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A FINE NIGHT

The dull drone of a diesel engine

Pulsates across the bay.

In the dazzling lights they use here

To draw the fish from deep waters,

Screaming gulls pierce the silence

Of a birdsong free night,

Feeding on fish guts

As empty carcases are

Carefully coffined in ice

For the morning market.

The catch is in the price of the day

And the crews share;

How much to spare

For family and an hour or two ashore

Building reputations in bars,

Boasting of the next haul,

Raising the bar for a wager,

A wager on the weather

That balances lives.

TEC TONIC

I was proceeding

Down a back alley

In pursuit

When my bloodhound

Picked up a lead.

I took it off him.

Unfortunately it was connected

And I was shocked

And dropped the case,

Briefly.

As it fell

My bloodhound

Took it up again

And became instant

Hot dog.

Following my well connected,

Well bred

Sausage dog

I continued my quest

And found the light

At the end of the tunnel

Only to be railroaded

As it transpired

That my canine companion

Was a sleeper

With fish tails at either end.

Now, as everyone knows,

You cannot trust fish tales

As they tend to grow

To the point of absurdity

And I realised I’d been caught

Hook, line and sinker

Baited with a dog end

In a blind alley

Proceeding up which

I had been

In pursuit

Of my own

Fishy tale

Led by

A shaggy dog.

©TONY MORRIS 28 October 1993

BUS BLACK DIESEL BLUES

I’M SAT HERE IN MY CAR

BEHIND A BUS THAT’S NOT GOING FAR.

THERE’S ONLY A DRIVER COLLECTING THE FARE

AN’ I’M CHOKING FROM DIESEL POLLUTING THE AIR.

THE BUS MOVES ON JUST YARDS UP THE ROAD

BEFORE ITS STOPPING TO DEPOSIT ITS LOAD.

I’M STILL STUCK BEHIND HIM, CAN’T MOVE ON

AN’ BLACK FUMES STILL CHOKE ME WHEN HE’S GONE.

I KNOW MY CAR AIN’T HEALTHY, I’M ON THE ROAD TOO LONG

BUT I CAN’T MOVE FOR BUSES THAT DON’T MOVE ON.

THEY’RE STICKING AT THE STOP WHILE THE DRIVER TAKES THE FARE,

HOLDING UP THE TRAFFIC, MORE POLLUTION EVERYWHERE,

I WANT CLEAN AIR!

BRING BACK THE CLIPPIE, KEEP THE BUSES MOVIN’ ALONG

‘STEAD OF CAUSING TRAFFIC JAMS, THEY’VE SURE GOT IT WRONG

AND FOR OUR LITTLE PLANET THIS SURE AIN’T GOOD NEWS

THAT’S WHY I GOT THE BUS BLACK DIESEL BLUES

©Tony Morris 1999

ARE YOU DANCING ?

“I love to go dancing,” she said

Staring into her glass,

Empty.

“Sod off,”

He said,

“I’d rather sit and talk,

Read a book,

Drink the best beer,

The best wine.”

Her sad eyes

Glance at the years between them,

Pirouetting and limping

In alternating foxtrots

And disco rhythms

That sometimes lead to the same bed,

Often to others

As they love to knife each other

And feel their own pain

As they drift

In a sleep

Where there partners are strangers

And they are the strangers themselves

That slide,

Unknown,

In and out of false doors.

ãTONY MORRIS

28 February 1985

www.tonymorrispoet.com

21 December 2008 was the 20 anniversary of the Lockerbie Air Disaster for the memorial site see www.lastingtribute.co.uk

I visited Scotland in July 1989 and wrote the following poem:

LOCKERBIE  -  PASSING

I chose the route

That did not go

Near Lockerbie.

A more practical navigator

Overruled primeval fear.

We went direct.

Flying down the approach

For miles

Through woods

Our only thought

Together silent

Here to lie

Forever

Fragments,

‘Plane, plans,

Unfinished lives

Forever Hidden.

As we passed the Town

We averted our eyes

As passing a naked corpse

Unbiered, uncoffined,

Fallen among mourners.

We were strangers

Who had no right

Who could not know.

This was

Summer day

Full of haymaking

And a beautiful

Empty blue sky.

©TONY MORRIS

6 July 89

www.tonymorrispoet.com

AN EDITOR REGRETS

I am sorry

There is no space.

There are so many stars these days

The Milky Way is so overcrowded

That there are frequent multiple pile ups

Which cause spin offs of meteors

Soon burnt out

In the coarse atmosphere of the Planet Earth

Where they fall

Unnoticed and unnoted

As stone or dust.

If you must keep sending me poems,

Please remember this.

©TONY MORRIS

Oct 1982

COMMENT 2009

©TONY MORRIS

5 January 2009

LOVERS

Over pretty print frock,

Dirty hair drapes her raincoat.

Alone, in the scurry of hot feet,

She sits on a bench

In a square of glass and concrete reflections

Screwing up her lightly painted,

Powdered, puppet face,

Giggling,

Holding negatives to the sun.

Close by her long legs

Posed in black patterned tights

Thrust into black wellingtons,

Her dog,

One ear up,

One ear down,

Watches her,

Seeing

Nothing incongruous.

ãTONY MORRIS

7 November 1987

WWW.TONYMORRISPOET.COM