There are Fairy tales
Written in the stars
That speak of dragon scales
And bright yellow cars
There is a silly song
That mum will sing
About bells that dong
And flowers that ding
So when the sunshine says “Goodnight”
Come rest your head and close eyes, tight
For the tick tock clock has bedtime chimed
It’s time to sing the sleep sweet rhyme
Samantha Braum
To Adrian Henri
When in 67 we travelled back on that Ribble bus,
Smug sometimes, arrogant, belly humorous poet,
You were jovial, and graciously evaded the impertinent approval of the lines I felt I could proffer back to you.
You, chuffed with the few bob from the reading, were set on getting back to “Ye Cracke” before closing.
And I continued, until I left the bus, and patronised, With the serene security of ‘yet another’ sixth former, Your part in establishing the Ginsberg acclaimed World Centre: Our City’s scene.
I had too quickly recovered from your earlier, opening annnouncement: The death of John Coltrane.
Few, if any, in that youthful
Crosby audience, had heard of your revered Sax-man. Your angel to whom you dedicated our evening celebration of
Liverpool, The present and future of verse, And always our City of the moment.
The words you used to describe the notes he’d planted in your brain chilled more than the verses we shared.
Not many weeks later, I responded to the unnecessary invitation I sought. I took my place to read, from the floor at O’Connor’s.
I was not displeased to have to turn and glower smugly.
You distracting, chatting, when those girls and you ignored the evening’s proclaimed point.
It was an incident I knew I could and would booze out on:
Boldly having shown up a proselytiser of poetry. Concerned with recognition’s not writing’s fruits.
Thirty plus year later,
The collapse of your beer battered life, The insulting stroke, The perished liver, All were unknown to me, When I shook at the news of your death.
Lost to me are a hero, an era and chances sweet people had made.
Freeman:
Painter:
Poet:
Your glorious topicality warmed, Much more than the gentle words, That shared the howls of a saxophone,
And precipitated young ladies Towards your beery belly.
The Flowering Shrub
The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge
Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;
Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.