From 'MOONSTONE' (Prelude.) I have a secret. I am the last of my race. We existed in peace and harmony, For many eons of millennia. Even before the first formation Of the Order of Jedi Knights. Then the Emperor ordered The testing of the Death Star. The rest is history......
Bluesman. He was jist sat there. Strummin' away. Softly. Striking vacant chords. Filled full Of notes. In various hues Of the Blues.
NOT ALL ANGELS NECESSARILY WEAR THEIR WINGS AT ALL TIMES Silly things. What does your lipstick taste like? How does it feel to kiss those luscious lips? What would it mean to hold you in my arms, And have yours in mine? How will it feel to have our bodies entwined? You have released pent-up passion, That I had almost forgotten. You have placed me on a pedestal so high, The fall seems so far down. I hope that my angel wings still work, As I haven't had to use them For such a long time.
Bringin' it on 'ome One minute, We're jokin' with, The next, Pokin', One another. Sendin' silly Sunflowers, Exchangin' banal banter, Fixin' up homesteads, In Farmville; On Facebook. Then in a 'shanty town' , On a mud-strewn hillside, In Brazil. Or down on the Delta, In the bayous and levees, On the Mexican Gulf. In the centre of Brisbane, 'The Sunken City', In the Sunshine State. Out in the suburbs, And the surroundin' countryside, In the vast areas of deluge, Of Queensland. In Pakistan, And Haiti. 'Friends', are fightin', For their very lives; Through no fault of their own. Dusti Rodes (2012)
HOT BUTTERED TOAST Hot buttered toast, Thickly spread. Hot buttered toast, Best made, With thick white bread. Dusti Rodes (2009)
STORMY WEATHER Them ol' rain clouds is rollin' in. Thunder is brewin', Lightin' is gatherin' in the sky; It sure is lookin' like we is gonna have one hellava storm, Bye'n'bye! Dusti Rodes (2010)
THE STAND-OFF The other day, I challenged the World, To a gunfight. It told me It couldn't come. It was too busy, Circling around the Sun. Poor excuse, I reckon. Dusti Rodes (2007)
FLOWER POWER Bougainvillea, Stretching up out, Seeking the sun. In a south-facing window. Dusti Rodes (2011)
WOLFGANG Harley riding, Snuff taking, Mah Jong playing. German Hell's Angel. Holding court daily, From his pool-side seat. The family man, Playing with his boy. Joking with his wife. Making instant friends, Of the strangers that he meets. Sharing a day to themselves, Doing nothing in particular, But everything in general. Dusti Rodes (2009)
L'HIVER APPROCHE Il fait chaud. Curtains, like the evenings, Being drawn earlier. Cyclamens, on the window sill, Leaning towards the light. Dark before dusk. Leaves falling by the second, Whipped up by the winds. Temperature droppin' With the sinkin' sun; That spends most days, Hiding behind clouds. Half moon present In the failing light At four thirty. And it's not yet November. Dusti Rodes (2010)
THEY'RE PLAYIN' WITH THE CLOCKS They are playing with the clocks, Stealing our time. Precious moments, passing us by. What was it they said? Spring forward, Fall back. They're playing with the clocks again. Messing with our minutes. And our minds. The British Summer has gone. It's certainly a mean time, In Greenwich. Still light in the morning, for now. But dark long before dusk. Dusti Rodes (2009)
MAKING DUMPLINGS Two parts flour, To one part fat. (Fancy that!) Add a pinch of salt And some pepper. Then some water, Cold is best. Finger it gently Into balls. Making sure it's not too wet. Stick'em in the stew, For twenty minutes. Then enjoy. Just like you did, When you were a boy. Dusti Rodes (2009)
The Illustrated Man Some called him, 'freak', For openly inviting public critique, Of his fabulously illustrated physique. But he is not so unique. Merely a strutting peacock, Soaking up the summer sun On some far distant shore. Nothing more. Dusti Rodes (2010)
In a Japanese Vein Koi Fisherman, Solitary, seated, Beside the endless water. Wherein the single specimen Silently swims. Casting a line that leaves No trace on the still surface. Bonsai In Japan, it is Bonsai, In England, it is August. It will soon be the Fall. In both. Dusti Rodes (2011)
Memories of Menorca The solitary star The lone gull Lack of light dark and deep Guarded by the lion-dog In two-tone green and black and white Part Chihuahua, part Pekinese. Sunrise over Citudella Purple and pink Blues and browns Age old ruins Built of rocks That are tumbling down. Out of the stillness Came a rustle The wind whispered "Morning" Gull winging, effortlessly Sparrows busying in their daily task Of feeding their families. No different from other mere mortals Who stand and observe Through peephole portals On life below and above. Pylons, all in a line, Taking power to the people. John Lennon would be proud. Illuminated cars, kerb crawling At dawn's half light; Wondering whether to switch off As it is no longer night. To hell with sunrise Watching the clouds come up, Shrouding the stars With their whiteness From the deep dark blue Of Menorcan night. An old boy, reminds me of myself, Lone party goer, maybe? One hell of a walk From Cala Forcat After our session at Night Fever. Sun rises over Citudella And Cala Blanes. Rabbits running, Ants busy, busy; Relaxing perhaps, For a jam sandwich Carelessly cast away. Before the heat forces Them to siesta, On a Menorcan morning At the end of June. A lone songbird, Chortles its wakeup tune; My bag, bathed in Menorcan sunlight Casting shadows of strangest hues The old currant bun Promising a day of brightness. Painted by light, In Nature's brightest colours, The single rock on the lawn Looking like a monolith From eons past. A donkey, braying, Radio, playing People, singing, And speaking in Spanish. Then, Rick Astley, In English. Never going to give you up. Menorcan memories. Dusti Rodes (2002)
