Daily Bread

Hidden Depths

2011-07-16T10:09:00.000+01:00

You may not know it yet,
but you have a calm
deep within.

I saw it while you slept
in a Perspex box
like a doll.

I saw it when I crept
into your room at night,
and by the light
of the crack from the door,
I waited till I saw you breathe.

I saw it as you fought
from a hospital bed,
drawing from the depths
as you inhaled large gulps
of oxygen.

You have a calm.
Solid unwavering calm
that you keep hidden well.

For now you are looking back
into the box.

And the light from the door
is your light.

And your breath
is the air that feeds
those around you.

You have a calm.
And though I’m not around
to share it today,
I can feel it,
even from here.

John H Davies
16th July 2011
Juba

Juba, Republic of South Sudan

2011-07-11T06:48:00.000+01:00

On arrival at Juba International airport I was reminded of old black and white photos from the 1950’s with family arriving at Nairobi, greeted by relatives and friends on the tarmac. The resultant chaos of the small room that served as immigration and baggage reclaim, seemed to stem from the single security scanner, through which everything was dutifully passed, and a chalk mark placed on each item of luggage before being relayed across the throng to anyone who managed to catch the eye of a handler. About an hour later my bags hadn’t surfaced and looking around I spotted the three of them piled neatly by the main entrance where a constant stream of people came and went, any one of whom could have easily made off with everything I possessed. Nothing was missing.

After 20 years of relative tedium running a small manufacturing business in the midlands, I was taking up a position with a security company owned by an on old Sandhurst friend, who by chance was looking for a replacement operations manager in the newly independent Republic of South Sudan.

North and South Sudan have been at war with each other for between 25 and 53 years depending on your source, and a Comprehensive Peace Agreement signed in 2005 led to relative stability which culminated in the formal declaration of Independence on 9^th July. Naturally I was excited at the opportunity to experience the birth of a new country, but although I arrived three days before the event, I was to see very little of the festivities.

The new capital of Juba is no larger than a provincial English town, sitting beside the White Nile, but there the similarity ends. Most of the accommodation consists of portable buildings squeezed into walled compounds topped with razor wire, and guarded in the main by my new employees. There is no reliable source of electricity so the drone of generators is all pervasive. Water is delivered by ancient trucks from outlets provided by USAID and signs by the pumps declare ‘A gift from the American people.’ The exorbitant cost of living, driven by the unabashed exploitation of NGO’s and aid organisations working here, means that a night in a portacabin at the Hamza Inn (…think down market Camp Bastion) costs more than a superior room at the Sheraton Belgravia. A laminated sign adorns the dining room door rather like a No Entry road sign, with the image of the ubiquitous Kalashnikov struck through.

But there is an underlying air of optimism that you can’t fail to notice, and as I was driven around, the roads were being washed with water and brooms, strategic curb stones painted white, and a few flower pots distributed at road junctions which uniquely complimented lounging soldiers in camouflage fatigues cradling AK 47s and rocket propelled grenades. Earlier in the week the local mayor of our area had visited each property and insisted that the front gate was painted blue, on risk of imprisonment. All in preparation for the big day and the presidential entourage.

My first task was to inspect the guards parading in the compound, something I hadn’t done since a young infantry subaltern, and now touching 50 I felt rather like Captain Mainwaring as I was treated to a display of drill which would have made my old colour sergeant swallow his pace stick, but with a commitment which would have raised an approving smile, and having taken a salute actually heard myself saying “Good turnout men!” Only Corporal Jones was missing…

Several African Heads of State and diplomats from all over the world were flown in for the ceremony, and we could only imagine the chaos at the airport, although later learnt that the air traffic operation was taken over by the Kenyans who sent in controllers to organise the constant stream of aircraft that flew in low over our office. The resourceful Kenyans are a force majeur here in Southern Sudan and whilst they provide well needed expertise, some internal grumbling has been directed towards international development groups for not employing enough local Sudanese, and my company Warrior Security has made a priority of recruiting and training local guards, in all over a thousand.

Sadly my view of the festivities was restricted to the operational base, the old hands advising it would be a fruitless exercise to venture up town as the roads would be a heaving mass of humanity. But that night the residents and staff of Hamza Inn were treated to a barbeque laid on by a long term Sudanese resident and duel Canadian citizen who we thanked and wished Happy Independence.

And we meant it. Independence has come at a price. Prolific poverty, rudimentary education and high infant mortality are only a few of the challenges that need to be addressed, along with the underlying resentments that will have evolved from years of fighting, deep tribal divisions, and on-going disputes up in the border areas that produce the country’s only major commodity, oil.

Having had a poem published in The Spectator last year I was encouraged, rashly, to write a new piece every day and post it on a blog, and managed to keep it up for 6 months. It has been a hard slog, and harder still knowing that the necessity of writing to order undoubtedly dilutes the quality of the offering. It was my intention to continue the discipline in my new environment, but the activities of the past few days have been all consuming, and I have lapsed. To my tiny band of loyal followers I say thank you, and I am certain my new surroundings will provide a refreshing fountain of inspiration. Watch this space http://dailybreadpoetry.blogspot.com/

Tuck Box

2011-07-04T23:10:00.000+01:00

My tuck box was blue and had two catches

like an ammo box, secured with a pad lock

and containing all that I now owned in the world.

You were allowed to accompany me to the

windowless bare study smaller than our

downstairs loo, which I was to share with Henn,

until it was time to shake hands, tight lipped

as I watched you walk away along the corridor

and back to the real world that you owned.

In a very short time I’d shut the pad lock key inside

and to my shame you were summoned from sherry

with the house master and armed with a pair of pliers

you forced the lock with a shaking hand and I think

I knew then, that this was hard for you too and I cried

for the first time, and didn’t want you to go again.

John H Davies

4^th July 2011

Briggs & Stratton

2011-07-03T22:44:00.002+01:00

Not only did she prove

that she didn’t need a man

about the place, but that

it was possible to mow

the lawn in several

different directions at once.

John H Davies

3rd July 2011

Fledgling

2011-07-02T23:14:00.003+01:00

Rather like

a tiny dressed chicken;

bald,

but warm

as it nestled in my palm,

this blind morsel of life,

muscled out,

its miniature ribcage

expanding and contracting

in a staccato rhythm

slowly diminishing

into my cupped hand

until all its premature vigour

was expended,

and round about,

the hedgerows chirruped

in the summer sunshine.

John H Davies

2nd July 2011

Le Marche

2011-07-01T22:39:00.000+01:00

A landscape bleached by sun
Distilled by many hundred years,
The subtle distillation
Of man’s toil and tears.

