Loft Lyrics

I grew up with an internal radio station

Better than our parents’ clock radio

My ears played on through

A sea of uncomfortable silences

Blasting songs that chimed with my psyche

Until I was old enough to find my voice

These days I don’t have to hide

My mental playlist

Hoard records like a miserly dragon

Perched atop a sea of

Battered cardboard sleeves

And faded pictures

I just talk to a box and it starts

Opening chords strummed on a guitar

Take me back to a time before

I knew more of the world

Than my own small patch

Middle-aged thoughts

Humming along

Drifting homeward

On a smooth, Atlantic sound

To a time before we were grown

Feelings surface like an old bruise

Half-healed, then suddenly pressed

I can taste the air

Dusty summer evenings

Hollyhocks and forget-me-nots

Claiming the cracks in the pavement

Outside our front gate

Flip the record over for the sound

Sunshine and staying up late

Neighbours over the back fence

Drinking and smoking in their yard

Trainers airing on the roof

Outside the bedroom window

Across the way

Someone picking at a battered guitar

Me and my imagination

Staring at lengthening shadows

On the cracked barley-white ceiling

As the switch to night lit up

Our rainbow.  We lay back watching

The tower block on the corner

Each window its own colour

Turquoise, pink, yellow, mauve

I was never alone in the dark

Surrounded by signs of the high life

We never saw up close

Just a little stifled

Bedtime would find me

Trying to splay my coltish limbs

In their hand-me-down, too short

Darned pajamas

Neckline off-centre

Their cartoon cat’s face

Twisting with each rotation

Feet up on the wall to keep cool

Through the night

Waiting for sleep to overtake us

In our overheated box bedroom

Postcards and photos stuck up

To disguise the chips in our plaster walls

Cover the lack of care

For our decaying ruin of a house

That was home – patched but not mended

We took it in stride

Knowing nothing else

The five foot three bunkbeds

I shared with my sister

Squabbling for a turn

To enjoy the view

From the top bunk

Thin tartan mattress over

Groaning metal springs

Until I left home at eighteen

In search of a new set

A brand new sound

And someone to play with

Everyone’s A Critic

The loud purring
Of a sensitive soul
Rumbles across my lap
A gentleman-mouser
Whose claws are rarely
Sheathed in my flesh
Save for those few
Accidental motions.
He pauses in his
Hypnotic kneading
Of careful paws
Twitches a whisker
Opens a lazy eye
We are content
Devoted Familiar and
Current Provider of ear-scratches
Precious moments spent together
Do not last as long
As they once did
Those rare islands
Of near-silence
I try to spend
Writing.
Such a distraction
Is sadly unacceptable
In company
My failure to stroke
Soft furry egos
While fingers
Play over lettered keys
And coffee cools
At a careless elbow
Lead to gentle taps
Polite, then more insistent
I frown and mutter
Trying to shake loose
Some old ideas
From new forehead creases
Transmit them to my dusty screen
Before the next
Set of demands is issued
By the charming pout
Of the other House Tyrant
Whose three-year-reign
Continues to sway
The working lives
Of all her subjects.
It is not enough.
I cannot please all
Of my many masters
Not this day.
As gentle snores fade to yawns
I sift through the tired
Dog-eared card catalogue
Housed temporarily for safekeeping
Within my rapidly emptying skull
Brain cycling faster
The vocalisation
Begins in earnest
Close behind my ear
“Miaouw!”
He is starting to insist
“Pssst! Shush!”
It is a futile gesture
To try to silence
An old friend
The search continues
There are paws on my shoulder
Tapping, prodding
A hint of sharpness
A gentle shove
Hot breath on my neck
Can I find a verbal noun,
Subclause, or synonym
To convey my sense
Of panic at the first stirrings
Of any sleeping creature
Under four feet
But still a giant?
Too late.
“Mummy!”
I hiss my discomfort
At the sudden perforation
Of my thigh.
Time’s up once again.

Inheritance

I write now with my father’s pen
Old steel has assumed my
Ragged pencil’s place
Smooth and worn in my
Calloused fingers.
Daughter at my breast
I remember my father’s stories
As my own swirl and foment
Beneath the creased brow
That is my other inheritance.
Not a gentle man, nor a good one
But a crafter of careful lines
Who spoke limited truth
To lasting effect.
What of him remains
But my own comfortable lies
Sweeter than fact, more palatable
Harder to deny than the
Elusive verisimilitude
Of others.

Literacy

It’s been a while
Since I felt the pull
Of an empty page
My callous has softened
The ink-stain dulled
To a faded bruise
As if this were not
A tattoo
Of my own design
The leaking pen
And over-tight grip
Leftovers from childhood training
As emotions spill out
Between the lines
To blur their way
Toward the clarity of words
Where thoughts begin to take shape
And letters form
Exposing my inner turmoil
With the cool logic
Of too many cups of coffee
Too little sleep
And an over-abundance of sugared memory
I return to the paper and pen
A criminal haunting
The same scenes
Scribbled by heart
Until I am cleansed
And nothing
Not the rain in August
Nor my endless nostalgia
Can keep me down.

