It was just a small cut, a

shiver of slow-moving pain, a

dull throb really, with

very little blood, just

little beads on a

bright new bracelet

worn in her private

Princess time.

Early Music IV

“My Lady Carey’s Dump” (Anon. reign of Henry VIII, possibly written for Mary Boleyn)
 A dump was a mournful piece of music, remembered in our expression “down in the dumps”
My Lady Carey won’t be cheered nor
humoured by her Fool’s feeble follies; her
taste is not tempted by her Cook’s
herbs, spices, syllabubs; her fingers
freeze mid-stitch when at her sewing;
she has not been abroad since April and now
November numbs the gardens;
even the House feels barred and barren; and she
will not dance to my
gaillards, courantes, almains,
insisting always on the dump I wrote to
explain my silence at her sorrow, which I
regret now as I look at her
etched, averted face seeking
something lost in the
cold dawn of another long day.
I wish I had written something else since this is
all I now play, though at least it
makes her speak, if only to say
“Slower, sir, if you please—

(Other poems in my Early Music series may be found in my poetry blog at  http://fridayam.wordpress.com/

Fall Fell

Fall fell through the

crack in the floorboards, and we

tore them up, desperate to

stave off Winter.

Maybe we could

burn them, if we cannot find

that lost coin, our

last hope of Summer.

Shy Exhibitionists

Poetry can be long-ships in deep water

full of foul-mouthed, horny sailors

desperate to take continents

village by village, pillaging

single words, leaving readers raped and

pregnant with strange thoughts.

Poetry can be paper-boats floated by

shy exhibitionists, hulls packed with

love, lust, loss, lost as

paper perishes and

blood and dark ink become

commingled with dark sea.

Trawlers and Drifters

Trawlers and Drifters—which was which?

Though born sea-blooded I preferred

watching water from firm earth but I

always wanted to be a Trawler,

hauling hidden riches from the deep,

dripping with slippery thoughts to make

buyers gawp when my catch

splattered about their shiny shoes

making them jump back in

astonishment and fear.

Many years later, alone in the dark,

feeling the sea beneath me by its

heave and swell, I’m content that all along

I was a Drifter, the haul is meagre and

I do not expect to find anyone

waiting on the quay.

That strange taste haunted her throughout the
long school day, despite her initial
revulsion—just a hint behind the
toothpaste and breakfast, the shivery
ghost of an experience she knew had
carried her across a deep invisible
Rubicon into a strange land open to
conquest:  the land of Men, in which
bizarrely the young woman on her knees could
exercise such unexpected power.
Image courtesy of Holden and Camille (http://holden-and-camille.com/) with their express permission, and please respect their copyright in this wonderful image. My enormous thanks to both of them :)
Tom Cat

Some nights I want to roam like a

tom cat, prowling under the

split, moonlit clouds looking for

soft prey, girls easy to impress with a

good suit, a bit of cash, a sense of being

close to fame, that maybe being

just a bit dirty will get them closer.

But it’s too easy to debauch, and my

fervid fantasies spin off so many ways that I

slam the kitchen door, closing off the

night’s temptations and shutting my

tom cat behind double-glazing to

stare out at split, moonlit clouds,

silently miaowing, frustrated.



A slight metallic taste on your skin
in the sweat of your body after sex
took me back in my sleep to the docks
and the inspiration of ships and deep water.
You were with me there, a shadowy figure,
and you led me to where she stood
watching a single-stacker tying up, absent,
eyes fixed on the waterline and the greasy trickle of a bilge.
We didn’t speak, just watched as the elegant iron
rusted slowly in the corruscating sea, rotting
as our love did, beneath sight and out of mind until,
it’s back broken, it sank in some deep.

Waking in the night, I didn’t know what to say.
I doubted you had spoken, knew she wouldn’t listen.
An ocean floor lay about that dark room
and somewhere far above a bell rang, beyond my hearing.

I'm new to Tumblr, so I am a bit unsure of the social rules, but I like your poems and thought I should tell you.

Oh you are kind to say so :) Not many people bother to comment, so it is very good of you to make the effort. I hope you will continue to read with pleasure :) Steve (fridayam)

Comic Cuts

(A sharp-edged setting

summed up pronto—

moonlit penthouse,

high-tech, empty.)

Telephone burbles

and sex interrupted:

he answers in silence,

she listens in dread.

A gun from a drawer is

hastily pocketed,

a hurried embrace then

she watches him go.

The next time she sees him

he bleeds on her shoulder

in the back of a limo

on a traffic-free street.

Revenge is a boardroom,

seven suits in a row:

there’s blams and there’s blood

and a reckoning is done.

He looks tired when she greets him,

there’s a cut-out of kiss,

then they walk away happy,

a long shot of bliss.