From far horizons, Sybil
Casts her beckoning shadow, now a mantle
To protect the ancient necromancers
Who, it’s said hid Pilate’s lifeless body
In the reddish depths of some demonic lake.

Here along the timeless pathways
Marched the history of our earth.
From Bronze Age man, the early Sabine
Recognised this rolling land
And merged into the countless hills
Which even now bear evidence
Of his respectful tenure.

It’s there for us to see,
As perched atop our vantage point
Towards the end of time
We delve among the sleepy hilltop villages
And ordered rows of olive groves
To find the scattered evidence
Of mighty Roman cult succumb
To mystical Byzantium.

The disparate land bore host in time
To Greeks and Gauls, and from its earth
Grew saints whose influence
Inspired great ochre monasteries
To which believers trekked on routes of faith,
Laying firm the comfort of those names
Which to this day remain.

And further down the centuries
Their message is reborn
In ducal palaces
Where music and great works of art
Impart the glory and the passion fixed
For all to hear and see
And ponder on the everlasting mystery.

John H Davies
1st July 2011

Farewell

2011-06-30T23:24:00.002+01:00

She gave me

a second hand copy

of Love in the Time

of Cholera

and I asked her

to water the flowers

on her birthday.

John H Davies

30th June 2011

Sea Breeze

2011-06-29T23:16:00.002+01:00

As I walked along the tree lined green lane

in the early evening, the sound of wind

gently pulsing through unseen branches overhead

reminded me of waves rolling over a shingle beach,

though I was nowhere near the sea.

John H Davies

29th June 2011

Haircut

2011-06-28T18:07:00.002+01:00

She cut my hair

with the confidence

of one who’d

been doing it

for years,

but it didn’t

improve my headache,

or hers.

John H Davies

28th June 2011

Honey Trap

2011-06-27T23:06:00.002+01:00

They came looking for their queen

and couldn’t escape,

these bees,

scattered on the window sill

in random stillness,

like upturned turtles;

becalmed,

unhummed,

expollinated

spider fodder.

John H Davies

27th June 2011

Late evening summer ride

2011-06-26T23:37:00.000+01:00

A familiar shadow follows alongside.

I know it is me, because the

shirt is vibrating in the wind

and white noise fills the ears

and insects smack against cheeks

and smells of summer vegetation

and wood smoke and petrol

and burnt oil against the exhaust,

garnish the machine gun chatter

of the single eighty four millimetre

bore and ninety millimetre stroke

firing at every lamp post,

and for a brief moment man, machine

and road are phased in perfect rhythm.

John H Davies

26th June 2011

Wonderful Whether

2011-06-25T20:19:00.000+01:00

‘I wonder what’s for supper tonight,’ he wondered,

whilst wondering whether it would rain before

he mowed the lawn, or if

England

would

bowl out

Sri Lanka

on the first day. He

wondered whether they had enough

stock at work to complete that order,

and was it any wonder there wasn’t

anything to look forward to on TV

tonight given the rubbish they show

these days, though he would still

sit down at nine as he did every

night, wondering whether any

of this would inspire him to

think of something to post

on the blog before

midnight, or whether

something had to

change…

John H Davies

25th June 2011

Mountain Grass

2011-06-24T22:19:00.011+01:00

Be like the mountain grass that bends
when the savage east wind blows;
its passing but a gentle kiss
that will in time
give comfort in repose.

Be like the mountain grass that bends
to the gentle breeze in June
infused with healing warmth;
that is my constant love
about your presence strewn.

Be like the mountain grass that bends
to the travellers weary tread;
cushioning the rocky path
beneath his feet
as he is homeward led.

John H Davies
24th June 2011 (revised 10th November 2011)

Close by

2011-06-23T22:43:00.000+01:00

You will hear me
in the silent moments
between each heart beat.

You will feel me
when the sun gently kisses
the nape of your neck.

You will see me
in empty hedgerows
with the early lambs.

John H Davies
23rd June 2011

Bragging about our dads - IV

2011-06-22T19:00:00.000+01:00

My dad works at the bank
and he can get
millions of pounds
whenever he wants –
although it’s
not his money really.
In fact it’s
not really real money,
money you can touch
anyway.
Actually there isn’t
any money at all;
there are things called
futures and options
and packages of debt,
which is what makes it
really interesting,
and apparently
most of it
belongs to all of us
anyway, so that’s good
isn’t it?

John H Davies
22nd June 2011

Pancho

2011-06-21T22:49:00.001+01:00

Pancho was from Panama
and spoke disarmingly good English,
but you learned to trust your instinct
in this place

and guard against the plausible ones,
the bonhomie, the friendly air
and just for a moment you were
taken in

until he removed his T-shirt
to reveal a chest carefully
crossed-hatched with welted scars:
a chequer board

by his own hand. A preening display
of self harming bravado that gave light
to the glint in his eye. ‘Game of chess?’
he offered.

John H Davies
21st June 2011

Changeling

2011-06-20T22:47:00.000+01:00

The rich dark earth
felt warm
as he sifted it
through searching fingers
before planting
Impatiens, Lobelias
and Begonias
that would in time
give silent voice
to her eternal message
that nothing is wasted;
every atom recycled,
every memory redeployed,
every event
purposed.

John H Davies
20th June 2011

Premature

2011-06-19T22:33:00.000+01:00

I feel rather sad
when the climbing rose
sheds its white
heart shaped petals.

So early in the summer
to have peaked
in one fleeting moment,
leaving untidy piles
on the path,
like spent confetti
around a deserted
lych gate.

John H Davies
19th June 2011

Royal Ascot

2011-06-18T21:57:00.003+01:00

John H Davies

18th June 2011

A Headmasters Prayer

2011-06-17T18:34:00.001+01:00

New boys sat on the front row

beneath the headmaster's pew,

humbly beseeching polished brogues

as he lightened our darkness.

The author of peace

and lover of concord, he shepherded

our erring and straying through

Kings and Queens like lost sheep.

Woe betide the boy who fell

into sin or ran into any kind

of off-side trap or leg before,

according to his governance.

And day by day he brought us

safely to the beginning of our humble

assaults on childhood amidst a peace

which only now I understand.

John H Davies

17th June 2011

The Party

2011-06-16T22:42:00.009+01:00

“Come in come in,” a kiss, a hug – “have you lost weight?
You must meet Angel, oh and Rachel’s partner Brian”
(aside in hushed conspiratorial tones, for Rachel died last month)
and in I wade with good intention: “Sorry to hear about your loss,
were you together long?”
“Twenty years on and off, mostly off. A free spirit was Rachel.
She left me actually. The magic had gone, we hoped it might return.”
“No chance!” said Angel, dragging on a roll-up from the peeling bench
“I give ‘em three months and I’m off.”

