New Poems (The Non-Richard Kind...)

Wednesday is about books, writing/reading here at "Sounds Good!" And, after hitting you with four volumes of "Richard" poems, I'm offering a few brand new 'non' Richard poems today.

I’ve hit you with pretty hard with Richard. Not 1, not 2, not 3, but 4 volumes! I do feel like — mostly — I have Richard out of my system. I’ve had a couple of friends read a manuscript and provide feedback, there are other Richard poems I’ve yet to share with you, a few more brand new ones, and of course plenty to tweak. There’s a book there, and I’m starting to assemble it — for delivery later this year. The thing, now, is learning to read them aloud. They’re different. Their ‘flow’ is completely at odds with my previous poems, especially in terms of reading in public. I’m having to learn to do that again, after a couple of years off, and returning to that world with all-new material.

I shared a first attempt at reading Richard last week. And I was pretty pleased with this. So I’ll take more of them out into the world over the coming months and demo them in public.

And there’ll be more of ‘Richard’ for you to browse in the archives of Off The Tracks here on Substack. But I’m also writing and sharing new poems that have nothing to do with that project, that topic, that theme…

So I thought I’d share a few of the new ones here today. As always, thanks for your readership and/or patience, and let me know what you think:

---

FROST:

It’s cold already, the walk to work,
my breath blows imaginary smoke rings…
This government would like them
to be less imaginary. Dreams are free

when you get your tax cut. I walk past
the same guy, always asking for money.
In other poems he is rewarded by virtue
of signalling…but this is my poem

and keeping my money doesn’t make me
a bad person. There are other things
I’ve written that could easily prove my rot,
at least in the minds of others. In my mind,

the fact that I’m thinking of one day
dropping coins in his box — or maybe
even something of note — means I’m
sorta halfway there. (He’s living on

thoughts and prayers). A few more
smoke rings, my imaginary ones, his
govt-approved but not govt-assisted,
and we’ll both get to where we’re going.

---

DIPLOMATIC TRANSPARENCY:

I want to be very clear, said the
Prime Minister, behind a wall of
flung mud. I want to be very clear,

he said, though muffled, nervous,
and tired. I want to be very clear,
he said once again — but his face

was flushed, his toilet full and his
throat emptied; suddenly one thing
had been made very clear.

---

NEVER SO GOOD:

The world is a big place, most
of the time. But what about when
you find yourself crying on a bus
and a stranger holds your hand;
tries to understand. Feeling small
might never have felt so good.

---

I READ THE REDDIT:

i read the reddit, it said i was shit.
a few people upvoted, so I guess
that’s it. They complained about

how mean i’d been and who was i?
they did this anonymously — and
you might say, meanly?

but i could never say that! hell no.
there’d just be more reddit to
read a year later. again.

---

HERZOG’S DREAM:

when the birds screech
their murder, reflecting our
world of chaos and lack
of kindness, there’s a new
terror in our hearts; they
know our madness and
they’re flocking hard
against it.

---

OLD TOM SAYS THE WIND IS MAKING SPEECHES:

When the wind picks up, when
the wind kicks off, when the
wind digs in, and when it all
is on — that’s when I remember
the wind is our friend, whispering
stories all day. So when it has to
shout to be heart we might think
about whether we are the ones
being too noisy; whether what
we are saying needs to be
better than the weather, or even
if it needs to be heard at all.
The wind cries names out because
it’s been here longer and knows
it will outlive us. If the wind sometimes
shouts its speeches it’s just trying to
list us; to tell us it remembers us all.

---

OLD & NEW LOVE SONG:

in all that liminal space we found
a way to be in the same place.

You hold my hand, I touch your
face, sometimes — and for always

there’s only you and only me
in all that liminal space.

---

THE DJ PLAYS ‘FEVER’:

The needle on the 45
—clicks fingers—
And the lights drop lower
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
And everyone starts swaying
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
Even those that never sway
—clicks fingers—
There are songs that are forever
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
More than mountains
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
More than sea
—clicks fingers—
There are songs that are forever
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
That’s why the DJ plays us Fever
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
He gives us….Fever!
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
—clicks fingers—
FLA-BOOM!

---

WHEN YOU ORDER JOHN KEY FROM TEMU:

you get your Wish. You get AliExpress policy,
with back door delivery. You get massive discounts
but only if you’re already rich enough to afford
the real thing. (Democracy comes at a price —
discounted democracy arrives broken, in unethical
ways, and in dodgy packaging). You get a late
middle-aged man with a cringe TikTok account,
instead of just the embarrasment of a son who’s
a DJ. You get ponytail policy reverasal and
a cabinet of confident confusion: All of them trying
to pull the other one. You get a threeway handshake
in human form: Winnie calling everyone else
the pinky, and David Seahorse as dumb as a thumb.
But hey! Free stickers! And hey! Cost savings! And
hey, the packages keep arriving…efficiency must
be a good thing! Your holiday home in Hawaii
could be the next thing you open.
Order now. Pay later!

---

TWO TOXIC TRAITS:

I’ll clean the house from top
to bottom — tell everyone else
they’re not to worry, then point
out everything I did, and tell them
they should have worried.

I also leave places needing
a wee, but figure I can make
it home. That one’s on me —
of course.
Almost literally.

