Category Archives: poetry

Mersehead

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what would you do?
I say

shadows
carry my voice away
upwards
and out
across the solway

she has come to a stop
all around the shadows fly
outstretched arms
anticipating outstretched wings

I’d freak out
her reply
as delicately missing
the shadows
darken a post sunset sky

better than any human pilot
these nocturnal aviators fly
so close
and yet
though darkness surrounds
it is all light to them

It’s time to go
I say anxious
just in case
one of these shadows should land

but I am thinking
of what humans do
these are bats

Copyright: a shy vicar

Jess

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a whisp of a lisp
or flight of poetic fancy
as I stand
debit card in hand
waiting in the queue

a fringe
of disparate lengths
a fed-up face
but best of all
a plait
coiled on her shoulder
a protector
ready to attack
wrap itself constrictor-like
around every rude customer
sqeezing the very swear words out of them

she looks disinterested
I take my turn
a long day perhaps
the tired tedium of the evening shift
in the 24 hour store
that never shuts its doors

– do you need help with your packing –
my few paltry items
seeming
too much for me to bear
useless man

– no thank you –
I say
it’s polite convention suggesting
I hope
humanity

in that brief exchange
in those pre-destined words
I sense warmth
a feint lisp of whisper
or flight of poetic fancy
as I wonder
what snogging her would be like
under the stars
hand in hand
on the sand
of Scarborough’s South Bay
are you the one that I’ve been waiting for?

I know I will never see Jess again
a chance encounter
a brief encounter
without smoke
guard’s whistle
steam train
an eyeful of grit

I am not Trevor Howard
She is not Celia Johnson
I am mid-life crisis
she is still young
with a life full of other men to meet

I am left
I walk away
a self- packed bag
thoughts of other brief encounters
randomness in life
God filled human beings
I will never snog
or hold hands with
by Scarborough’s star-lit sea.

Copyright – a shy vicar

Sam & Dave

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I want to dance like Sam and Dave
whipping up a frenzy
lighting up a spark
feat of dynamite.

I want to hold on
to both moment and emotion
sense the coming
ecstasy of crowd excited
body shaking
purposefully
with abandon.

I want to perspire for my pay
steam up the place
with my pale soul face
have them know
really know
truly comprehend
that all power is in my hands
and everything’s humming

I have been watching for days now baby
every bead of sweat
foot movement
shirt collared
suit and booted
you tube moment
that weaving and streaming
black and white
exuding colour
and the time has come to wrap it up

I want to dance like Sam and Dave
make my cold nights hot
lurch my frame around the floor
make them want to glide some more
ain’t no better way to
grab the rope

 

R.S. Thomas

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I’m still learning the craft
glancing over jealously
at what others write.
Their way with words
makes me feel like the last Neanderthal
desperate and almost extinct.

Unlike RS Thomas
I don’t have the time to write
hundreds of poems a day
to throw the worst away
paper basket full
of tossed away lines
to emerge victorious
with words still dripping wet
before lunch.

Perhaps I’m deluding myself
taken over and controlled
by some mid-life angst
which compels me to think
that the rubbish I write
is too good to waste
and so I must hand it in
like homework
to be marked.

It brings back memories
of other times
when struggling to grasp
the art of the pencil
I was told that if the world were
upside down
my drawing would be a masterpiece……

copyright-ashyvicar

Bubbles

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out in the garden
on a bright summer’s day
blowing bubbles

and we watch in hope
that one will make it
all the way to the moon

over the wall it goes
sailing past the church
every moment one more than we expect

our eyes are straining
reaching to the very edge
of vision

and then….
we blow more bubbles
hoping to re-create that

moment

a moment we did not want to end
a moment when hearts were joined
invisibly

a moment
only perceived
intangibly

Miki Berenyi

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I saw her once
in Sheffield
carrying drinks for the band
whilst I stared at my shoes

Flame red
short skirt
standing on stage
with her best friend
It was lush

Thirty yards
maybe less
maybe more
was all that separated us
as she moseyed through the crowd
But distance was
like an ever expanding universe
for someone gazing at their shoes

