From GRACE NOTES 2020

 WARRIOR PRIESTS

There is much to complain about

when it comes to guitars -

Freud’s innuendo,

the predictable solo,

but much to love also -

their independence,

their patience as they wait to be held.

Such an elegant shaping of metal and wood,

designed to be heard,

a voice for the tongue-tied,

social currency for men,

the instrument’s age, provenance, tone,

like wine or allegiance to a team,

markers of values -

respect for tradition,

or a lust for the modern.

A pleasing arcana

of picks, string guages and tunings,

machine heads, capos and bridges,

the action, the set up,

a world for tinkering

amid the chaos.

Amps and pedals can wait for another day,

their mazy contingency of speakers and circuits

awash with modulation and delay

make me think of my father,

electrician by trade.

He played mandolin

in the Liverpool Premier Banjo Mandolin Guitar Orchestra,

in livery, behind a podium,

silver plate at his feet,

with colleagues who,

having won a war,

scrubbed up and downed tools

to cradle these fretted creatures,

no longer workers

but priests of the heart.

BEANS 

As the movie music dies

remember this, because you must,

we are no more

than a hill of beans

Baked beans -

comforting moments with lost parents

and kids playing in childhood forever

a dish served cold

straight from the pan

Runner beans -

chasing high and low

him and her

predatory, inspired, the great quest,

now the legs are gone

and the goal is distant, confused, misty and

mostly behind you

Coffee beans  -

each jibbering story lengthens

as the elastic of truth stretches

the speaker fears a smack in the eye

Aduki beans -

from meat and two veg

to kaffir and quinoa

how far you’ve come

in skinny tyranny

gaze on your works

archive them on a cloud

press save

Refried beans  -

dangerous

a Mexican standoff with the past

if you pull the trigger

it will kill you

each memory holds a secret in its fist

a kiss is still a kiss

with a gun

you must remember this 

Has beans and never were beans -

hanging around in bars

drinking hard

the lies stack up

like beermats

but the fuzzy walk home

has a warm arm around you

and a pressed handkerchief to wipe your tears