Move on to the next immovable object And failing to move it, Go around it or go through it, Move on.
Bang your head against a brick wall, Stub your toe on the floor, Catch your hand in that fast closing door, Move on.
Leave behind the broken heart, Absorb the hurt. Make a new start, Move on.
Because over the horizon There will be a new day, A new sun, And even if there isn’t, Even if there is storm and darkness, And the sun has set and long since gone, Move on.
For you’re here and whilst you’re here, Filled with fury, love and passion, Give it another go. Leave yourself wide open, Take it in your stride. Though you may hesitate and you may falter, Regroup, reform, return, Live life to the full and learn To move on.
I love these two poets. The first time I read a Ginsberg poem, it was like reading in a burst of sunshine. The fabled Kerouac just enchanted me, then and now, even with all the brilliant poets working today. God love us, they both bring champagne to the party.
Grey sunflowers, and poets Sitting in old railway sidings Alongside huge locomotives, The clattering and banging Of wrecked machinery A perfect backdrop to a new world In the making.
Kerouac and Ginsberg Loving the whole, the tiniest bit of it. Ginsberg breathing in grey sunflowers, Remembering them for all those coming after.
Imprinting them on the fabric Of that new world Waiting just around the corner.
Our little town is in the doldrums. It was always a modest town with appealing and useful shops. Now, after these last three years of pandemic and closures, it still fights back with humour and resilience and I still love it.
UP TOWN ON A SATURDAY MORNING
This morning, When the old ladies Wearing their duvet coats And bad attitudes Banged their walking sticks On the hard pavements, Complaining about the cold,
The old men Fastened up their jackets Trying to work out How they had got so old Without anyone warning them. Every now and again Hustling into the Bookies To place a Bet That, ten-to-one, would win them Enough to buy back Their days of being young And meaning something In the world again.
Well, this was when That lad and his lass Began to sing, Coins rattling Into their empty money hat Lying on the cold ground In front of them. Enough to buy them hot coffee, A slice of warm pizza And a bit of encouragement To keep going, anyway, Until they were well past Any danger of growing old With lined and cheery faces. Or not.
For ‘old’ was a word not in their lexicon And they had no intention Of it ever claiming their attention. As if! Eh?!! As if!
Anemones are so understatedly beautiful until they flower, then the deep glowing colours shine. There’s a strip of waste land alongside a house we pass when we go into town which someone has adopted. The gardener has planted iris, primrose, violas, poppies, daffodils and lots of other flowers and, always amongst them, the anemone. Rich burning reds, deep azure blues and perfect whites.
Another scratchy night, With the moon hiding and clouds Covering the stars. Bitter thoughts bringing bitter tears, With memory offering no comfort Or consolation.
Maybe there is a loving hand To hold your hand, And maybe not. Maybe you will remember Those who once loved you, And maybe you will forget How loved you once were.
But when memory fails, When peace slides out of reach
And touch is never going to be the same again, You will find strength
In the love that shows itself In the tenderness of anemones, Bunched in a small bowl, Standing on a dark windowsill.