. Push

against his solar plexus. My point.
A second wind drives me to search for
openings. Kick inside. Gasp. Heave. Push
as he counters, scores. Scores again.

A second wind drives me to search for
his eyes, look for signs. Pause ends
as he counters, scores, scores again,
ends without warning. The ref calls, “Break,”

His eyes look for signs. Pause ends,
A suddenly compact universe
ends without warning. The ref calls, “Break,
Bow to each other.” Bow to the ref.