Half familiar strangers loiter with vacant smiles
and piles of vol au vents on paper plates
and expectant looks towards a next door room
in order to avoid that ever awkward introduction.

“And she’s the one that used to be the catwalk model,”
which might explain the invisible barrier
across which no-one dares to tread despite her friendly smile
and charming kids and mundane talk of physios and other normal things.

I’m John as well! That’ll make things easy. Actually
they call me Bonkers John and I’ll tell you all about myself
for the next half hour provided that you stand and smile and prompt
and feel relieved as folks will think you’re quite the socialite –
Look! Someone wants to talk to you...
except that Bonkers John will talk to anyone.

And from this island sanctuary I leap to Bill
who looks kind and friendly and not too taxing
and finds it spooky that I’ve just read Hardy too
which means I’ll probably also like to hear of post cards
and canals and laying hedges. What are the chances
of us two meeting here of all places?

The night draws on and sounds of voices mingle
with the dim but friendly lights and when I’m happy
that my host and those I’ve met are so absorbed in feeble etiquette
they wouldn’t miss my paltry contribution, I slip the latch
and hope no-one will catch me in the silent act of cowardice.

John H Davies
16th June 2011

Elegy on the rear end of a male sheep

2011-06-15T22:09:00.003+01:00

‘We only eat when seated at table,’

he explained, refusing my offer

of an ice-cream in down town Minden.

John H Davies

15th June 2011

Bard of the Black Country

2011-06-14T22:38:00.001+01:00

I salute you

John Sparry:

historian, raconteur,

skilled exponent

of the vibraphone,

wearer of strange

headgear,

residing above

your second hand

bookshop next to

the chip shop

in Wall Heath.

Long may you

make us smile.

John H Davies

14^th June 2011

Birth

2011-06-13T22:30:00.002+01:00

She had the child at home

with only the midwife in attendance

and was relieved

that it cried this time.

Although the noise

faded with the years,

until neither she

nor the boy

were conscious of the silence

that had developed.

And it was only

when she began

to lose her hearing,

that she thought about

the little voice again.

John H Davies

13th June 2011

Postponement

2011-06-12T22:05:00.002+01:00

As the anaesthetic began to take effect

her last thought was how this would be

a good way to go

and later confided a feeling of disappointment

when she woke up and found herself

in the recovery room.

John H Davies

12th June 2011

Automobile

2011-06-11T20:43:00.001+01:00

Sitting in a metal box

breathing in intoxicating air

hurtling from here to there

at breakneck speed -

mostly getting nowhere.

We haven’t come

particularly far

since man’s ascent

from sea to land

from land to tree,

and finally to stand.

Even though

he’s mastered air,

and even dared

to broach the planet’s

mantle fair

in search of new horizons.

Evolved till precious life itself

can be prolonged.

Unlimited ambition

which unfettered, strives

for goals that until recently

would seem like heresy

to lesser souls.

As patiently

they contemplate

the meek acceptance

of their fate

that’s hardly fitting

hardly fair, breathing in

intoxicating air

whilst humbly

sitting in a metal box.

11^th June 2011

Giving

2011-06-10T21:45:00.004+01:00

You said it is easier to give,

if you have something to give,

when in truth most people

find it harder

to part with what they have

when they have it.

Which is why you are not

like most people.

John H Davies

10th June 2011

They come in threes

2011-06-09T22:18:00.002+01:00

I distinctly saw them

in my peripheral view

but dared not take my eye

off the rolling sea

or my hand from the wheel,

and harnessed to the safety line

I held our course on a beam reach,

and thought what a site

our little ship must have made

to our three mute spectators

looking on from the rocky cliffs

in the teeth of the gale,

and somehow their presence

assured me, though I confess

a feeing of exhilarated relief

as we ran to starboard

and surfed through Puffin Sound,

rounding the island

as the evening sun

set our wet clothes steaming,

and in the calmer water

I asked my old crewman

if he’d seen the figures

regarding us, and after a pause

he explained that no-one

had inhabited the barren rock since

the monastery was abandoned

in the twelfth century,

and as we passed close by

the lighthouse on the mainland

its bell sounded a lonely knell

that broke the awkward pause.

Years later, on land now

I came down

from a snow covered hill

and lunched among the ruins

of an old farmstead,

and in my reverie

sensed something familiar

about me, and recognised

the brooding presence

of three stone pillars;

perhaps they were arranged

in a similar attitude,

but a pervading assurance

returned to me as I resumed

the homeward journey,

and after only a few paces

my phone rang

and you told me there’d been

an accident, and no-one knew

if she was dead or alive,

and all I could see

in my mind’s eye

as I raced back over the mountain

were the lone sentinels,

their sinister scrutiny

charging each pace

delivering me to her

side, hurt but safe.

Unholy trinity,

I hesitate to think

what augers

the next appearance

of the three,

and whether I’ll be ready,

or whether my sun

will be settling

towards the horizon,

and wise men

and shepherds will be

following some other star.

Or is it simply a bit like

waiting for a bus?

You wait all day…

John H Davies

9th June 2011

Honeysuckle

2011-06-08T19:12:00.000+01:00

Sweetening the

thickly air,

making its play

for the hedgerow stakes;

unnoticed all the year

until this moment,

when it takes a bow

and how!

John H Davies

8th June 2011

Tourist Trophy

2011-06-07T21:57:00.002+01:00

Goodbye Derek Brien,

farewell Bill Currie and Kevin Morgan,

true gladiators to those of us

who can only guess

how it must feel

to charge down Bray Hill

for the first time;

bounce over Ballaugh Bridge;

fly through Quarry Bends on a drying road;

scream along Sulby Straight at full chat;

glide past Gooseneck;

power up the mountain;

down past the Creg,

and back to Douglas

for a flying lap.

And though you’ve rounded

Governor’s Bridge for the last time,

we’ll still be holding up a sign board

as you dice with Guthrie and Dunlop,

Hailwood and McIntyre,

stopping only to collect a replica

from the Deemster, each time

you pass the Grandstand.

John H Davies

7th June 2011

Pitching it up

2011-06-06T22:42:00.001+01:00

I always think of him

on this day;

a young subaltern

fresh from school,

with a lively off-break

soon to lose its shape

by a hedge near Caen.

Blown up

by an unseen shell,

though he’s quick

to point out

that he was

facing the enemy

at the time.

John H Davies

6th June 2011

Half Way

2011-06-05T22:00:00.003+01:00

Somehow, reaching the

half way marker

wasn’t quite enough,

and he continued

a few more paces

before allowing himself

to think he was

on the homeward stretch.

