JIM BENNETT
"THE BEST PERFORMANCE POET IN LIVERPOOL"- Liverpool Daily Post









walking on the mesa

we walked out here
across the mesa
in the brilliance of night
and on the darkest of days
saw it crisp with frost
wet with dew
covered in cloud
and bright with summer
heard the birds
and the crickets
saw the flowers bloom
watched them
turn brown and die

now the first shoots
of the spring crocus's
are emerging in clumps
erupting
through the dark earth
the wintered trees
in-bud again
the cold air
once more
pregnant
with summer


and all this still happens
even though

you are no longer here
to see it
 

rubbish

 

I noticed there was a beer can

crushed on the pavement outside my home

a foot shaped flattening

crushing the air and beer from it

the drinker like the beer long gone

 

usually the old lady from along the road

walks along here and picks up

the stuff people drop

on bin days she picks up

and drops in the bins

other days she carries a plastic bag

and fills it

takes it off somewhere

 

people complained at her once

thought she was dumping

dirty rubbish into their bins

didn’t realise she was a

performing a service to the community

 

today though

I noticed there was a beer can

crushed on the pavement outside my home

it was there yesterday

and I wonder if I should

send her a stern letter of complaint

 
POETRY

 

Blake’s walking stick

 

the knob of the walking stick

shaped into a claw

clutches a wooden egg

it has no leg or body

no idea what sort of creature

it was

or if the egg  is for food

or being protected

 

the carver might have known

perhaps set a

chicken or egg paradox

in blackthorn

 

it joined the hand

that polished it

to ground

through woodland paths

and clouded hillside

an electric connection

that sparked the muse to life

 

 

 

 

winter in the wood

 

 

its still winter in the wood

traces of last nights snow

hang on in the shade

and everything has that

slow sleepy feeling even the

shadows freeze you as you walk

into them

 

birds perch

on bare branches

hunched against the icy wind

and an owl waits for moonrise

 

down in the meadow earlier

I saw that things are changing

the tips of shoots are showing

the first signs of new growth

birds in courtship displays

flew low and fast across

the football field

 

but this evening there is only me

and Charlie

across the fields

among darkening clouds

the first lights show in Liverpool

and in Wales the mountains catch

the last red light of the sun