The Box or Road End


This is a poem about me. I went to my first Liverpool F.C game in 1987 and my first Widnes R.L.F.C game in 1983. So aged 3 and 7 them memories etch into your brain. A right of passage what ever you go onto. Know one can take your teams away from you. I was lucky enough to spend time in a recent exhibition in Oriel Mostyn in Llandudno. I the presence of a Box used by artist Gareth Griffiths to take his son’s to match at Anfield. The power of ‘The Box’ moved me…

Thanks for sharing it with us Gareth!

 

Road End

Not my White box.

Someone else’s vantage point,

chips hold stories,

celebration, sadness, glory.

On that afternoon,

like a full stop,

alone it stood,

together, raised scarfs taught.

Your words made me feel 9

The feeling surrounds me lots of looking up.

The raised rim on a plastic flask mug.

The floor touching my feet through worn souls.

The Safety and smells of cut grass before me.

Winter cold rattles my mittens.

Floodlight halo’s dot my eyes.

Barbwire fences brown glass spikes.

Thousands packed in tight.

Now I’m back and still no connection?

Just know I’ve been there.

A time so much simpler?

Black and white Red or blue…

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My Past, My future


Somethings are like red wine stains, they are difficult to remove with time get faint but will always last. You can add formulas to remove them. This is my formula!

Cleaning mess of some guys trade.

Right place wrong face.

Scrap heap imprint stupidity,

please give me some validity.

 
Closure of the grinding,

mini cans close my mind in.

Musical defibrillation.

No else to confined with.

 

Time has raced to evolve on.

Scared but wise, still I despise.

Now I’m here, thoughts, no care.

The grinding sparks have untied me.

 

Your age shows experience.

delivery, I can’t contain this.

Feeling the greater love,

enormous glow music buzz.

 

I look to crashing tides.

Screens project our minds.

Well trodden yet fresh,

just this time its mine.

 

Last night cleansed me.

The vocal lifeline echoes.

Your mess connecting to me

love rein on me

A poem about my day turning monochrome


I wrote this about the time when you have to stretch your eyes to see into the dark of fading day light. Winter on the North East coast cast of Scotland is a challenge. If you travel on a trains you will know the feeling

As the day colour fades

Monochrome,

distant hills.

Dirty Sheep,

a white rutted field.

Seven lines,

follow our track,

Zipping information.

Our cyber world.

Wind swept,

Remote.

These commuters,

hardened folk.

Platforms pull in.

Foot prints in snow

Well trodden greats,

Departure or home.

Black thicket bushes,

break up the white.

Darkness grows stronger,

retracting the light.

 

A poem about leaving. Last Call For Whitfield


3 1/2 hours on train in 25 degrees builds a certain momentum to leave. Add this with the deadline of a departing flight to catch. In the time on the train from Milazzo to Palermo the only entertainment was a rather large bee that was flying up and down the carriage. If i could have vignetted the corners of my field of vision it would have been a seen from a classic european film. Everyone was watching this bee with a look of ‘don’t come near me’. It could have run a mock on the packed train. It also got me thinking that when it went backwards down the carriage does that class as time travel?

Last Call For Whitfield

Churn,
On time,
Just!
Mount settle breath.

Sound makes sense,
but I don’t understand.
Round beads form,
Fall like the words.

Moving fast,
Time dam slow!
How long can it last.
Where to look.

And I’m sick of the sea,
straight blue line beauty,
Following me home,
Crashing harrowing free.

A dog sleeps alone.
The platform grown.
Drunk man ego.

Bump!

I arrive,
Get me out,
Away.
To be free…

A poem of my new found dislike of flying.


I’m not sure when i decided i didn’t like flying. I think the boredom makes me think too much about it. The sea, however off the coast of the U.K looked beautiful. Also flying over southend pier (Britan’s longest pier) was a moment to savour the sheer length of it. A strange set of circumstances…

AlItalia

Blue cheese ripple.
Layered black island.
Floating.
Is there direction.

Outer heat flares,
Cold hands moisten.
When did it happen,
This alien fear.

Grim tin can,
Led by men.
Circulation,
No clean air.

All gone now.
Looking like linen,
Too there and back.
Covering many stories.

 

“If i could only stop my mind” (Henley:1976) Words By Alan Whitfield


“If eye could only stop my mind” (Henley:1976)

A wedge.
Splits,
Soho,
blew the flame out.
 
I did try,
dry cry.
No show?
If you knew!
 
No falling out
Or fitting in.
momentum.
Taught me,
what I'm about.
 
Why did I look right?
The lads club.
In orange,
Graffiti,
A camera flash light.
 
There's giving and not
There’s trying and not.
Me,
I’m just me...