John H Davies

5th June 2011

Traces

2011-06-04T22:21:00.001+01:00

Evolve me,

and I will turn from the sun

and claim the void.

One thought to vent

the sulphurous residue

of late flowering

maturity.

Retreat me,

and see the shadow

creep across unequal surfaces

and stall to time.

John H Davies

4th June 2011

Mortality

2011-06-03T23:05:00.001+01:00

The keyhole surgery

was a success and his

fears that they might

find something sinister

besides his gall bladder

were unfounded, but

despite this and his

obvious post operative

fatigue he couldn’t sleep

because each time he

closed his eyes he felt

like he was going to die.

John H Davies

3rd June 2011

E.Coli in salad - a scientific view

2011-06-02T22:39:00.001+01:00

Lettuce, tomato or cucumber?

Hard to tell which is the culprit.

Though judging from the public

reaction it seems to be nothing

more than a matter of taste.

John H Davies

2nd June 2011

Ships In The Night

2011-06-01T20:09:00.001+01:00

I called again,

but he was away from his desk.

I’d called this morning

only to be told

he hadn’t come in yet,

and when I called at lunch time,

he was at lunch.

So as sure

as there is a law

somewhere on the statute book,

drafted by a man

of Irish ancestry,

when he calls back, I’ll be

on the other line.

John H Davies

1st June 2011

Parting

2011-05-31T22:43:00.001+01:00

I used to part my hair to the left,

I’m not sure why, it didn’t naturally fall

in one direction or the other;

it was simply one of those decisions

you had to make as a boy, and I think

mine was based on a straw pole

which revealed that most people’s

partings were on the other side.

And I never gave it a second thought,

and hardly ever looked in the mirror

until the winds of change blew about us

and you suggested I parted my hair

the other way, and said you preferred it.

And for once I checked my reflection,

still familiar but now inverted,

and saw how I must appear to you.

John H Davies

31st May 2011

Sketch by John Wheatley 1916

2011-05-30T22:40:00.001+01:00

I’ll leave your picture up

until the very last moment,

because it helps me to think

of you struggling to make

sense of the changing world,

and the pursuit of that elusive

other self. For sharing your

hardship brings us closer,

even though I have added

almost ten years to the moment

you made your lucky escape.

John H Davies

30th May 2011

Tony Boyle

2011-05-29T22:10:00.001+01:00

I felt you there today,

Your reassuring presence at my shoulder.

I followed the path that you had trod

A year before, and now a little older

I’m still wandering in the aftermath

Of your departure.

You left us unprepared.

No timely warning that you planned to go.

And yet in truth

Those years that you bestowed

In wisdom kind

Will bear us safely down our onward road.

I felt you there today,

On a breath of warm Italian wind,

And I knew that all was well.

John H Davies

29th May 2011

Choice

2011-05-28T19:33:00.001+01:00

Why fall we pray so often

To the victim of our passionate response

To some small thing

Whose harmony does not accord with ours?

Do matters thus exert some hidden power on us

To form a righteous verdict

And disturb our peace of mind?

Are we so fragile as to feel compelled

To form opinions and so dispel

The hopes and fears of others likewise trapped?

The choice is ours. Aurelius says:

Escape from man’s true sin

Is so to exercise the knowledge

That our souls cannot be marked

By any outward thing,

Unless we let it in.

John H Davies

28th May 2011

Silver Screen

2011-05-27T22:47:00.001+01:00

She took me out to watch a movie

for some light entertainment

and instead we saw a film

about the Australian underworld

in which practically everyone

met a miserable end, but despite

the content we emerged from the

theatre feeling strangely uplifted.

John H Davies

27th May 2011

Flor Y Sol

2011-05-26T21:47:00.000+01:00

The flowers are in bloom

but the sun isn’t shining.

I had thought the two

went hand in hand;

that one was a prerequisite

of the other, or that

the other heralded the

splendour of the one.

But sometimes the two

don’t go hand in hand,

and they are poorer for it.

John H Davies

26th May 2011

Dawn Chorus

2011-05-25T21:01:00.001+01:00

There wasn’t much for a child to do

in the small bungalow and all you could see

from the bedroom window as we lay together

in the grey of the morning, were five

telegraph wires like a stave of music,

and as the birds perched upon them in

a seemingly arbitrary fashion, Nana hummed

the melody they described from pole

to pole in her soft Welsh contralto.

John H Davies

25th May 2011

Path of Least Resistance

2011-05-24T20:23:00.003+01:00

The path of least resistance

can also be the path best lit;

the path along which the traveller

needs no map or compass,

and with a little wind behind,

the gentle gradient will carry him

to his yet undisclosed destination.

John H Davies

24th May 2011

Parallel Universe

2011-05-23T22:29:00.000+01:00

There is a quiet place

on the outskirts of the village

from which you can spy

all the landmarks of your life.

The school you didn’t attend;

the fields of buttercups

through which we wouldn’t roam;

Old Windmill Hill, up which

I don’t see you running with a kite;

and over the brow, our home

where you never grew up.

The church where you weren’t

Christened, but instead a short

service brought you here to rest

locked in your six weeks

of what might have been,

where I return from time to time

to find out how you’re doing.

John H Davies

23rd May 2011

Books

2011-05-22T22:07:00.001+01:00

If I had to save anything

from the burning house,

it would be the books.

I could live pretty well

with nothing but a book;

to feel, to smell, to feed

my mind and fan the flames.

And when the lights go out

I will light a candle

and read my books.

John H Davies

22nd May 2011

Judgement Day

2011-05-21T17:32:00.001+01:00

Today’s the day,

and I guess if you’re

reading this it didn’t

quite happen the way

some predicted:

with earthquakes

and tidal waves

and graves thrown open

and survivors existing

in a world of horror and

chaos beyond

description.

And then again

perhaps it has

already happened.

Quietly, when

no-one was

looking. In fact

it has the sober

ring of familiarity

about it, although

frankly I don’t think

He would have

bothered.

John H Davies

21st May 2011

Agenda

2011-05-20T21:57:00.002+01:00

He had an agenda,

and so did he,

and also him.

She had an agenda,

and they had agendas,

as well as several others.

His agenda conflicted

with her agenda,

and also theirs,

whereas it was

in complete accord

with the others’.

And although there were

no hidden agendas,

there seemed to be

no single agenda

that satisfied all

parties and as a result

there was no meeting.

John H Davies

20th May 2011

Song of the Songs – Part 2

2011-05-19T21:01:00.002+01:00

Here’s a song that I’ve created

Here in the sweet afterglow

Softly as the falling snow

Oh how they sigh.

You left me fond recollections

When a pale September moon

was shining,

Nobody knows the hour

They were there together

Constant forever.

