32 English Poems From The Cloud Collector

1. Loch Villanelle Across the loch two curlew keen and wheel One ripple breeds another….endless link A moment’s mist….what’s real becomes unreal I hear the fledglings chirping as I steal Down, where deer at gloaming stoop to drink There shadows show the swish of a dark eel Upon a stone, a robin with her meal Of worms, alights. Two ducklings preen and prink Here footsore hares creep down, to rest and heal A brown moth’s open wings….you almost feel The sun warm on its back. There, at the brink Of leaves which part, a rainbow to reveal For memory’s an ever-filling creel Treasure your time. It’s later than you think Death’s not the sort to compromise or deal When Darkness brings its shadows to conceal The loch, seen only by the moon’s thin chink Of light, the fox will pounce on a small squeal The midnight hours. Owls dance the Devil’s reel. 2. Desire Be careful what you wish for, the Chinese say A vain & trendy teenage Mary Quant I desired thigh-high suede boots Russet-coloured as randy vibrant foxes They stained my feet in the rain A red stigmata. The dye took weeks to shift 3. A Descendent of Bruce’s Spider A descendent of Bruce’s spider has ambitions She dreams of a web, strong as prehensile steel In an oak wood, on the rim of myth and fable Small, slight, Machiavellian in mind-set She has a courtier’s duplicity, a perfect political animal She tilts her queer dark face towards her victim Smiles, withdraws, then pounces Nothing stands in her way 4. Ambivalence The last seat in the theatre, in the Gods Pot plants parked in a day centre Ambivalence A cut price hand of bananas Ambivalence A locked door Ambivalence All dentists great and small Ambivalence Free Range Ostrich farming Ambivalence 5.Walk on a summer’s Day (200 steps) The larch dangles its knots of nut-brown seeds In slatted tangles of green…an Elf King’s dreadlocks Small jade fly, an exquisite winged jewel Tiptoes on a poppy’s blousy petals A soup of nettles simmers in the heat A streamlet gurgles down its own bright throat Flanked by ferns from Nature’s Book of Kells A carillon of bluebells melts like cones The arch above a shepherd’s flowery cromack New birches huddle…girls at their first dance Not bold enough to step out from the shadows Over the back-drop of a mud-brown puddle Butterflies flirt outrageously together White actors in a Japanese Noh play An invisible droning plane above the glen Creates a mackerel sky of poisoned white Beyond the ken of buttercup or trout Sun’s the golden halo of an angel Spreading his fallen feathers on the loch 6.The Mothers At the children’s roll call of the mothers Sarah’s mum was a brain-box All the smarties were there Even the blue ones Her daddy shot himself Daisy’s mum kept gin in the bread bin Stank of Gauloise and garlic Caught ‘the bad trouble’ on holiday From a Spanish waiter The divorce was protracted and messy ‘We don’t like the look of YOURS’ They said to me, As if their mums were perfect 7.The Dead Martian’s Last Recorded Message Crepuscular bubbles flottered In the interpentecostalisms of the moon We were hydrosyphilitic from angsters As we zingzonked and splotterboomed Past a crinklesag of comets Kangaloozing off the asterphiliostes We kerflumped into the slimpslump Where our fuhrerschpeeler dismetrolled Our wigglwwiffles By now I was hyperphilactic with brittles How I yearnared for my kissplodger! I hykeryanked my oxterfluffs to makkerlift Ah: a quaffle of zunkides with a spunklit of aspertoys! Our vittlebloomph was plummetaring No battsquirts to oompher I blinkercommed the unirhocerous Zoybiddens! I skelloched. Noddlezink! Widderzunk! Clickertins! My clunk and Vimpter syxsie Dispopulated the cruxxies! My crannikoots snapperated- My timmerwirms unpixillated Eurunka! Finnikins! Wump! 8.Poem Inspired by a Gaelic Topography of Balquhidder Parish Field of the land producing thatch Shieling of grinding wheat Burn beside the dun coloured dell Burn of the mournful bleat Burn of the black waterfall Burn of the windy space Burn of the rock where MacRenish lived A robber of that place Burn of the hawthorn tree Trough of the grey hound’s peak Burn of the house of the ravine Knoll of the men of peace Pass of the dell of arrows The dell of hides and skins The hamlet of the hollow Hill of the moaning winds The coffer of the hand mill The stone of the slender grass Pass