Archives for posts with tag: poetry

Nobody Comes By C P Singleton © 2016

There’s a man I know in limbo town

Who sits quietly waiting for a visit,

but Nobody comes. — It’s maybe not a big thing for those on the other side.

They make their excuses as they climb into their cars

To drive off to other’s doors,

Quite forgetting the sacrifices made,

Never seeing the tears spilt in the heavy silence of Sunday and

Blissfully unaware of the black curtain that falls across tired eyes.


Each new week and month passes slowly,

to find a new piece crack and fall

and gather at the bottom of the mediastinum and


Nobody comes.


I tell him to let go.

That he needs to realise it’s not personal.

He says to wait until it happens to me.

That I’m to remember him when I begin to stare at phones that don’t ring and doors that never open and

Then I will know that,

Nobody will ever come.

CP Singleton

via No. 3088 — Madstoffa’s crunchy house!





I pull to the east

pull my body to the west

peer through the window,

at the morning,

know that I am blessed.


Outside a bush where raspberries grow,

tender and pink on the branch,

make hurried thoughts, go slow.


Why do these patterned beauties

pull at me so?

Because they come from inside me –

delicate, rare, short-lived, fragrant.


Those soft berries

are my mother, my lovers private offerings

and most of all they remind me of a small often visiting pain.


They are my heart, tender, (tiny)

sweet, everyone’s heart. Wild, untutored, gorgeous.


And when you see them in a mess,

a tart or pavlova,

on a plate,

sprinkled all over,

think of my heart,

think of me; we.


Robert Karl Harding

Autumn 2012







I raise my voice,

I’m violent.

Macho man.

To atone I’m silent.

The strong silent type.

Macho man.

You do the cooking,

your part of the continuing domination of every area,

All the great chefs are men.


You agree with feminists,

you are weak.

At 18 you reach your peak.

Sure we cause wars,

can be ineffable bores,

but I didn’t cause any

last time I looked,

broke no rules last time I cooked.


A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stop and stare.

I do stand,

And I do stare.

Now that I am old.

And see the night sky,

that is always there.

To watch the moon wax and wane.

To watch the sunrise in a plane,

When the sun comes up on charcoal grey,

clouds turn to white snow.

Once seen never forgotten.


Jean Margaret Harding

November 2013

My old mum and me

Darjeeling, spring 2013

india2013 020

Ancient Race

And now nothing matters,
Not the status, not the money,
Not the girl.
I came here to see you,
To find out exactly what you’re after.
‘I can only reveal the truth of things
at the point of death.’
I know.

But I must not die,
not now nor ask why
I must live.
I must be a man,
follow the heart,
be a hero,
from year Zero
Only a man.
An ancient race.

17 lines


First published on Ink, Sweat and Tears see link below:


I went to escape the urban solitude,
To escape the perpetual flaneurship,
the dogged ‘outsider’ mantle I was made from.
I should’ve said grow up you child, you’re a writer
What did you expect?

And the people there, in the countryside were like,
‘oh yes, no lamplight here mate. Black as the ace of spades, ay, ay?’
And they smiled a crooked smile. And there was talk of a bypass going somewhere
to somewhere,
‘but where and on whose land?’ they said.

here and there a stately home—poor relations of the Khan’s pleasuredome, boxy stacks of bricks that still decree,
‘keep off the grass’ and ‘between 2 and 4 for tea’.
By the way folks this is a ‘no-cold calling zone.’ We’re all for the market out here but not around here geddit?

Squads of ducks patrolled the dainty lake, the Serpentine, but alas no serpent, nor monkey or macaw. Or the thrilling cries they made, proclaiming the joys of nature. The pheasant did that I suppose, with his strangled squawk. Or was he pointing out another high-pressure pipeline owned by foreign equity?

Then the silence is cracked open by the radio inside the squad car parked near the village green. The village cop is in his Escort radioing in the ‘suspicious Hyundai’ parked near the Earl’s land. Registration; foxtrot (oh really where?), Golf (to be expected), Hotel (beats my B and B) November (perpetually), Papa (died and left me) nineteen ninety-five model.

In the afternoon Farmer Giles was suffering his piles,
for he dug up a tuffet because Little Miss Muffet,
who was atop it was a
spoilt ‘it’ kid from the city, matter of fact the west of it,
and besides moles around here could shut the ***k up cos they had no
ownership rights either. There were only ‘pests’ disrupting the economics of farming and moi land!
‘I’ve worked all me life.’ Said Giles. Moles should earn a living.

Wherever you looked there were only the serried ranks of the dumb, the
bovine, foxes mugging homesteaders of their chickens, creeping gangster owls soundless in the velvetine darkness.
Come out from under your stones and see the same thing done but in the city where grown-ups live. Crowds of mustard flowers waved all different ways, blowing with the wind —frivolous shoppers in Oxford Street.

The animals crowded the pastures; Friesians blackened the meadows, Gothic starlings fringed the boughs, hustling the best spot.

And all dun-coloured, in the metaphysics of things at least and, worse still, none could talk.

Nor were there pussycats here, no proper country forest, no labial lawns, or chestnut thatch much less the downy patch, of the
penumbra between the feathery wood and the thigh of the meadow.

And subtract from this, dun-coloured sparrows’ chirruping gossip at lights out.

No, all quiet here—only the pout of a dace, the moue of a rudd.

They sit in the dark of a bend in the river where mournful trees overhang;
Nowhere a plan, for them to jump out into the net I don’t have. Only the dark of the bend.
Nothing on offer.

Save some lads who have come from the city. On a trip with ten cold beers each, all warming, turning to soup.
They look at the pastures seen and say, ‘no birds here bruv’. Only the stench of the next door farm, barbed wire, another warning sign; private property, no trespassing, slow down. Twinned with Cologne. Well if you lose the war.

City talk cuts no ice here. The farmer’s boy casually blasts the crests of men pheasants with shot, stoves the skulls of rabbits into the landscape,
poke down the heads of little black kittens into the bucket. Surplus they bob down beneath the surface and up for the last time.
One cat can off the rats.
Drowning cute kitties here isn’t a crime.

Country people, village people anyway, are as mean and quick-sighted as birds, orderly as clerks, great tuggers of lace, sentinels of the status quo.

And so when on my couch and a pleasant host of geese I see, vree-vree,
I think take me back to the town,
And set me free.

Hell. I feel so very tired.

Originally published in Ink, Sweat and Tears

Stone Summer

The wheel pushes the cogs around

And the spring turns to summer.

Vermilion camellias burst and fall

Magnolia flourishing its haul,

of scent and purity

The sun, the clocks go forward in search of light.

But in this country all is stony body underneath,


On this isle the vast and bursting body

of summer, cloys, warms, celebrates, massages,

under which softness,

rises the skeleton, homunculus bony, cold, beyond death,

of institutions frigid.

Petals, blooms, bare skin honours the sky’s warmth

but the tomb of bones, of incarcerated will and

expectation of compromise,

growing up from underground

and then us, like flowers,

being eternally cut down to size

… smells like


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