Pray tell me whence you come

Oh heavenly rest

Somewhere I know where lovers go

Into my heart one December day

For me there seemed no morrow.

Raise your voices, raise your hearts

There’s a wonderful light in the sky

A poet loves the springtime.

That is all I have to say.

John H Davies

19th May 2011

Friendship

2011-05-18T20:49:00.001+01:00

Someone suggested

that friendship

is easier to give

than to receive;

rather like a wound,

or a salute,

and as a consequence

the only way

to receive friendship

is with the grace

of a warrior

or a general.

John H Davies

18th May 2011

People you meet in pubs VI

2011-05-17T22:03:00.004+01:00

I loved to hear how during the war his squadron

had been stationed for a while in South Africa

and he was billeted with a family at an address

that had become imprinted on his memory,

and after only a few repetitions, on mine too:

77 St. Albans Road, Mayfair West, Jo’Burg.

He reminded me again the night before I left

for the airport, as he steadied the shimmer

in his glass-hand by gripping his wrist

with the other, and with a glint in his eye

and despite the forty years, he could still picture

the daughter of the house, and I practiced her name

as he repeated it in his quiet but clipped voice:

Suzanne Labuschagne, Suzanne Labuschagne…

and the side of his mouth rose ever so slightly,

accentuated by his neatly trimmed moustache.

I kept my promise to look her up once I’d settled in,

and found the house quite easily, and my knock

was answered by a girl who only rented the place

and didn’t recognise the name, or know the owner.

A year later I returned to the pub to let him down

gently, anticipating his repressed excitement,

but fixed to the wall by the bar where he

liked to stand, was a propeller and a small plaque

that read: ‘In Memory of Freddie Lane,’

and despite my sadness, I was pleased that both

those memories were now conjoined and

strengthened and recycled like that repeated address:

77 St. Albans Road, Mayfair West, Jo’Burg.

John H Davies

17th May 2011

Herd Instinct

2011-05-16T20:47:00.003+01:00

The giraffe in the garage gave a wide berth to

the alligator in the bath, as it ignored

the fly in the soup that avoided

the kudu in the corridor running from

the leopard on the landing slipping quietly past

the hippo in the hall, but none of them noticed

the elephant in the room.

John H Davies

16th May 2011

Lover’s Complaint

2011-05-15T20:13:00.003+01:00

The hardest part about walking

up a concave hill, is not the gradient,

but the inconvenient fact

that as your journey progresses,

the summit remains hidden from view,

and what you imagine is a brow

relentlessly opens up each time

you think you are getting close,

so that your only option is to

concentrate on the journey

and not the destination.

John H Davies

15 May 2011

Divided Attention

2011-05-14T21:11:00.003+01:00

He could fly a helicopter so competently that the Chief

Flying Instructor complimented him after his final sortie,

having executed a faultless autorotation engine-off landing,

bringing the machine to the ground with artful grace.

He could communicate simultaneously on three different

radio channels with the refined poise of an airline pilot.

He could navigate to within a solitary blade of grass

at a given eight figure grid reference in the dead of night.

He could direct an unseen battery of field artillery

onto an enemy target within three single adjustments.

He could trim the finely balanced dynamics of the

sophisticated machine purely by the seat of his pants.

But ask him to do it all together, at the same time,

in the same instant, without a second thought,

and each element crowded in upon his narrowing

vision, and before too long he was well and truly lost.

John H Davies

14th May 2011

Mail

2011-05-13T20:30:00.002+01:00

We promised to write

every day

and you did.

In your neat hand

with a whiff

of Miss Dior

on each page.

So that in the slumbering

barrack room

after the clamour

and mud and pain

and cold and boot polish

and disinfectant

I could pull the starched sheet

over my head

and feel you

beside me.

John H Davies

13th May 2011

The Enlightenment

2011-05-12T20:01:00.004+01:00

When it arrives

it is as if

it had been here

all the time,

and we had become

so familiar

with the

imaginary space

which it occupied

that its realisation

was both a shock

and a comfort

in one

swift movement

of the

executioner’s blade.

John H Davies

12th May 2011

Laundry

2011-05-11T21:26:00.001+01:00

He attributed the mud and grass stains,

worked into the knees of his new school trousers,

to his ‘signature move’ sliding tackle

at break time, and it was difficult to decide

whether to discourage such bravado

or suggest more subtle ball skills

which in another day would have been

substituted by a pair of shorts, clenched teeth,

and the smell of Dettol in Matron’s room.

John H Davies

11th May 2011

Aceldama

2011-05-10T21:16:00.000+01:00

It still broods when I drive by slowly,

as I am drawn to do whenever my travels

take me near the house where he grew up,

and even as I write I feel it watching me.

The sun never shone there in my memory

but despite the tragedies of his childhood,

they dug in deeper to defy the malevolence,

and grew potatoes and made cheesecake,

and all of a sudden we had grown up,

and he took me to one of the upper rooms

and explained how something so awful

had haunted him there he couldn’t

or wouldn’t tell me in any detail, and I

could only imagine his pain as I lay in the

guest room that night and struggled for breath

as something pressed heavy against my chest.

John H Davies

10th May 2011

Chinese Whispers

2011-05-09T20:53:00.000+01:00

Lieutenant Commander Henry Mirehouse RN

taught us Latin for a term, but his health

was unreliable and he didn’t stay for long.

He had old fashioned whiskers and flinched

when we banged our desk lids because he’d

been wounded by Chinese shellfire as his

ship ran the gauntlet of the Yangtze river.

We banged our lids more often and his face

grew red and angry when we laughed so that

I felt guilty, and became his friend. And one day

he gave me an old fan that had belonged

to his mother. I treasured it until it crumbled

into dust like the awkward correspondence

I wished I’d taken the trouble to maintain.

Years later I heard he’d died alone at his home

on the Lizard, aged 58. The Coroner’s verdict:

‘Death by enemy action.’

John H Davies

May 9th 2011

People you meet in pubs - V

2011-05-08T21:15:00.000+01:00

I think I might have warmed to him

because other warmers seemed to be

thin on the ground and perhaps

amongst the others I knew at that time,

I recognised a fragility

beneath the bold pronouncements

that some despised,

but I could see through all that.

And now he sits before me,

and points to where the growth

is slowly spreading from

his oesophagus, and smiles

in a rather awkward way as if to say:

‘Funny how life turns out,’

and explains how a burglar

hit him over the head

with a fire extinguisher

because he’d probably

said too much in the pub.

John H Davies

8th April 2011

Background

2011-05-07T18:41:00.000+01:00

I had always thought

British garden birds

rather ordinary,

boring and brown

and all looking the same

more or less.