of the little bramble bush Brae where the corpses pass The glen suited for cattle The hollow of the bog The clachan of the stepping stones Of Linn and fallen log The fairy knoll of battles The mountains of the mine The black peak of the badgers The ben of the creeping pine 9.The Cod’s Nightmare In dreams in the depths of the ocean Come whispers from cod of the past ‘We were lifted aloft in a trawler Our tail-fins were nailed to the mast. We shudder to think of our loved ones All battered and slapped in a tub Then flung in the fires of a fryer And clapped on a paper, as grub Little codlings, when nude Aphrodite Rises up in her shell from the sea With the hairs on her legs full of bubbles And her breasts jiggling so merrily It isn’t your scales she’s admiring Your fins, or your blubbery lips She’s imagining you on a platter With vinegar, sauce, and some chips 10. Rain Bombs The bees are under cover. Rain drops bomb them so fiercely They could easily drown or be damaged Outside, their landlady is concocting bee treats Fragrant flowers, to lessen their travel times To produce a pound of honey, They may travel 55,000 miles They may visit over two million flowers To produce an ounce of honey, Bees may travel 1600 round trips Of 6 miles per trip A spokesman bee for the rare black British type (Thought to have been wiped out by Spanish flu in 1919) Said, from her hive in Northumberland BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ Before buzzing off To complete her busy work schedule 11.The Cloud Collector: For Jessica, aged 4 She whirls like a dervish, Arms raised to embrace the sun She brings me an invisible cloud Staggering under the pretend Weight of Nothingness Four years old, she lives in The Land of Childhood The gap between Real and Imagined The cloud is precious. I must not let it drop 12.Dying Footfalls Looking through Memory’s portal, La Bocca della Verita, the Mouth of Truth, Slips through my Orphic fingers. Nothing remains but dust and dying footfalls Crossing the threshold from night to dawn I am greeted by lilac, As out of the blue a house martin wheels a welcome 13.Incubus There is a wildness inside me, a sort of creature Nothing can kill this incubus Though days may drag me off to their necessary happenings The incubus sits in its niche, an honoured resident Its amber eyes beyond the strobe of censure Under the hood, beneath the radar Its little hooves are drumming away merrily It is going to kick up Hell When darkness comes, its wild eyes are shining One day it may revolt, push Reason, And me with it, down the river. 14.The Penguin The penguin is a silly bird Its wings it cannot use It shuffles here, it shuffles there On its wrong-fitting shoes Its belly lies upon its feet It always looks so glum And so would you If all your life you had a frozen bum 15.Sheep Dreams A sheep is like a pillow That stuffs itself with grass It cannot count itself to sleep ‘Cause it can’t count, alas! 17.The Poem Waiting on Platform 3 It may be begin with silence Or not It may be about adversity Or not It may be circular in form With gaps and line breaks Allowing thoughts to breathe and let in light Or not Passengers may enter the verses They may adhere to social norms Obey life’s rules Or not It has just been announced That the poem arriving on platform 3 Is aboard the Flying Scotsman. The onward journey may take 10 minutes Or not Passengers step on: Here is a man, struggling with a clarsach A black cat has just sneaked in, Fleeing from a rhododendron bush in the siding Words are what burned his mistress Many kittenish moons ago The poem is beginning to enjoy itself It does not get many excursions A terrorist steps on And an advert for Keillor’s marmalade The poem perks up its ears like a dog. It wags it tail Or not 18.A Jar of Mixed Metaphors My grandfather’s frown was a dark ribbon of bitumen At such times nobody coveted his company He was delightful as a squashed mouse. His charity was workhouse porridge Scraped from the pot’s bottom His mood was yellow Sour as ageing toenails But when he smiled (which was rarely) The sky was a blue table of feathers His eyes lit up, two John Clare cornflowers Hallelujah! he sang, perfectly in tune A tall black streak of holy liquorice 19.The Temple Cat The temple cat, stick thin, Lifts up the begging bowl of his meow He is seeking the alms of love Tipping an ear to the side for a soft stroke His rib bones are a toast rack His paw steps rickety and wheezy Mindful of moving He has perfected the art of Ageing 20.Another Bee Poem At a hotel in Edinbro That’s stinting with its honey But lavish with its prices All to squeeze its patrons’ money The toast was spread so thinly That a punter sighed to me ‘We must commend the manager I see he keeps a bee’. 