Another Delirium

Who will wear the turkey crown

for the people coming home for Christmas?

come home

 

the words written in the dirt

of unwashed winter vehicles

on poorly lit routes

could they show the way?

(no)

 

I have no industrial past

I’m just some kind of penis

 

grief as mental illness

mental illness as grief

 

you lost tribe

man your crannogs

woman your canoes

shoulder your loving

 

hey you damned

get ready for the fever

of your revelation

No Harps

I am not a harper

I am not a Fisher King

I am neither of these things

I am not a father

I am not a feather wing

I am neither of these things

I am not a player

I am not a fiddle string

I am neither of these things

I am not a piper

I am not a diamond ring

I am neither of these things

I am not a singer

I am not a playground swing

I am neither of these things

I am not a sinner

I am not a waspish sting

I am neither of these things

I am not a swimmer

I am not a moorland spring

I am neither of these things

I am not a winner

I am not a rifle sling

I am neither of these things

Lull of The Bull and The Trigger-Happiness-where to get them

My two poetry collections Lull of The Bull and The Trigger-Happiness are available on the Starborn Books website:

http://www.starbornbooks.co.uk/sb_authors/paul-steffan-jones/

and also :  https://americymru.net/paul-steffan-jones2/store/140/the-trigger-happiness

 

and : https://www.facebook.com/psj61/?ref=aymt_homepage_panel

Monoglot

Lazy heat by here
not much chance to use
the old language
here

things to do
a cat sips a glass of milk
I poured for myself
my back turned
gets a clout
a house surrounded by dead mice

the dialect of managers when they meet
when they compare each other
exploit
handover
reduction
“the journey”
like so many dead sandwiches
we told them so

eulogy for a poet from my village
recognised in his death
this awaits me
versus verses
a book is not its cover
but a chimera to ward off stereotypification
a taxi ride among a cavalcade
of red tail lights

met Billy and his grandson Ryan
in the x-ray waiting room
his eyes had red circles around them
as if he’d spent a lifetime crying
he joked he’d been hiding
behind a tent
at the siege of Rorke’s Drift
and that I’d limped with a different leg
on leaving

and Iolo Morgannwg told me to buck up
in a swish multi storey car park
named after our patron saint
my capital city
its smart centre
the ordinary radiating roads
the stitched together villages
hairdressers and Chinese supermarkets
they invented gunpowder
navigation
printing
here’s to them
and who are roads named after?

camped on the outskirts
of the spirit skirt
a community of imagination
the gaps in people
some good gaps
some not so

sniffing out brownfield sites
for smash and grab art actions
light in the dark then melt
into licquorice
but do the flatlands remember
the inundations of their history?