Love Thyself

{Inspired by my ancestor William Wycherley’s lust for women of all varieties: ‘For Variety in Love’.}

‘Telephone Pole’ image from Pixabay.com (creative commons)

To myself, I am devoted still,
I’ll n’er grow bored, or have my fill,
’tis true that in my heart am I,
Stuck thick as thieves to my great thigh!

My thigh, it’s great circumference,
sure holds me up, to take my stance
to tell the world and God up high
there’s more to me than meets the eye!

With red gone grey, they think I’ve gone
But, from this brain, there’s more to come
’tis clear that in my prime, am I,
So full of wit, I’ll make them cry!

Too bad my joke that yester-year,
my little sprogs grew up to fear,
has now got lost on mountain high
of muddled thoughts that multiply!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2018

 

Washed-Out Socks

‘Washed Socks’ by Jay Cool

Pink socks, and green,
hanging out to dry –
mingling into
amber.

A shade that suits
a sallow skin –
the ageing flakes of
yellowed feet.

Shreds and slivers,
peels of the past,
hanging.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2018

Purple Berry

‘Purple Berry’ photograph by Jay Cool

Purple berry’s twisted fate.
Dried, dying, dangling,
midst cherry pinks.

Thirsty channel’s wearied weight
Stretched, straining, slipping,
t’wards motley greens.

Salmon ball-gown’s awkward gait,
Flustered, flipping, falling
‘mongst tawny golds.

Middling ladies’ tired fate.
Dried, dying, dangling
midst hoary whites

of ageing, ancient, trite old men –
the last-chance hosts of autumn.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2018

 

Guest Preacher

{Based on a childhood memory of an over-zealous guest preacher in an Aberdonian chapel, and further inspired by George Herbert’s poem ‘The Collar’. }

‘Angry Debate’, a clipart image from Pixabay.com

He strikes the board.
Preacher’s passion’s way.
Heed his words, that God does say.
Wrinkled hands must dig in deep,
unearth the worms from burrows,
draw out sins, old, and wring them dry,
hang them out in God’s good sky.

He strikes the board,
turns up the heat;
hand hot-singed and splintered.
Old lady squirms, her cheeks gone red
from dugout words with lovers,
from kisses, hot, and fumbles, felt
of all that’s good, this man does melt.

He strikes the board.
Face full with rage,
His puffed-out cheeks exploding.
Old lady’s doomed; she’ll burn in hell;
from blushes, pink, and sins she’ll tell,
of lust gone wild, and fun once had
of all that’s fine, this man does smelt.

He strikes the board,
shakes fist up high,
His loyal flock surrenders.
Old lady faints, her pulse slowed down,
her heart too full to heed him,
of kisses, hot, and fumbles, felt
of all she’s loved, this man does pelt.

He strikes the board.
Preacher’s on his way.
Heed his words, that Death does say.
Angered hands, thump coffin’s lid,
a pulse not yet, quite broken.
Before the end, he hears God’s cry,
sees full his wrong, ‘fore God on high.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2018

Love is a Bin


‘Wetherlite in Prado’ by Jay Cool

Love is a Bin

[A tribute to a lonely-green bin, viewed from a Prado window.]

A green bin,
super-sized,
groans,
as old lady swishes by
in
electric chair;
wheels loving
the
rain.

And old man, on
pavement over,
wheeled and
water-eeled –
follows on –
unknowing,
taking over.

Green bin,
super-sized
and still,
with wheels
rooted in
puddles,
bored,
groans.

A loving couple,
snuggled
up
under
super-sized red
brolly,
slip their way
past Prado.

Green bin
groans, as
in Prado –
still green in
Weatherlite raincoat,
I sit up
and

notice,

noticing it. The One. A green bin groaning –
a match.

A match
barred from me
by windows.

 

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2018

 

Lady

{Arrived home, one afternoon in October, to a welcoming party of ladybirds.}
 

Lady

Ladies
welcome me
back,
welcome me
home,
framing my
door,
sealing my
windows,
guarding my
post.

A warning?
A storm?
Tsunami?
A famine?

The end?

Or the start
of tomorrow?

Opening my
door,
I move on through – flying
in the company of
ladies.

Ladylike.


Copyright owned by Jay Cool, The Silly-Savvy Salopian, October 2018

Sun-Fuelled on the A134

{Egged on by the rising sun, as I confronted the usual early-morning drive to work, on the A134, I felt the compulsion to capture my thoughts in words. Unfortunately, time and the expectations of others, did not allow me to stop by the roadside to take a photograph, or put pen to paper. But, the following day, whilst indulging in egg and chips at my local greasy-spoon cafe, the words returned …}

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com (Creative Commons)

Work-driven and fogged,
my reluctant brain
fast forwards,
half-past the hour
of seven’s sun.

Church steeple stabs
clouds netted mists,
whilst huddled homes
hang
low.

Orange-red netball,
still pushing,
leaps – and is caught;
ensnared and snapping,
red-hot and burnt.

Captured hope.

Fast-forward –
the spider feeds
on its lady.

Florescent glow of
lady’s heart
bleeds out, bursting –
through fringe of trees.

I fast-forward on
to drudged labour,
fuelled up
and feasted.

Hopeful.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2018

Salt Waves

‘East Hill, Sudbury’ by Jay Cool

[Inspired by a walk up East Hill, in inland Sudbury, after partaking of an excellent brew in Prado Lounge.]

Dirty docks,
seagulls and chips,
fishing nets,
trawlers and tankers,
drunken sailors and fishermen
leering and lurching at ladies,
whilst lurking in bars
with their pints.

Beaches of pebbles, jarring my soles,
waves that nip at my toes,
wetting my socks and plimsolls,
stones thrown by boys, skimming my cheeks,
and crashing into
deep salty water, diluted by the salty tears of
young girls.

The seas of my childhood,
of Grimsby and Fleetwood and Felixstowe,
come rushing down East Hill.
from Sudbury’s Homebase mountain,
swimming with salt from McDonalds’.

Wetting my boots.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2018

Midlife

Inspired by the church bells of St. Peter’s, Sudbury, Suffolk.

St. Peter’s Church, Sudbury

Ringing bells, marking time.
Midday.
One half gone.

Other half revs up,
accelerates,
wants to be done.

I yank it back.
Preventative.
This half of me

is staying

put.

By Jay Cool, September 2018

On Wenlock Edge

Photography by Jay Cool

On Wenlock Edge, Jay Cool’s in trouble.
With frizzed-up fringe, the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies her old bones double,
And sick of Severn breeze, she leaves.

‘Twould blow like this through holt and hanger.
When Uricon the city stood.
The Roman farts, expressing anger,
At Jay Cool’s claim to womanhood.

Then, ’twas before her time, the Roman
At yonder lovely girls would stare;
The fire that warmed the parts of all man
To which Jay Cool does not compare.

The gale, it plies her old bones double.
Still blows so hard, she’ll soon be gone.
Today the Roman and his trouble.
Are ashes under Uricon.

Jay Cool’s modified version of ‘A Shropshire Lad’ by A. E. Housman, September 2018