21.Poet as Warthog A grunting warthog, bristle backed, alert I stand with my tail twitching Primed to root out truffles Of words, the succulence of poetry 22.Childhood: Gingerbread & Honey The fizz of gingerbread on thirsty lips Days entered my heart like drips of honey Gean trees dangled luscious crimson earrings Old trees whispered secrets, ached for rain Unfettered birds spread wings wide to the clouds A hare’s ears twisted sideways into the wind A boulder rose from a pool like a great altar My bare footprints melted into mud Ringed by an anklet of forget-me-nots The tin tack eye of a salmon, held my stare Skies crackled electric storms on high Above the silver mine two falcons wheeled The village clock clanged out the tinny hours Two doors away a living corpse lay dying Tourists hopped like magpies seeking trinkets I was a trout, a hare, a hatching toad I emptied myself from house to the high hills The moon did not exist beyond the village On a hot pony’s sides the black flies sizzled At night my mouse ears listened to the owl Threadbare mists wove wreaths of widow’s weeds A Glastonbury of minnows thronged the shallows This was my wall-less roof-less summer home A seethe of midges danced amongst the trees I lay on springy heather counting clouds And chipped my name into a crag’s sharp, In this, each summer’s loved, Elysian place 23.The Alzheimer Man My words are like children They sometimes go out to play. I expect they’ll come back When they’re ready, The Alzheimer man said. 24.Meditation No 3 Silence settled, soothing as a bee-murmurs Yellow candles glimmered in the stillness The scent of honeysuckle filled the shrine Above the roof, a Catherine wheel of swifts The loch was shimmering with a shoal of waves Continents of clouds merged in the sky Like debutantes, out for a single season The beech tree’s leaves were dressed in silken green 25.Filling the Gap An oak held out its arms to me Today, in a woody welcome It’s neighbour of 50 years Lay felled in last winter’s storm. For a while to please it, I was a stand-in tree Filling the gap that lets the wind in, now 26.The Granite City Out of Rubislaw Quarry came Statues, pavements, plinths and setts Fountains and Sarcophagi Drinking troughs for horse or pets Bank, museum, pubs and kerbs Facings, floorings, columns too Angels, shops, a bridge to cross The mighty Thames at Waterloo Roads and gravel, tenement flats Drum and Crathes, castles sweet Parliament in London Town Lighthouse, prison, Union Street Docks and quays both far and near Statues, flashing granite’s fire Citadel and gallery Marischal College, soaring spire Caryatids and anchors fouled Celtic crosses, Georgian homes Theatre and Infirmary Fashioned, all by granite stone Church and general, king and kirk Cowdray lion to mark the war Avenues and Terraces Memorial stones wreathed round with haar Hammer, chisel, grit and pick Long years of retirement lost Hard the work for wages won Quarryman’s lung, the human cost 27.A Poem from the Quotes of Oscar Wilde Be yourself; everyone else is already taken. Always forgive your enemies; Nothing annoys them so much. To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. We are all in the gutter, But some of us are looking at the stars. With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, Who could not be happy? Who, being loved, is poor? Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, Their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. Nowadays people know the price of everything And the value of nothing. I am not young enough to know everything. Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes. Youth is wasted on the young Children begin by loving their parents; As they grow older they judge them; Sometimes they forgive them Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, And listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. Yet each man kills the thing he loves By each let this be heard Some do it with a bitter look Some with a flattering word The coward does it with a kiss The brave man with a sword 28.Sir George Reresby Sitwell (1860-1943) Sir George R. Sitwell wrote one year, The History of the Fork, Along with Lepers’ Squints and many another curious work His white cows all were painted, with Chinese Willow scenes A bovine gallery on the hoof, embodying his dreams He made a curious toothbrush, that when used played Annie Laurie And just for killing wasps, a pistol, honed to blast its quarry From condensed milk he fashioned knives, (another of his capers) And paid his offspring’s Eton fees in piglets and potaters He lived upon roast chicken, for his diet it was novel He always dressed for dinner, even in the poorest hovel A psychic pig stayed in his house, (his wife’s beloved friend) And a piece of hangman’s rope was dangled from the lord’s bed-end 29. Francis Galton (1822-1911) Galton, an infant prodigy, Mastered the alphabet by two Conquered Latin at four years old, The man with the supersized IQ He shaved his patients’ heads in blood Designed himself a cooling hat That rose, when he squeezed a rubber bulb Lifting the lid like a magic mat He shot giraffes in Africa He caught the clap from rumpy-pumpy Fashioned floats from antelope skin Chewed lime & treacle to stave off scurvy He made himself submarine specs to read But water turned each page to pap And several books he wrote were such Best used for blocking a draughty gap He penned Arithmetic by Smell Tried brewing tea by calculation Claimed that Aberdonians were The ugliest women throughout the nation (And this, he averred, was a proven fact Based upon measured observation! ! !) He carried a large clay brick each day So he could peer above any crowd But he did discover fingerprints And so such foibles must be allowed. 30.Reverend William Buckland (1784-1856) Buckland was a vicar’s son His taste in food was queer He dined upon stray guinea pigs And ghastly things as drear He polished off a crocodile A hedgehog, mole, a bear A puppy and a bluebottle Rhinocerous, and hare Roast ostrich, mice on buttered toast Were found upon his table (And it was made of fossils’ poo Hewn from a Stone Age cradle) He ate the Sun King’s embalmed heart (So Grim t’would fright the Gorgon) But still averred that monkey Far surpassed the Royal organ His offspring Frank ate Jumbo’s trunk. Grilled panther from the zoo A roasted parrot, leporine And a boiled kangaroo So when you hear of rarities In some outré food bar Refer them to Bill Buckland’s tastes The oddest fare by far 31.Shakespeare He wrote his sonnets when plague stopped his plays From being acted out as thousands died The bard of Stratford, famed in Raleigh’s days When teenage, married with an older bride After his death, the great man’s will was read (Posterity received each word and thought) He left his widow Ann his next best bed That was the top and tail of all she got On Google now, two million pages tell Of Shakespeare’s life, his looks and acting troop Two plays in Klingon have translated well From his collected works, illustrious book He wins the starring role as wit and sage Through countless decades on the World’s stage 32.Nepalese Survivor Kimtang village is off the beaten track In this pure land where people are dirt poor The country is achingly beautiful Mists drift from sheer-drop waterfalls Buddhist prayer wheels spin in the crystal air The Himalayan Mountains are dragons’ teeth White fangs rooted in green Fields climb like steps up their steep amphitheatre The earthquake shook Nepal to its foundation Toppling homes like toys in a temper tantrum Now, temples like concertinas creak at crazy angles Homes are strewn like straw across the roads Mouth-masked helpers dish out tents and rice packs The stench of death crawls up from funeral pyres Where will the poor ones live? What will become of them when the press move on, With the monsoon rains so near and corpses leaking? The rhododendron bushes continue to bloom The tourists jet away to their safe horizons In the midst of this sits Mr Funchu Tamang One hundred and one years old, Born when the Ghurkhas marched to the poppy war Twenty three when slaves were banned in his country Six kings have come and gone Like ghosts of Sherpas, under his frugal watch Dressed in a Western T-shirt, bone-tired-weary He sits in his life’s ruins, facing foreign cameras, Whilst Western coffers empty their loose change.