Ray & Redhead

Poetry please

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Welcome to our poetry blog

Here is an uncivil partnership made in heaven, a platform for mutual provocation, a public exploration. We’re using the language of the heart alongside the harsh syllables of anger and discontent, stretchingFootprints meanings and metaphors to their limit and pulling words out of shape – respectfully, of course. Our subject is life, in all its shades of red, blue and grey.

Read on, explore the buffet – find some dishes to your taste, perhaps reminding you of a meal you ate once and enjoyed. We don’t promise all the flavours will be good for you – beware of acid indigestion and remember to add a pinch of salt! But why not go ahead – absorb some tasty morsels turned out of the creative kitchens of two other souls?


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Hero Worship


He suggested that I was

Developing the myth of a tormented soul

Though this was not the truth

Torment suggests oppression

At best I struggle

Muddle through with the background threat of darkness

Tormented I am not

Merely highly strung and sensitive to opinion

In honesty I was rather attracted to the concept

and entertained the thought for a moment

Until I watched it fly away

Disappearing like a star at daybreak

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Clear White Light

Seeing the son as he needs to be seen

For what he is

For what it’s worth

He like my faith


As fragile and opaque as the raindrops on my Japanese Acer

Clinging, balancing, faithful

Light dancing from their delicate surfaces

Spectral colours created as they are pierced and split

Arcing, dispersing, reflecting and refractive

Revealing what exists above the skies and between the stars

Sympathy starting all over again

Guiding us on the way


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A Glimpse of Heaven

In my father greenhouse

There are many rooms

Here there are flowers so fresh

One can almost hear them breathe

The air is thick with their suggestive perfume

The microscopic pollen invades the senses like cocaine

stroking the lobes of the lungs

Watching them as in slow-mo they follow the path of the sun

Storing the energy as memories of the long days glow

until the light fades and night creeps in

Here there are no seasons

No weeds to choke the blooms

They are eternal

Offering up life to butterflies, birds and bees

Immortal stems and stamen

Erect and fundamentally fecund

Life creating life

As the circle turns

As it has always been

As it is to come

Life from life

Just as you gave to me

In my fathers greenhouse there are many rooms

I would not tell you this if it was not so


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Shaman Corner

On impulse

unknown forces

flow through

my veins

offering prayers

incantations and invocation

to lost heroes

channeling their spirits

harvesting their thoughts

stealing their words

using their voices

to say something

if not original then



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Misspent Use

I spend my mornings

Propped up between warm sheets

Sipping tepid coffee

Creating collages

Carving out caricatures

Stolen and stylised

Self portraits


At the end of the day

after endless successions of busy nothings

I am left with

unresolved remnants

of an over fertile imagination

untainted by reality


It comes

Down to using a pen

with a hair trigger

Prematurely ejaculating

Thoughts often still born or only semi formed

Disabled children

But mine

And I love them regardless


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Going Through the Emotions

We are bound by our connections of blood, love and memories

United by the sense of irreplaceable loss and fragile emotions

We were aware of its coming yet unprepared for our uncoupling

Devotion is historical and camaraderie assumed

Perhaps it might have been different had they not died

Maybe then we would know each other better

Better than just through old photographs and recounted worn and torn story lines

But as it is

Other than the presumed prosaic platitudes of intent

Year in, year out

Our gathering offers no cold comforts or spiritual solace

We are bound by our connections of blood, love and memories

United by the sense of irreplaceable loss and fragile emotions


That is enough


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Mothers’ Day

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The maître d’ circles the room her arms

full of long-stemmed red roses

graciously laying the symbols of love

in front of women of a certain age

like an exquisite extra course


I never was a mother

blurted far too loud, too honest,

(in the dim hush we all blush)

but you must have one anyway!

and moving quickly on away

from candour and embarrassment…


our generous hostess over-compensates

and gives out three

(because the daughters may be mothers too)

that dear old lady, so unsure of why she’s here,

her redhead eldest fills the silence constantly

with happy talk and stories, while

her sister, blonde, who couldn’t be

more different yet the same,

sits silent and morose:

she had to come, she hates it


In the corner three old men and their

little sister eating greedily, discussing openly

the planning of the eulogy and who will get the silver

I think you should work in the story of Tom’s pudding!

I found a pair of tiny shoes, they must be yours, how strange

She had a good life, didn’t she, I’m sure she did…

You know I can’t be there, I’ve told you haven’t I?

the irony is lost on them

she no longer matters

just a memory of childhood in a photograph

(without whom they would not exist)


The rose-bearer comes at last to me

and tears are threatening to rise

I am not here to think about these things

I have lived motherless since I was twelve

my son is dead, my daughter far away:

a call this morning and a card that missed the post,

(this gesture’s threatening my equilibrium)

however, straight away the waitress needs the space

to serve our food


I realise now I must have left the flower where I put it      

on the floor

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