But suddenly this year

they seem to have taken on

a splash of colour,

as if they have

dipped and swooped

in and out

of an artist’s pallet.

Even the red chin

of the swallow

seems brighter;

the green wagtails

greener; and the

goldfinches scramble to

monopolise the view

from every window.

I had always allowed

the birds to occupy

the background,

and perhaps only now

that I yearn

some colour,

do I notice

the rainbow in them.

John H Davies

7th May 2011

Touché

2011-05-06T21:25:00.003+01:00

Have you ever been touched?

An unseen foot under the table -

the touch of the untouchable.

Or an innocent touch, a soft touch

conveying more than words

or a glance. Do you touch

upon a subject without concern

that you might be out-of-touch?

Would you have touched the border

of the garment, a touch of virtue

and desperation, in the same

touching moment? Is it only

the tangible that we trust, or repel -

the touch of the leper? Are you

the type to stay in touch, or wait

for the touch on the shoulder?

Do you still favour touch-typing

or one-touch technology; prefer

being in touch with your emotions

or touching the void? And

whether you’re touched up

or touched in the head -

take a leaf out of an old book

and don’t forget to ask yourself:

‘Who touched me?’

John H Davies

May 6th 2011

Rescue

2011-05-05T21:33:00.002+01:00

You can never find a policeman

when you need one –

I considered the irony of these words

as I relayed instructions from a man

in the office of the crane hire company

to the Bobby below, who in turn fiddled

with the buttons on the machine

which eventually lowered us safely

to the ground, and seemed bemused

and rather diffident when I shook his hand.

John H Davies

5th May 2011

Stranded

2011-05-04T22:47:00.002+01:00

We're 40 feet up in the cage
of a hydraulic lift that has just
stopped working and we've no idea
how we're going to get down or
more importantly how I'll get
today's poem on the blog
hang on, here comes a policeman...

John H Davies

4th May 2011

Osama

2011-05-03T22:08:00.000+01:00

I know I shouldn’t be glad that

someone’s dead, but I am glad

they got him at last. I’m glad

for the families of his countless victims

and I’m glad, because when I was a boy

he accused me of something I didn’t do

to cover up his own shortcomings,

and he pushed me down a stairwell

and trampled on me mercilessly

because I was smaller than him.

So I joined the army and learnt

how to take care of myself, rather hoping

that one day I might bump into him

and even up the score, but I guess

I won’t have to bother now.

John H Davies

3rd May 2011

Fresh Start

2011-05-02T21:20:00.000+01:00

She took her clothes and shoes

and potted plants,

the sofa bed

and the ashes of her dead dog,

some kitchen utensils

and a large smile.

And replacing his tape measure

on the desk

in the office,

she locked the front door

for the last time

and stepped out

into the sunshine.

John H Davies

2nd May 2011

Cure

2011-05-01T22:05:00.000+01:00

When I’m down

she dumps our puppy

in my lap knowing

I won’t be able to resist.

What simpler therapy

in all the world,

than the craving

of the innocents?

John H Davies

1st May 2011

By the waters of Léman

2011-04-30T20:51:00.004+01:00

‘My brother is a Coptic priest,’

the Egyptian leant over

from an adjoining table,

concerned we might have thought

the long black robes and grey beard

belonged to a Muslim cleric,

despite the large crucifix at his chest,

and having captured our attention

continued to explain the finer differences

between the three orthodoxies,

and extolling the virtues of the Dutch.

And so unlikely a pair they seemed

that I was put in mind of a pimp

selling the assets of his finest girl,

as we studied the old steam boat

creeping across the lake towards the pier,

before rising from our seats without

obvious haste and wishing them

Happy Easter.

John H Davies

30th April 2011

The Kiss

2011-04-29T20:02:00.002+01:00

I pinch myself when I think

we were there for the kiss

on that warm day in June

when the world seemed to stop

in technicolor freeze frame;

you in a pastel blue frock

and me an ill fitting Sandhurst

blazer. We’d watched the ceremony

on a TV behind the bar

of the Special Forces Club

though Uncle Alfie wasn’t there

(something had come up),

then a car ploughed us through

the throng and we were caught up

in the moment and deposited

outside the palace just as

prince and princess appeared

at the balcony and kissed

and a roar went up around us.

I had not thought what that kiss

might have meant to you

and perhaps my indifference

reflected a certain aloofness

of my newly indentured family

that was to prove so fatal

to you, and me, and them.

John H Davies

29th April 2011

Fun Fair

2011-04-28T21:56:00.001+01:00

The boy passed the blue Post Office

savings book across the counter

and withdrew his last ten pounds

knowing that although it was his

money, the intention of kindly

aunts and uncles and parents’ friends

who had donated towards the diminishing

balance, and his father’s explanation

of accrued interest, had been rather more

long term, as he stepped into the seat

of the twister and the man clamped

the safety bar down, and he closed

his eyes and wondered whether the

exquisite feeling in his stomach was guilt,

or the anticipation of the short lived

exhilaration of the ride, and the void

when it and the money had finished.

28th April 2011

John H Davies

Bragging about our granddads (I)

2011-04-27T22:22:00.000+01:00

“I’ve booked a slot with him this afternoon,”

Vanya explained over a cupcake in his

international school English, and we smiled

with interest; “He’s promised to talk to me

about his past life for my history project –

he spied for the KGB in Washington for 11

years until he was caught and given 24 hours

to leave – it’s kinda cool.” And when he left

I went out onto the terrace where Kevin was

cooking sausages and we made references to

the old enemy in hushed conspiratorial tones.

John H Davies

27th April 2011

Difficult Terrain

2011-04-26T22:07:00.000+01:00

As they picked their way

from stone to stone

and over protruding

tree roots, she explained

how all her attention

was required directly

beneath her feet, and that

if she looked too far

ahead in anticipation

of the unfolding view,

she might stumble.

John H Davies

26th April 2011

Home

2011-04-25T19:56:00.000+01:00

Sweet where the heart is

out of range, like

no other place;

a sickening search

in knowing thoughts

upon its coming

to town or city,

race or species.

Or simply a notion

of wanting, leaving

welcomes to the

safety of others;

an unfulfilled destination

of expired timetables.

John H Davies

25th April 2011

M.O.T.H.S

2011-04-24T22:02:00.002+01:00

(Memorial order of tin hats)

The caretaker of my one bedroom flat in downtown Jo’burg

seemed so pleased at my arrival, he had some boys deliver the

biggest fridge I’d ever seen, as a favour to a ‘special’ tenant,

and in his bare room in the ground floor basement hung an

enormous photograph of his presentation to a young Queen,

in recognition of long years as a Japanese prisoner of war.

