MANCHESTER CHAOS

MANCHESTER CHAOS

It’s chaos in Manchester

At the moment

It’s been going on for weeks

As they tear up the streets

Everywhere

It’s absolute bedlam

At the moment

It has been for months

There’s roadworks

Everywhere

It’s completely horrific

At the moment

Two and a half hours to do

A seven-mile journey -

Ended up walking

It’s an utter nightmare

At the moment

The journey to Piccadilly

From the University

Every night

It’s just terrifying

At the moment

Without pavements

Hopping into the road

All the time

It’s totally ridiculous

At the moment

Yesterday I counted

Twenty-five buses

Stuck on Oxford Road

It’s chaos in Manchester

At the moment

It’s been going on forever

Twenty-five buses

Stuck on Oxford Road…!

Martin A W Holmes, Sept 2016

THE LOST WORLDS OF JACK WARNER

THE LOST WORLDS OF JACK WARNER

I adore lost worlds

I seek out those unknowable

Places once so familiar

Now only found in memories,

Or the black & white

Of old Jack Warner films

Where he grows begonias

That he’ll never see flower

Despite a further twenty -

Or more - years on the telly

Cut down by Dirk Bogarde

Because “This thing’s real!”

The tingle-ingle-ing

Of the bells in black police cars

Tracking him to the dog track

Caught thanks to the

Tic-tac-toe-ing of the

More honourable villains

And the children playing

In the craters made by

The wartime bombs –

Or Jane Asher playing

With her dolly and pram

Next to a ship-packed Thames

Taking time out from being dead

Jack wears a natty trilby

In that one – being all

Down to Earth – Like

Professor Quatermass’s

Rocket which crashed

Bringing something back -

Poor Victor Carroon

Had an absorbing journey

Merging with a cactus

Melting faces – but not Jane’s

In a long-lost London

On grey Sunday afternoons

In those vast high-waisted trousers

Not like the villains on seventies

Cop shows from America

Wearing ties, loud checked

Sports Jackets and combovers

Martin A W Holmes, Sept 2016 

POETS OF OLD

POETS OF OLD

I wonder if the poets of old

Woke in the night,

Their heads full of words

And scrabbled about seeking

A match for a candle,

Paper, pen and ink,

To record their night-time brilliance?

Was this as frustrating -

Do you think? - As waiting for

A hard-drive to boot up,

Or that long trek downstairs

In search of your

Notebook and pencil

Before the thought evaporates?

Martin A W Holmes, Sept 2016

ENDED POSSIBILITIES

ENDED POSSIBILITIES

I got quite enthusiastic

For a while there

About the potential

For saving the whale

But then

No-one else did

So I stopped

I got quite passionate

For a while there

About the achievability

Of getting world peace

But then

No-one else did

So I stopped

I got quite stimulated

For a while there

About the opportunities

For real democracy

But then

No-one else did

So I stopped

I got quite animated

For a while there

About the plausibility

Of stopping suffering

But then

No-one else did

So I stopped

I got quite excited

For a while there

About the possibilities

Poetry offered

But then

No-one else did

So I stopped

Martin A W Holmes, Sept 2016

EINSTEINING

EINSTEINING

“The World War

After next

Will be fought

With bows and arrows”

“That’s my lad”

His Mam said

“He likes to

Think about things”

But I thought

I’d heard it before

Heinlein…? or

Asimov…? or Clarke…?

Shouldn’t have

Mentioned it though -

Proud parents

Need their pride

The next war

In our office

May be fought

In angry silence

Turned out

It was Einstein –

Though it’s only

Attributed

And possibly

Misquoted –

He talked of

“Sticks and stones”

Maybe he’d

Heard it somewhere?

Possibly from

This lad?

Time is relative

After all –

Maybe his thought

Came from the future?

Martin A W Holmes, Sept 2016 

THE VIEW FROM SPRING BANK ARTS

THE VIEW FROM SPRING BANK ARTS

I’m stopping the car on Spring Bank

Journey paused, in morning commute

Clear views across the whole valley

A perfect point to stand and think

I waved a telephone at the sky

Image trapped, a moment frozen

Panoramic settings try taking it all in

A tough ask - spectacularly failing

The Tweet is faster than the brain

The car parked; a moment of awe

Dawn’s lightshow simply too complex

For mere text characters to convey

Sharing to the world I call the shot

“The View from Spring Bank Arts”

Sending the words out unchecked

In light-speed haste aimed to please all

Adding “Arts” is just a habit

A stone-set mental aberration

The mind’s leap of association

Total Ars gratia artis

The tweet is faster than the idea

The human struggles to keep up

Warm glows of eagerness to please

Overtaken by a momentous moment

Inspired, the mind shifts further -

Tweet direct to Spring Bank Arts…!

They appear to have a web-life

Bright daylight might shine some joy

My head is full of Spring Banks

Pink brilliance is dancing off the glass

Send an image of their own building

Which it isn’t - it turns out

My brain’s confused the stonework

Art space is further down the street

It was the Adult Education Centre

Which filled my tiny plastic eye

The tweet is faster than the thought

Those windows on reflection

Despite my insistent recollection

Aren’t Spring Bank Arts at all

Martin A W Holmes, Sept 2016

FACE-TO-WHATEVER WITH YOUR NEIGHBOUR’S PANTS

FACE-TO-WHATEVER WITH YOUR NEIGHBOUR’S PANTS

Having communal gardens

There’s always a slight chance

Of finding yourself face-to-crotch

With your neighbour’s pants

It won’t happen very often

In fact hardly ever at all

But when we do our washing

We don’t hang out our smalls

They’ll be put onto a maiden

In the bathroom out of sight

Nobody needs my pants exposed

To the harsh glare of daylight

They borrowed a length of wash-line

One sunny Sunday afternoon

Whilst our own machine was running

Finishing its cycle far too soon

I headed outside laden

Under pant-filled wires I duck

When I had to limbo under it

I just didn’t know where to look

Hanging my sodden shirts out

Wires bending with the strain

Turning to dip in my peg bag

I‘m face-to crotch with pants again

I head back indoors shaken

My empty bag flaps in the breeze

Explaining my discomfort

Putting myself back at my ease

I look outside - they’ve vanished…!

It’s all now flapping clean bedclothes

We’ve avoided all that social angst

That keeps good neighbours on their toes

Though soon, when it starts raining

It almost comes as a relief

I dash up to bring the washing in ---

On the path she dropped her briefs…!

Martin A W Holmes, September 2016