UNKNOWN CITY

awake
the city
from its restless sleep
furthest reaches
to its heaving heart
lapped by the seas
around it's beaches
straddling rivers
precarious
on it's hillside perch
experience within
from hate to love,
self-expressions
active
silent
full of sound
in tower block
or parkland ground
year by year
the seasons mock
cities
built on sand
built on rock
the city square
self important
seems
square reality
or suburban dreams

Copyright 1989 by Terry Miles.

***
 

Brook Green.

Beyond the garden wall,
the hedge, within
the rustling of shaded leaves,
a cafuffle of ruffled feathers,
out fly two birds,
head>to>tail -
the frantic fluttering of wings.

Quiet again. A cuckoo calls.

In the garden grow five clematis,
some, are in bud.

1995.04.11.
Copyright 1995 Terry Miles.

***
 

The field.

The field, neglected, overgrown,
a wild playground of a place -
council houses on all four sides,
back-gardens, fences, gate-ways. and
a path running through it,
from North to South.

A place forgotten by councillors;
a place with night secrets.

Summer holidays, away-a-days,
and playing in the field days.
Raymond's dog, Patch gets caught
in barbed wire; it is taken away,
and put to sleep.

Dressed for a swim I turn
two doors away into the slip road
to the field. I follow the narrow track.
A breeze catches the tall grass.
Nettles brushing, blistering skin -
butterflies wings, blinking in the brightness.
Frozen in the heat I cry out.

Dusk falling - waiting for the bats
to put a spell on things.
shadowy, imaginary things.

Moths spiral into death
like a fluttering flame.

The moon is hooked into the sky, and
two rabbits are hanging on the bathroom door.

Head on the pillow - waiting for the day to end,
a dog barks. Another dog barks. And another.
Sound-bites of the night.

Sunday: The rabbit hutch is empty.
I know, it's rabbit stew for dinner.

Copyright 2003 by Terry Miles.

***
 

Tea Packet.

Tea packet, yesterday
thrown away, crumpled.

Tea-pot, full, inside -
yesterdays tea, cold.

Scones, wrapped in mold -
trapped without margarine.

Milk, in the bottle waits,
no sugar for cocoa.

An egg sits cosily,
in its cubicle, edible.

The pan of water boils,
inside, the egg breaks.

There are frosted pictures
on the window, thawing.

Copyright 1973 by Terry Miles.

***~
 

Crackdown.

 Last night, I saw you on T.V.
caged in your own body, framed,
when not, your body, independent,
danced away, medicated,
living life - a lost shadow,
criming hard to keep the habit,
withdrawal, caught the alarm,
your fleeing body, frozen,
still, rigid - over the fence,
ready to be picked up,
what a fix, a mis-calculation,
a half way trip.

Copyright 1993 by Terry Miles.

***
 

Plastic.

Thursday, early evening -
I came home from work,
at about the usual time.

The first,
out of place thing,
I noticed
was a black and white
old dirty sock of mine,
discarded - in the garden
near the path.

That's strange, I thought.
How on earth....
Then I noticed
the door, open.

I parked my bike
inside the gate,
the panniers
heavy with shopping.

Then, inside - the mess,
the T.V. had gone,
the video too,
my cassette player,
the camera...

The cats had gone, too,
Sisi,
she's the nervous one,
and Silvi,
the playful one.

(Later,
I found them in the garden,
hiding, nervous,
needing reassurance.)

Drawers pulled open,
contents over the floor,
years of tax records,
papers, letters,
personal things.

I called the police,
"...it happens all the time,
mid-afternoon."

All it took
was a piece of plastic,
thin enough, to push
between the door and jamb -
to push open the yale.

That ev'ning, I heard
the next-door-but-one,
a neighbour
had noticed them
loading the car, and asked,
"Are you having a party?"

1997/07/
Copyright 1997 by Terry Miles.

***
 

At Work.

A quiet street,
a father looks out
over the road,
while his two sons,
'eleven and twelve',
break in,
"An empty house like."
Like the sky -
without the moon -
to steal the video.
Stolen emptiness.

Copyright 1996 by Terry Miles.

***
 

Windows.

Looking in
and looking out,
see through,
the where we are, about.

Windows:
some, are private, to hide behind,
some, more public -
to give the where we are
an airing.

Commercial windows sell us dreams,
desires, or merely a bar of soap.

Corporate windows, impress,
future clients say,
"Nice people to do business with."

Municipal windows
belong to city states,
much maligned, anonymous bodies
that cater for our needs.

During our comings and goings
we look through, transit windows
over familiar paths, or pastures new.

Some windows are in fragments
and stained, works of art,
by them, we pray to our gods.

Windows in glass houses
are barred;
insiders see little
out, in the outside world.

Copyright 1995. Terry Miles.

***
 

Cold Turkey.

I like the sound
of my refrigerator,
it reminds me of
cold turkey, and ice-cream.

Copyright 1987 by Terry Miles.

***
 

Poem on a Bombay Bus.

Instructions to Conductors:
Pay Attention to Passengers.
Let Them Board, Easily.
Endeavour to Help.
Always Wear - Clean Clothes.
Smile.
Exert Yourself to Please.

Pay Your Correct Fare.
Insist on a Ticket.
Check your Ticket.

Only the members
of the staff,
as per rules in force,
are permitted
to travel standing,
in this bus.

Emergency Exit.

1969.06 Bombay. (Found Poem.)
Copyright 1969 by Terry Miles.

***
 

Eclipse of the Moon.

During the night
the moon
should have glowed,
red.

I woke up;
I went to the window.
I didn't see the red glow
or the moon -
low cloud spoiled the view.

Note.
2000.01.21. (Eclipse of the Moon.)
Copyright 2000 by Terry Miles.

***