You Only Live Once

I don’t suppose for one minute

That James Bond washes his socks in the kitchen sink;

But I think that I’m on to something here –

I can do this without dressing up in a dinner jacket;

In fact I find myself looking rather queer

With an apron round my middle, rubber gloves –

No-one is likely to think me a master spy;

No Bond girls come for a night of awesome love.

I’m not licensed to kill but I wouldn’t mind a try –

You see it’s the passage of time that interests me

As I wring the socks until they are half-dry;

And full concentration isn’t required

So I let my mind wander; it never gets tired

Of 007, the girls and the guns

The casinos, the martinis, the enormous fun

Of fights and sex and cars and gadgetry,

The dazzling opening credits, the Bond theme,

The silhouettes of naked women – half-naked at least –

Bond in a DJ firing his gun; a feast

For the eyes. My eyes still on the socks,

Inspecting them for holes and traces of lye,

I’m happy doing this; it’s downtime from the knocks

I take in my life as a super-spy.

 

Spring

Poets’ Corner Folkestone were at The Troubador last Saturday, celebrating Spring – many poems by other writers – Blake, Wordsworth, Larkin, Hopkins, Rumi – but also by ourselves. This was my contribution.

 

There’s nothing quite like the beginning of Spring
It brings to an end the wearisome waiting;
Almost the same as becoming sixteen
With a spring in your step as life truly begins.

More natural though the bound in your pulse
As you gaze at the sunset over Dungeness
Its pale light shimmering the sea, the gulls
Dancing, silhouettes that soar and plunge,

Than the image over which you fussed
As you moved away, further – o much much
Further than Dungeness; further than love
Could carry you or reach you- ’twas ever thus

At sweet sixteen, sweet spring, the enchanted light
That holds in suspense the sea, youth’s first flight,
Hope, all things that grow, bring the white
Cherry blossom, equinox, the days, magical nights.

There’s nothing like spring but last spring, and the next.
The sun completes its setting, the sea repents,
Becomes familiar again; lusty lads and wenches
Drink on the beach; look out for the bounty of shipwrecks