Several times he invited me to a party of old comrades

which I eagerly accepted, but he always forgot, and just

as I was about to give up hope, he turned up

at my door one evening with a smile and a set of keys,

and I drove his battered old car through unfamiliar streets

and we got lost, and arrived just in time as the old chaps

took their seats; someone fumbled with the light switch;

and in the darkness the commanding officer struck a match

and lit a candle that was melted onto an upturned tin helmet

placed on the table in front of him. And round and about me,

I felt old backs stiffen, and for a brief moment as the Transvaal

sun went down, any trace of dementia had all but disappeared.

John H Davies

24th April 2011

Making History

2011-04-23T21:20:00.000+01:00

I’ve got this knawing suspicion

that it’s all going to be OK.

And whilst there is an element

of relief and self assurance about it,

what irritates me is that

I’ll no doubt look back

and think it wasn’t so bad after all,

when the urgency of the present

is screaming out to remind

my future self that

it didn’t feel like it at the time.

John H Davies

23rd April 2011

Altitude

2011-04-22T21:10:00.000+01:00

We ascended through spring

pastures of wild crocuses

and Edelweiss, and with

every gaining step

your life regressed by

increments, minute by

minute, so that by

the time we scrambled

along the ridge towards

the summit, you were a

child again, unable to contain

your breathless joy in the

thin air, with trembling knees

that reminded me of the

excitement I felt when

I thought I was about to

make a new friend.

John H Davies

22nd April 2011

Crossing a Bridge

2011-04-21T22:12:00.000+01:00

A territorial dispute

or a perfect union,

the knarled trunk

barged up between

the ancient stones

of the bridge

like a bulging vein

but oddly accommodated;

conjoining animate

with inanimate,

injecting life

into the forgotten

structure as it slowly

forces it apart.

John H Davies

21st April 2011

Foxy Cat

2011-04-20T20:54:00.000+01:00

Foxy Cat is flat.

I know this because I narrowly missed

his steaming carcass the other day

on my way to work.

We weren’t that fond

of Foxy Cat, but for his

incongruous brown brush

set against an otherwise cloudy cotton coat,

now embossed with tractor tyre tread.

Notable only for winding up our dog

was Foxy Cat,

and terrorizing the neighbour’s rabbit

by standing beyond the French windows

out of reach.

Each day I pass,

his pancake imprint becomes less.

Until one day there’ll be nothing left

of Foxy Cat.

One wrong turn -

his earthly contribution

faded to less than a memory.

John H Davies

20th April 2011

Cwm Megan

2011-04-19T20:34:00.004+01:00

The birds sing all day long

in Megan’s valley

despite the rain

dripping from a fir

that both threatens

yet guards the old cot

like a tall shepherd,

growing taller

as the other grows old,

drawing memory from the earth

like rising sap

regenerating simpler times

and fixing them

in the mellifluous tones

of the birds that sing all day long

in Megan’s valley.

19th April 2011

John H Davies

Omen

2011-04-18T21:16:00.000+01:00

I didn’t believe in signs

or omens until we discovered

a hoary toad in the yard

when we moved the business.

It was sure to mean good luck

because my friend and partner

is known as the jovial toad

(of Toad Hall you understand)

and just before we had time

to tell him, we found the toad

squashed by a van and I don’t

think I believe in signs any more.

John H Davies

18th April 2011

Metamorphosis

2011-04-17T20:40:00.000+01:00

As he waited for the radiologist

to x-ray his hip, he tried to fix

the moment when he ceased

being a vibrant individual human

being and became just another

elderly person who fell

when the door closed on him

because he wasn’t strong enough

to hold it open against the spring.

John H Davies

17th April 2011

Perch

2011-04-16T21:53:00.001+01:00

Who knows how many years

it had avoided detection?

The rusting tip of a plough share,

come to light lately only

by the solitary investigation

of a curious child amongst the

furrowed troughs of clay

and brought home to be

presented as a holy relic

and placed on top of the wall

in the back yard and forgotten

again, by all except the birds,

that queue for a position

on the metal altar with dainty

pilgrim footfalls, as it warms

in the morning sunshine.

John H Davies

16th April 2011

Me and who’s army?

2011-04-15T20:11:00.000+01:00

‘Honorary Colonel of the Revolutionary Army

of the Rio Poco Sol, San Juan District,’

had a certain ring of the tin pot about it,

but to me it was better than any regimental silver;

a set of hallmarks of the highest sovereignty.

John H Davies

15th April 2011

Tinitis

2011-04-14T21:58:00.000+01:00

There it was again: a low frequency hum

lasting only a few seconds, its source

within his head; always a sustained note

never wavering, though random in pitch

with a constant volume fading neatly to silence.

He’d never met anyone who heard

the same hum, at the same time and anyway,

was reluctant to share the phenomenon

in case he was considered a bit strange,

but he liked to think he had a special gift.

Perhaps his finely attuned senses detected

seismic shifts that might forewarn disaster,

as someone passed through the space

he occupied in a different dimension,

stirring the fading rhythms of the ancients.

John H Davies

14th April 2011

Astral Projection

2011-04-13T21:54:00.000+01:00

A row of concrete ceiling slabs,

is the view when I open my eyes

in my head, and it feels oddly normal.

Everything where it should be:

the shelf beneath the glassless window

with concrete pill-box slits

instead of bars, that I pretend

are Elizabethan mullions,

against which the sun casts shadows

and gives form to the idling time.

But there is no sound, as my mind

conjures images of home,

and fights off the daily hunger pang

arriving promptly as the long case

clock down in the hall strikes seven.

John H Davies

13th April 2011

A. V.

2011-04-12T21:19:00.000+01:00

A.V. or not A.V.

now let me see…

give one side or another

the chance to pip the post,

then suffer in silence

while they spend

the next five years

making sure

they pip the post again.

Why don’t we

instead, you see…

let them vote

for themselves,

while we vote for

the important things

which it would be

their duty to implement?

Now that is the question.

John H Davies

12th April 2011

Diversity

2011-04-11T22:00:00.000+01:00

Although they both walked

along the same street

side by side

enjoying the same view,

she was aware

that what they both saw

would be different,

and that someone else

walking that same way

on a different day

would choose to notice

other things

in a different light.

And as she applied

this thought to the

elderly couple in front,

or the kids over the road,

she understood

how sometimes

she was misunderstood.

John H Davies

11^th April 2011

Shenton’s Heroes

2011-04-10T21:03:00.000+01:00

In the months and years

that followed the overdose,

they met from time to time

and walked up a hill

in his memory

and got hopelessly drunk

on the way home.

And on one of these trips

they reverently vowed

to step in early

if any of them looked

like going the same way.

