What day is it today?
How to make my time go by?
The street is filled with school yard silence
No vapour trails in the sky.
An updated version of this poem was included in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
All text, pros, poetry & artwork, copyright Ian Gordon Craig.
Later.
Bright sunlight streaming into my South facing window.
That moment when the day is optimistic about its possibilities.
Lines of small square lawns and patient green wheelie bins
Conceal the suburban morse code message transmitted by
The continuous beeping sound of a truck reversing.
Later
Overcast, hot tempers flare.
Everyone is being told to get the fuck out
Of everyone else's fucking face. A door slams.
Flying ant day in the city, white powders at the ready,
Locked and fucking loaded.
Later
A squirrel skips down the street
Pretending the tarmac is still too hot.
The relief of a cool breeze is tempered by
The knowledge it won't ever be quite as sunny again
For another year.
All text copyright ian g craig.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
Now.
“I'm ho-ome!"
My house welcomes me with the echo of my own voice.
I keep the carpet cluttered and the mind tidy.
The sun shines on the red bench
Where I peal back the wrapper from my Cornetto.
The sound of a steel chain saw,
Ripping through raw green branches in the heat.
A drainpipe Robin sits impatiently for me to go
So he can return to his worm.
Now
The faintest trace of bar-b-q aroma,
Whilst silent dark clouds come in from the South,
And the second hand on my clock ticks louder.
My neighbour chases pigeons from the berries on his bush.
They retreat and coo from a safe distance.
Whilst waiting for one thing to be resolved,
My mind makes decisions about 100 others,
Then changes them all.
Now
The day's vapour trails turn to street lights.
I turn to the music of a long time since.
Muggy night on the edge of the city.
No-one gets too excited about going into town.
A bedroom light in an opposite window.
Wet roads amplify the sound of traffic,
Making night sound like rush hour.
But the pace is slow.
Now
A rain shower on my open window
Turns the CD in my headphones to charity shop vinyl.
The garage door opposite is open again.
I think someone uses it to sleep in.
They might at least close the door behind them.
A girl in blue steps onto her balcony for a cigarette,
Perhaps needing permission to smoke in her own flat.
We exchange curious glances.
All text copyright ian g craig.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".
Summer’s over.
On the pavement, scurrying by,
Cell phone myopia
Impedes the passage of those with a purpose.
Drowsy students clutch cans of Red Bull
Whilst the early bird catches the parking space,
And the showers pass.
A Blackbird points his beak skyward,
First East and then West,
Then ruffles his feathers knowingly.
A young mother takes her hands from the pushchair.
Her dishwasher nails reveal the dubious fortunes
Of a lottery scratch card.
A lone footballing teen on the street
Tests his testosterone levels
Against a neighbour’s garage door.
A man with miss-matched eyes,
Smoking jazz cigarettes,
Takes up permanent residence in the local bus stop.
With no fig rolls on the shelves,
And no mini pizzas in the freezer,
What's so cooperative about the Co-op?
This summer's happy days already seem
Like shiny display case memories, when
A train whistle blowing, made a happy noise.
An updated version of this poem would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems"
All text and picture copyright ian g craig
White Lace and Sleep Now.
Paper chase highway, Pixelated night breeze,
Can't break the habit, Cold turkeys do time.
Heart on the handbrake, Lust in the fast lane,
Chasing the fade, to the end of the line.
Crows on the skyline, Call to the fox wind,
Clouds on their journey, Yellow stone sky.
How can I find you? Footprint disclosure,
Welcome sign doormat, Linoleum grime.
Two sides to the story, No end to the circle,
Four beats to the bar, One word to the wise.
A child born on Wednesday is woeful and weepy,
A tambourine someplace, Plays out of time.
Empty like clear glass, Lost on a bookcase,
Rain on a Tuesday, In market stall lines.
Caught between conflicts, Eyes in the headlights,
White lace and sleep now, Nevermore mine.
Shirt Tails in the Rain.
Yesterday's child shakes the rules and runs wild,
Shakes her tips from the boys at the bar.
Spends her night on the street, where she's trained in deceit,
Spends the day with her dolls and her Stars.
Did you fall so from grace someone's taken your place?
Did you think yourself safe in his arms?
Don't you think it's a crime someone wasting your time?
Did you place so much faith in your charms?
She parades her self-fix like a fake crucifix
And the snow howls like ice through her veins,
But it won't free her mind in the cold winter time,
You might think that she's lost, but she's lame.
Oh Jane, in your bold shirt tail stance
Can you make jewels dance in the rain?
Or would your feet turn to clay
If you heard pipers play
"Will Ye No Come Back Again?"
copyright ian gordon craig
These poems would be published in my book "46 Contemporary Poems".