Spoilt for choice - Sainsbury’s Saga I think I'll have fish today. Fillet of fish. Served in a dish. Probably be nice With a portion of peas; Don't want that one, though, Too many E's. Beluga caviar, Cor, isn't that taking Housewife’s choice A smidgen too far? Tuna in tomato sauce Or shall I have Sunflower Oil? Here's one in brine That'll do just fine. Now, do I want it, In chunks? Shall I have it in steak? Maybe I should just settle For a nice piece of Hake. Have it fresh, shall I? I could have a packet, But then again, Maybe a pie. But then will it be, John West, Findus or Ross, Or just plain Bird's-Eye? There are mussels and cockles Scallops and whelks Sardines, mackerels Oysters and squid. Pilchards, salmon, Haddock and plaice, Cod, coley, sole and skate; There's even a fish called slid. Look at the lobster, The prawns and the shrimps, Kippers, herrings Dover sole, lemon sole Brown and rainbow trouts Shark steaks, swordfish With very long snouts. Jamaican snappers, Whitebait and sprats. Not much on them, Even for cats! Then on its own Or sometime in sticks; Even professionally dressed; Comes the regal crab. Making the dour monkfish Sound positively drab! Thinking of medieval monasteries, Is Friar, Latin, for Fish-cook? And was Friday named for fish? Has it always been spelt With an I, Or should it be Fryday, Spelt with a Y? Sod it, I'll just have pasta! Dusti Rodes (2003)
Reflections on the demise of a Neighbour Everywhere here Is full up with junk That isn't really so. The building of a couple's lifetime. These possessions that are left Are all there is to show. The winged ducks Pots and pans Brooms and mops The crystal decanter with its glasses Projector and screen Slides taken of foreign mountain passes Planes and trains Books on stone polishing, birds, gardening and roses Videos and stills of Formula One heroes Transfixed in winning poses Sewing machine, curtains Cups and saucers Things that should have been handed on To beloved sons and daughters That never materialised. The log box, embellished in brass Figures of snails and owls Made in Caithness Glass Squirrels, dogs and hedgehogs Porcelain men and women Music boxes that play tunes While in the cutlery drawers Fish knives, glass rolling pin Even silver apostle spoons The collection of records, cd's and tapes Recorded by artistes, many long gone A multitude of stereos and tape decks To choose to play them on. Clocks and timers Wallets and watches TV and twin tub Clothes airer and spin dryer Pencils, pens and paper (by the ream) Plastic bags in all sizes Enough for several lifetimes Drills and saws Fishing tackle Fly, sea and coarse Full blown sou'wester sailing suit And around in the garage Long wader boots An iron gate Wrought with his own hand All serve to measure The mark of the man. Dusti Rodes (2004)
A Week Away A week away A cottage in the Cotswolds Solitary single socks All in a line On parade Hands like hooks Feet that throb Barms and breezes In Blackpool Fortunes found and told Tramlines Scarring the seascape Soaring seagulls Hawk-like hands Flaying feet Seagulls that screech Mayhem in Mablethorpe Being Stumped in Boston As to which way to go Kiss me quick Squeeze me slow hats For edible orifices Wonka's Willies Trams travelling Towards the Tower And down the Golden Mile From Fleetwood North and South Piers Sandcastles Big and small Towards Town Postcard pictures Picture postcards Pencil drawings By computer The Mere at Marton Limousines And lycra-clad mirth-makers Mobster's metal machine Made from a Mini National Savings & Investments building Blocking the breeze And the light Standing in it's shadow Comfortable caravans Laughter from Leighton Jokes from Jamie Sparkling grape juice All the way from Grimsby Via the M18 Panoramic views From the highest motorway In Britain Deep dales High Pennine peaks In Yorkshire Rain and sunshine Traffic build-ups In Blackburn Blues in Burnley Families fighting Four-pint pitchers Of foaming ale Mussels and whelks Oysters and orange squash Cockles and crabs People driving Dangerously long miles Without falling faint Of fatigue Passion in the Pennines The castle moat Golden sands Tilting telegraph poles Going up And coming down Steep steps To silver sand Shorelines stretching As far as the eye Can see Whirling wind turbines Whitewashed windmills Scattered over the Northwest frontier Unfurled flags Flying furiously In a westerly wind Cod and curry sauce Pen'orth o'scraps And pots of mushy peas Wrapped in writing Mablethorpe Messenger Blackpool Gazette Cotswold Courier Yesterday's news Today's chip wrappers Tomorrow's waste. Dusti Rodes (2006)