You can tell that he's a sailor
by the way he stands
by his double-breasted coat
with old brass buttons
by his Atlantic Star
how he salutes passers by
(longest way up
shortest down) 
the way he calls me 'Sir'
in that soft Irish brogue
the mischief in his eyes
how he protests at first
politely demurs
but then gives in
to double-egg and chips
at the Viking Café

Hi, I’ve been absent for a while.

Apologies if there’s a flurry of postings, I haven’t stopped writing.

Hoping all are well.

Best wishes, Colin

(found poem)

Bold maritime endeavours
remarkable feats of navigation
the hardships of life at sea
celebrated in sea-songs

Excellent maps kept secret
Privateers and merchants
susceptible to the lure
of grandeur and great wealth

and dubious fame after death

I dream of an old friend
who has become a recluse
I dream of him as a tramp
with lanky hair
and yellowed teeth
dressed in an old overcoat
(the kind they wear in dreams)

In this dream
much the worse for whisky
he is beside himself
beating at the air
shouting the odds
beset by hornets

In a folder
beneath the stairs
my father's papers -
useless insurances
receipts for several powerful cars
dwindling bank statements
nursing home bills
a lapsed funeral payment plan
his pastor's business card
and in a section of its own
a letter
confirming his membership 
of a right-wing party

(without land, a man is nothing)

By tropic light
by moth light
he spends his hours with maps
circles the mountain
settles on the East
makes cattle calculations
plots a territory in red
a hundred thousand acres
mostly foothill scrub

a hundred thousand acres

even now he thinks
this may not be enough

I wonder what happened 
to the curly haired young man
shy, thin as a whippet
in faded nursing scrubs
who fed and cleaned my father
who tended to him, tenderly?

What does it take
to gather what wits are left
and decide
decide once and for all
to cease a multitude of meds
to eat only just enough
and drink a little
now and then
to take your own life
in your own hands
cut the lines
cast off
and set your boat on fire?

This Cairo looks nothing like 
the pictures he has seen
stone walls and minarets
appear in waves
hovering above the ground
In this heat thoughts fly
scattering like small birds
though any fool can see
there is nothing green here 
no land to speak of
none that he can use
There are too many people 
and they do not need him

 

I went to art school
partly to annoy my father
partly because I could think
of nothing else 
but mostly because I wanted to
to blacken my hands with charcoal
wrestle the blank canvas
really get down to it
become painterly

I went to art school 
and was taught
by a bitter man
who demanded silence
and was mockingly cruel
who seemed to believe 
that his German army helmet
and fuming roll ups
lent him edge and interest

l went to art school 
and had the art sneered 
right out of me