So, farewell then, Victoria Wood

Let's do it,
let's do it,
do it even though it's naff.
Her jokes
of bald old blokes
and grannies always made us laugh.
So witty
yet gritty.
Dedicate a statue in the comedy city.
Let's do it,
let's do it tonight.

I can't do it,
can't do it,
can't compose a solemn ode.
Find the humour
in loss and tumour,
never let the grief take hold.
Let's be silly,
sing about a willy.
Dedicate a statue in Piccadilly.
Let's do it,
let's do it tonight.

In memoriam Victoria Wood CBE (19 May 1953 – 20 April 2016)

Something to take your mind off it

Patient in the dentist's chair,
My mind goes wandering everywhere
And opens story-doors to find
Intriguing recipes behind.

Helpless in the dentist's room,
Forgotten characters resume
Their journey through my dizzy head,
Like memories of the widely-read.

Deafened by the dentist's drill,
I murmur of my own freewill
And metaphors anaesthetise
As I lie back and close my eyes.

Eight Magpies

Magpie One, Magpie One,
In your congregation,
Don't be sad
For things you had,
Just plan their restoration.

Magpie Two, safe and warm,
Surrounded by your watchful charm,
Happy laughter
Ever after
Shall be your unfailing balm.

Magpie Three, sharp as a hawk,
Stalwart of the roving flock,
Be the queen
Of every scene,
From market square to inglenook.

Magpie Four, dive to help,
Lead the swooping swaggered gulp,
Cherish the tails
Of honest males,
Mash the guttersnipes to pulp.

Magpie Five, from roost on girder
Survey the vista with your murder,
Rationalise
The silver prize:
Could you take it even further?

Magpie Six, seek what's hiding
In the legends of the tiding,
Tales foretold
Of hoarded gold,
Aspire to a fair dividing.

Magpie Seven, far from twittering
Keep the secret of the tittering.
Steady your beak
When others speak,
Their candid caws let loose and littering.

Magpie Eight, eloquent scribe,
Herald of this city tribe,
Regale us with
The corvid myth,
Which human words cannot describe.

Dancin Solo

Dis am me,
me am dancin clever,
lang da lang road leadin owt.
Save ya eyes
ya'll find mi never,
many a man lost here abowt.

Mi din take it,
wasun me,
sumtin tells mi dis reads bad
but mi aint
sumwan's enemee
an mi din take dat wot sumwan had.

Ya see da crowd,
dem angry faces
breathin fire an wantin blood;
mi see da cool
forgottin places
in da warm hearts of da good,

Mi believe
in a free tomorro,
bein' wot mi will become.
Dis am me,
me am dancin solo,
lang da lang road leadin home.

Inexplicable

Ungrounded,
caught in the spring recoming.
Above, the thin veils of cloud tear in the broken sun,
wisps of playful cirrus are thermal-dancing.
Laughter of children
is like the sweet chorus of evening birds
who circle us, protective:
their harmony interrupted only
by the caw of a lone crow far away in some less-splendid place.
From the past, these words return;
as a memory of lost friends draws a poignant smile
and shiver in the shade.
We have no box of poetry
but here I hold its contents in my disbelieving hands
and their perfumes intoxicate.

Late train from Central

Catching my short breath,
I climb aboard the late train, contented.
Windows sheathed in track-grime
give the platform lamps a dappled curiosity, rain-streaks autograph
the panes like graffiti.
Posters for theatres
and vacuous novels about honeymoons
provide an unwanted time-setting.

Echoes of urgent calls to dawdling friends
fill the carriage from both ends.
Three whistles.
Doors squeak rubbery shut, a draught squeezes through nonetheless.
The train departs in reverse,
annoying those who chose to face the wrong way.
Unlike previous journeys, the crowd is subdued;
no maniacal laughter or half-remembered shanty.

Over the black Tyne and south.
Fifteen minutes home;
the Durham vista welcoming its returning son.

Heart

Turn away a moment,
allow yourself time,
time to blink air and memories.

Swallow the sour tears
chiselling your raw throat,
breathe deep the burning sigh.

Energy eludes you,
rope-like arms drape,
anchored by clenched reddened fists.

This instant shall pass.
Thunder shall refresh you.
Believe.