---

FADED CURTAINS:

there’s nothing new under the Sun, he
reckoned. That’s climate change,
she insisted. And the extra hour
from daylight saving isn’t saving anything!

“It fades the bloody curtains mate!”
All this disinformation — no wonder
nothing new can grow. Faded curtains,
faded views. Fraudulent government,

fake news. No news soon at all — which
won’t be good news, but that’s how it goes.
If you want to grow an economy
you’ve got to water it with thought —

and by thought of course we mean money.
Faded curtains, faded views. There’s
nothing new under the sun to be made.
And nothing grows in the shade.

---

CALLING THE POLICE:

Someone would call the police on The Police
right away these days; three wealthy white
boys stretching reggae’s shape to suit their
mood. (That’s a new definition of Rude Boys
right there). Oh, but the way Stewart Copeland
went full flam fury on that snare! That’s
something right there. Not every little

thing they did was magic, not much of it
even really makes sense, but there was
something mercurial deep in all that
white privilege. Reggae’s loss and punk’s
frustration was pop’s great gain. Such a pity
that golden-voiced Sting is a pain to
endorse, but some kind of genius of course.

---

THE DREAM OF A MORRICONE THEME:

Oh Ennio!
The strings. The voices, little trickles
of piano — a character comes alive
without speaking
thanks to you. Your music frames
so many scenes.
Dissonant music disables the senses —
pure beauty offers a warm caress.
You find them both in two places:
Dreams.
And your soundtracks for westerns,
horrors, dramas, and thrillers.
Oh Ennio, but to curl up deep
inside the piano,
and only hope to have you
write me down.

---

FLY BY NIGHTER:

I sprayed the fly and killed it dead.
It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever
done; won’t be the worst thing I’ll ever do.

A 7yo visiting the house, asked why
I killed another creature. And I could
not answer. Which might have been

closer to the worst thing I’ve done.
But I can beat it. I have that faith.
A wing. And a prayer.

---

GOD MOVED THROUGH HIS FINGERS:

Carlos Santana had a good decade,
it was called the 1970s. He wasn’t
the only one. Joni Mitchell and
Stevie Wonder too. Randy Newman
and Steely Dan, Frank Zappa, and
Patti Smith. Neil Young, Linda Ronstadt —
but once a year or two, I work through
the Santana catalogue, and cannot
believe the world he built, the way that
music still sings with a vital swing. And
then nothing for a while, and then nothing
but cheese. Another way of thinking about
it is he got old, lost his vitality. But it’s more
than (just) that. There was a time when he
had the magic touch. God moved through
his fingers. He picked a world of new music,
electric, wild, wonderful — but now gone.

---

LAZY SATURDAY HAIKU:

I walked the dog, he
took a shit. And that’s
about the extent of it.

---

WE ARE ALL ON THE BUS:

We are all just trying to get somewhere.
Some of us to where we want to be.
Some to where we’d rather not go.
Most of us, simply, to where we need
to arrive. We pack ourselves in and

stare down at our phones. We scroll
as if there’s a secret, some pot of gold
near the iPhone’s bottomless rainbow.
On days when it’s raining we still think
the gold is somewhere in them there hills.

Scroll harder, go deeper. Eventually,
we all have to feel that we’ll get
(to) where we are meant to be.

---

KNOW YOUR RITES:

In the old house there are
new rules, there are trees
planted to cover garden

scars; to start a new world.
When the wind blows
wildly, the ghosts rattle

the bones of old animals.
We silently pray. Because
we know they’ll stay.

---

DEPARTMENTALISED:

Your reward is to go undefined —
whereas your punishment is to
become your job. I’ve been

rewarded by the punishment of
no pay check and no respect…
and I’ve been punished with

the reward of fair pay in exchange
for work performed in a set role.
I know which I prefer.

---

PLEASE GIVE GENEROUSLY:

The streets are on fire —
run to the water.

Life is still happening,
if you can afford it.

What is the cost to
fix it for all?

We need more fire trucks
and fewer beach clubs.

---

GOSH!

the movie Napoleon Dynamite
is 20 years old now — you idiot!
It’s a very weird and very sweet
film; a bit like someone pushed

Fast Times At Ridgemont High
and Gummo together, and told
them both to dance like no one
was watching. But it was nice to

be watching all over again. No
real meaning or outcome, no
lesson learned, no huge payoff.
That’s the word we live in. Lucky!

---

MAMA BEAR ATTENDS PARENT/TEACHER INTERVIEWS:

My mum spells her name
without the requisite ‘c’.
My teacher told me I was
stupid for making the mistake
and ‘corrected’ the writing —
I tried to tell her, again, that
in this instance I was not wrong
but she had already told me
I was dumb. Mum said, “tell her
I’ll fucking hang her from the
fucking lightshade”.

This was when I learned
about flies on the wall.

---

So. There you go. That’s more than enough. But that’s been the poems that have arrived in March, early April, and perhaps in the dying days of February too. Read anything you like? Or hate? Or feel anything about at all?

I share these things as part of living with them, workshopping them, trialing them. They’re all stepping stones toward a next mood, or mode. Or both. And some of them will change in shape but retain most of their essence when I attempt to pin them down like butterflies. Others will end up in the bin. Or stay exactly as they are. Or both.

Thanks for reading.