Remember

Don’t forget

Don’t give in

Don’t forgive

Don’t begin

Don’t undo

Don’t redraft

Don’t renew

What has passed

Bobbing for pips

I am approaching the threshold of my grief
That dismal dawn where words break –
Fast over stale feelings
Like waves on a rock-ridden shore.
This stilled tongue tunes no trills for sorrow,
Sigh-chapped lips, no plosive feasts
But my ragged pen thirsts
For consonants, vowels
Forming words, eyes closed,
Half-asleep, I drift,
Tossed upon the foam
As one who drowns for air
And breathes only memory.

Can’t you hear the melody?

Taste the words to hear it play
They’ll teach you how to hum
Feel the sound that waves its way
To ears from tip of tongue
Balance rhythm on your nib
And flick the blues away
Scrawling rhyme to rock the crib
With beats that pulse and sway
Baby in her daddy’s arms
Can only coo and squeal
Taking in all worldly forms
She’s learning fast by feel
We watch her tiny fingers, toes
Exploring as we speak
And note her mastery that grows
Progressing with each week
Accelerate articulation
Let her tell us soon
What kick-starts mad coordination
Of her stars and moon

Musical Chères

Searching for my roots
Through old records
I pause, ears cocked
For my muscle memory
Awaiting the right decade
Simon and Garfunkel
Soothe my silences
Leonard Cohen for my
Loneliest of nights
Lucio Dalla nostalgia
Juliette Greco and Piaf
For flights of fancy
Childhood Winters in Paris
With a pianist thumping
Square-toed rhythms
Ballet port-de-bras
Watery arpeggios to mock
High arches, pale faces
Pink noses and blue lips
With Tchaikovsky diluted
We shivered on the parquet
In a sea of legs and faces
Sprung floors and tall mirrors
Threw our joint grimace
To the feeble footwork
Of the adults at the barre
Then Fleetwood Mac’s
Rhiannon echoes past
The jazz records listing
To the left of the top shelf
And as the sound swells
I raise my hands, start to turn
Eyes closed, I dance
Delighted that for once,
Nobody is watching

Battle of the Bands

‘What does music mean?’ I asked
The day you demanded to know
Which bands I liked,
What songs I knew by heart
What right I had to hold you?
The darker tones you rationed me
Those reserved for seduction
Sent delicious spinal shivers
As you so righteously accused
Me of musical treachery.
Standing in the rain by the bus stop
People looking us up and down
We stood like strangers, past-less
Wild hair blowing across your glasses
Peering into my face to try to
See how I might fit into your
Careful constructed fantasy
Defiant in your metal tee and boots
I smiled at your adherence to these
Uptight social conventions.
Unblinking, I considered my response
As if there were a wrong answer
Forming on my tongue.
I knew your little lover’s heart
Was restless, wanting to trade bedfellows
You were so obvious, waiting
For my careless chosen gift
Lovingly bestowed by
Another doting devotee of
Bad boys in black jeans;
A perfect excuse for you
To end whatever strange
Fantasy we were living.
I could see the angry words
Taking final form in your
Deep brown eyes, watch you
Later, sat in the comfort
Of your local haunt, The Bush
Surrounded by bandmates
And potential conquests
Younger and dumber than I.
‘She just didn’t get me, man’
You would say, accompanied by
An obligatory eye-roll,
Well-rehearsed, and all
Would sympathise
Pouring cheap words and
Libations. ‘Drink of us’
While First Year Goths
Bat heavy lashes and
Casually bounce off the beat,
Showing their interest.
Alas, the musician’s daughter saw
All this and still felt minded to foil
Your planned escape with a trick.
Ignoring her eidetic recall
You didn’t know how to respond
To cry or to laugh
As I sang all your favourite tunes
Word-perfect, as always.

Losing my mind

I’m sure I left it somewhere
Underneath the bush we planted
Sweet smell of lavender
To cover the gap in the fence

Back before I met you
In a dim-lit bar in Manchester
Dripping with adventure
Now a lifetime ago

Perhaps it’s just hidden
Down behind the sofa cushions
Huddled between the gathered dust
And your key to the Peugeot

On top of the wardrobe
Sleeping in a hatbox
Full of moth-eaten gloves
With my wedding handkerchief

Beneath the kitchen cabinets
Disguised by its companions
A wandering teaspoon and
Some pea-escapees

It’ll turn up again
You say with that
Bad-penny certitude
I have come to expect

Until then I have you
Who lie to my face
In an attempt at conviction
Of my undiscovered brilliance