John H Davies

10th April 2011

One-upmanship

2011-04-09T17:20:00.000+01:00

Fighting a bout of low self esteem

I headed westward where I’d heard it

possible to test your wits against

a certain mountain, Cyfwry so named

and forming part of the giant chair

where sat mighty Idris, long since

departed, and in the cold silence

inadequate Cyfwry, for he was

one of three, would challenge all-comers

to prove who was the greater. And so

I came to the shores of Llyn-y-Cau

dark as ink beneath his mighty sides.

The bragging was in full flow but sharp

were his senses and he detected

my diffident entrance, for you see

squirrels are by comparison quite

small. So small in fact that old Cyfwry

began to laugh in mocking tones of

disbelief. ‘And how’ he cried ‘can one

so insignificant hope to trump

me, whose granite sides flout the test of

time; redirect rivers at a whim;

carry mighty forests on my back

and confound the works of man – Pray tell?’

‘Well’ I said, drawing myself up to

full height with whiskers splayed for effect:

‘I bet you can’t crack a nut!’ It’s said

things were quieter in those parts after

that. I headed home feeling better

but knowing I was still the same squirrel.

John H Davies

9th April 2011

Journey

2011-04-08T20:59:00.000+01:00

We’ve come this far,

a little further

isn’t going to hurt

any more than it

already has.

We’ve come this far,

and survived,

like our ancestors

who we can thank

if so inclined.

And what the hell:

if we don’t make it

there’ll be plenty

ready and willing

to take our place.

We’ve come this far.

We won’t starve.

And what’s the worst

that could happen?

People talking?

They won’t spend

much time on it.

They’ll be too busy

wondering how

far they’ve come.

We’ve come this far,

just one more step.

John H Davies

8th April 2011

People you meet in pubs - IV

2011-04-07T21:47:00.002+01:00

I’ve forgotten his name, or perhaps I never knew it,

because he spoke in a forced whisper and sported

a white gauze that covered his neck like a clinical cravat,

and we had long conversations that I pretended to understand,

by nodding enthusiastically at what I thought were the right moments

because I liked his face, and the way he tapped you on the shoulder

to make a point, while his terrier sat gently at his feet and smiled.

And once he asked me something about balloons, eager for a reply,

and I said yes, and the next day he came into the back bar with a

brown paper bag containing the largest mushrooms I had ever seen.

John H Davies

7th April 2011

Peripheral – distilled

2011-04-06T19:26:00.003+01:00

(with thanks to Robert Thompson)

I wish I didn’t know

how far it is

to the nearest star.

I wish my horizon

was where the land stops

and the sky starts,

for then I might understand

why everything seems

so important -

the way that animals do;

whose only world

is that within their view.

How I wish I didn’t know

how far it is

to the nearest star.

John H Davies

6th April 2011

Judicial Review

2011-04-05T22:08:00.000+01:00

She suddenly understood

that she judged herself by how

others judged her and that she

had little control over

this for by the same measure

others’ judgement was based on

their perception of how she

judged them - through the looking glass.

John H Davies

5th April 2011

Flying Man

2011-04-04T20:08:00.000+01:00

Do you remember Ed

who held you on his hip

in church one Easter?

I cherish the image

of you and this man,

who in his youth

had held it together

for two tours of Vietnam,

and for a brief moment

shared our world.

Some guys weren’t so lucky:

like the grunt who lost it

one day and had to be

choppered from the base

for everyone’s safety.

And as the Huey sped

over The Mekong Delta

he calmly stood up

and stepped through the door

at a thousand feet

before anyone could grab him.

Ed was on the patrol

that found him next morning,

planted in the ground

feet first and standing upright,

spectacles slightly askew,

with a quizzical expression

on his face.

John H Davies

4th April 2011

Progressive Participles

2011-04-03T17:08:00.000+01:00

Fading shadows

Gaining light

Disappearing traces

Inverting reflections

Graduating time

Infusing memories

Conjoining space

Illuminating fate

Displacing reality

Perverting truth

Imitating infinity.

John H Davies

3rd April 2011

Air America

2011-04-02T18:13:00.001+01:00

The cockpit of the Cessna

was filled with the smell

of badly digested wind

and perspiration as we droned

high above the jungle,

and he talked about whores

as I traced a line on a map

with my finger and marvelled

at his confidence and

nonchalance with the controls,

and asked how many

flying hours he’d amassed:

‘About twenty’ he replied;

I was impressed ‘twenty thousand?’

‘No – twenty…’

I could just make out

the small airstrip

by the side of the mountain

in the fading dusk

and opened an air vent.

John H Davies

2nd April 2011

Rough Justice

2011-04-01T23:48:00.005+01:00

It seemed fair to assume

there’d be thieves in a prison,

but after our last belonging

had finally gone the way

of the others, and we still

had no idea who the culprit was,

we planted an imaginary object

under the bunk of the

most likely candidate

and beat the shit out of him.

There wasn’t any more trouble

for a while.

John H Davies

1st April 2011

Solemnly and with reverence

2011-03-31T20:07:00.001+01:00

Thirty recruits stood

in the empty barrack

sweating into their suits

while the instructing sergeant

delivered a brief overview

of what they could expect

during the next eight weeks

of basic training and that

this was the last chance

to change their minds

and head for the station:

‘Speak now or forever

hold your peace,’

and as a nervous hand

went up somewhere

near the back,

the sergeant continued:

‘Too fucking late son…’

John H Davies

31st March 2011

I Knew Bobby

2011-03-30T20:13:00.000+01:00

I spoke to your widow on her mobile

the other day in Homosassa. We’d never met,

but your friend Sonny gave me her number.

She told me you’d been dead for 11 years

and she still thought about you some days.

You come back to me in an old

black and white photo, your profile sipping

tequila, glass in the hand disfigured by a Chinese

bayonet that exited at the elbow before

the rifle discharged and made a mess.

You woke up on a hospital ship and spent

the next few years chasing wetbacks across

the Mexican border until you got bored

and went in search of the same thing

that we all did. I see you breaking the edge

of a jungle clearing, reciting the rules of cricket

in your southern drawl, and despite the brash exterior

and your admiration of my English reserve,

you taught me quiet survival during the long

dark hours of prison nights.

That was what killed you, Linda said,

you took the next 13 years to die. She said

you’d been childhood sweethearts and finally

married her before taking off again. ‘You know Bobby’

she said, and there was a pause at the other end of the line.

John H Davies

30th March 2011

Faces on walls

2011-03-29T20:23:00.002+01:00

Faces on walls

Smile from another dimension.

I wonder whether they had

Any intention

Good or bad

By chance or invention

To make me glad

Of their eyeballs?

John H Davies

29th March 2011