I prayed for a miracle
to the fruit machine god
But my introversion
was not cured
so I gazed at my shoes

And that is why
I never featured in song
no ladykiller
Just a shy vicar who
went to gigs alone
to gaze at shoes

heaven on the street

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I caught a glimpse of heaven today
on a glasgow city street
for the angels were out
busking

I passed them
family in tow
with hopes high of a holy grail
in some entertainment exchange
at the end of the row

they looked like human beings
those angels
their faces a halo
of scrumptious
luscious
mouth-watering
ingenuity

playing guitars
their faces shone so
two young women
singing of love
and loves lost
in harmony
outside the shopping precinct

and standing in mid-air
as still as still
an angel without wings
hovering

he had the shoppers on the go
whipping their hands
underneath
beneath
below his boots
as white as snow
hoping to catch hold of
angelic secrets
as wingless
he air-stood
motionless
emotionless
alone

I caught a glimpse of heaven today
on a glasgow city street
some angels
without heads
it perturbed my daughter so
no beatific smile
purely empty air
no sparkling blue eyes
just glassless glasses
underneath pitch black bowler hat
with white gloved hand
offering out God’s peace

I caught a glimpse of hell today
on a glasgow city street
a desperate preacher man
ranting in the round
of death and destruction
ten to the pound
but “jesus saves us from aliens”
went unnoticed

for the angels had done their work
on that glorious meritorious day
and no devil of a preacher man
could take heaven away

In Auckland Castle Chapel

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RICHARDUS TREVOR
dressed in white marble
ingrained with dust
resplendent on episcopal throne
gestures us look
at the book
of blank pages

RICHARDUS TREVOR
his achievements
carved in some alien tongue
nestle under his feet
lest I forget
what he wants me to think
that he was
that he is
and ever shall be

RICHARDUS TREVOR
he’s not some Georgian navvy
tossed in an unmarked grave
whose story untold is all mystery
whose space
in the cosmic unfurling
has no chapter
no page reference
no name

but in that enforced embrace
which no statue of marble records
where the grass now lies undisturbed
where the trees dance in time to the wind
I sense all mystery matters
regret a history unseen
feel distaste at bishops
with blank pages
demanding honour
importance
immortality

protest in the 21st century

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with just one click
I have joined the protest
with just one click
I have signed up today
with just one click
I have joined the rebels
with just one click

with just one click
I don’t need to march
with just one click
on a cold, dark winter’s day
with just one click
i’ve saved myself a beating
with just one click

with just one click
david milliband will thank me
with just one click
he’ll send an e-mail my way
with just one click

with just one click
I don’t need to move a muscle
with just one click
I can still watch the wire all day
with just one click

with just one click
I can drive my daughter to school
with just one click
I can put the guinea pigs away
with just one click

with just one click
dissent seems so easy
with just one click
via an internet connection
with just one click

with just one click
occupation becomes so unnecessary
with just one click
handcuffs and railings are yesterday
with just one click

with just one click
the powers that be get off lightly
with just one click
I can walk away
with just one click
life can carries on as usual
with just one click

with just one click
I should feel better
with just one click
I think I let evil get its way
with just one click
my valueless virtual signitaure
with just one click
with just one click
protest in the 21st century

The Heavenly Grape

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the wine intoxicates
but the juices flow
the glass is empty
but I want more
the fruit of the vine
the heavenly grape
the senses and smells must satiate

considered wine taster?
that I am not…
a pleasure drinker
just a drinker of pleasures

I am the vine
you are the branches
are the supposed words you said
did you comprehend
understand
how the fruit of the vine
when fermented –
goes straight to your head?

I suspect you did
I suspect you knew
as you slumped on the party floor
Mary Magdelene’s head on your lap
as she dreamed and hoped of more

but we have turned one quick fire quip
into a way of settling scores
only happy when shouting “we’re the best!”
branches of other lives
– not ours
pruned and strewn across the floor

so as I drink another glass
shortening my life’s brief span
I take solace in the knowledge
that wine flows freely in the promised land.