3 May 2008 Jazz in Breda
 
I see the 16 yr old sluts
Go with the older men
I see cows dressed up
As pretty girl
Pretty girls as bland
Older couples holding hands
Drunken girl in green
With green balloon
Tied to wrist
Fluffy pups and cowboy
Boots
Sophisticated men
And men all dressed in same
Polo shirts and ditto sweaters
The common 52 yr old 
Woman wearing moccasins
Still waiting for my jazz
I see
I drink
O'Mearas Irish Pub
Mother and son
Approximately 16
Whole families out on
The town
Frat boys
Capped ladies
Bored teenage girls
Hee, what's going on 
Here?
Jazz baby
Jazz it
A guy rolling a 
Piano past the pub
Pretty boys
And handicapped
Oddly glassed 40 somethings
Oversized sunglassed 20 somethings
I hear cheesy music
Playing from the pub across
The street
Where's my jazz?
The piano's hoisted up onto
The stage
Musicians preparing
Cute noses
Bikes lots of bikes
Old bikes
Crappy bikes
The green balloon is released
Flies towards the church tower
Onwards and onwards still
I track it for minutes
Sipping Guinness
Gone!
Gone the Guinness
Gone the balloon
Bearded guys and
Weary gals
Kids that should have been put to bed
A hot air balloon in the evening sky
Colourful
A flock of young fry
A Spanish clad girl
Walking by
And by again
As another pint of 
Liquid Heaven is brought to me
Oh sweet sweet sight
The woman making love 
To the Jazz music
Feels the daboom dabo
Dabodobo rhythm
Uncovering her shoulders
Garment in bag swinging
Swaying
Is also seducing the young
French trumpet player
Mazurie
Melancholy longing
For something you never had
But somehow feel you have lost
Nevertheless
Jazz
Hear that trumpet muffled wail
With the coming of the female singer
Machteld Cambridge
The seductive dancer covers up again
Out-competitioned by
The singer
Jazz weep for me!

Words Away 8 April 2008

 

The words crawl out of my warm moist soft mouth

Over my lips and paper tongue struggling using both arms

All of them

Their faces disturbed distorted and dismayed

Inconsistency in their motivation

- They do and they don't want to leave the

Security of their origins

To venture out into the dark and deafening world

A world that they will partially undo of one of

Its qualities

The words will undeafen

I think they are my pets my cuddly furry friends

My smooth skinned creepy crawlies

My buzzing bees and skittling bugs

A Noah Am I

They are alive and purposeful

They are alive and meaningless

They are alive and matter

Sometimes

They do

Not

My sweet sweet words always

Companions

For all time

Yet

Some

Times

They

Have no desire at all to stay

Away away

Find the nooks and crannies

To flee through

Some dumber words

Splatter and splash and splat

Against my windows

Leaving greasy slimy stains

That take forever to clean

Ending up as tiny puddles on

My window sill

The lighter words as bubbles are

Blown by a child on a breezeless

Summer's day in early May

Their light and soapy features mock at gravity and

Show pretty prism pictures when the sunlight hits

Them quite intentionally

And they - the lighter words seek out the cracks and

Cuts in my ceiling

Away away

The hardest part is letting go

I burb them out and off they go

I send them forth they're on their own

I give release and deny

Responsibility for their actions

Minds of their own

Not mine

If ever they were

Yet secretly I am a proud father

Of all my words

I wish them well

With high hopes

For the best

For the rest of

Their natural

Lives

Saturdays 3 November 2007

In the sports canteen
Of the multi functional
Sports centre called
The Willow
I have spent my
Saturday afternoons
From 12 to 2
The last seven months
While my eldest dear
Son is learning the
Art of not drowning
My youngest two (dear equally)
Keep me company
And eat and play
And read with me
From around 1 pm
Onwards
They start asking me how long
We still have to wait
Sometimes they ask
Every five minutes how long
Are they grasping the concept
Of time?
I try my hardest to be
A stable factor to them all
When I see the pain and
Confusion in their eyes
I try my damnest when
I hear them cry
We have the best of times
Too
A lot of the time
My dear three sons
And I

To a Gothic Rock Chick 20 July 2007

He Gothic Rock Chick
Whatcha doin' now?

I am sitting on a concrete
2 ft high wall that
Encloses a play area slash
Dog walking slash
Shoot up alley for druggies
Spot
Enjoying the sunshine caressing me
Annoyed by the cars hissing by
Waiting
He gothic Rock Chick
Whatcha doin' now?

Writing
Searching &
Hoping
Some days my life is just a
Story on paper
Blue ink
On stolen paper
A story
To easy to read
So left
Unread
By all but me

He GRC
Whatcha doin' now?

The concrete apartments
On the opposite side of the
Road are
Ashen coloured
Stained and
Dead
With expected
Draperies
And the occasional plant
Is that a metaphor for me?
Be careful now
Young boy

He blah blah blah

Whatcha doin' in my head
Whatcha doin'
Goth
Rock
Chick

(Written for Jennifer near Zuidplein, Rotterdam, The Netherlands)

You're my World 12 March 2007

Bus No. 2275
From Zuidplein to A29

People look on edge
As if something's going on
Tense, hurried eyes all around
Fidgeting & ant like movements
And I am oblivious to what's
Happening
In that
I see
But are not a partner or
Companion in all of this busy-ness
None of my business
The fact that I'm wearing
My shades
And am listening to Yvonne Keeley &
Fitzgerald singing "You're my world"
On my Creative Zen mp3 Jukebox
Is a huge help in feeling
Detached &
Disinterested
In the hubbub &
The hurly burly of commuters
On a bus.
Yet all are me
We are all one.

(No comment necessary, I would say.)