Thursday, December 13, 2018

CONTACTLESS




CONTACTLESS

Inside a church
laid off hands and better halves
buy favours in the righteous aisles.

Outside a store
a thin blanket woven from hope
dreams a frail woman.

Above them all
the air sings in the low evening.
Wishes collide with cash transactions,

accumulating.
Falling like pennies to light
unturned corners everywhere.

As we watch the darkness grow, no one touches.



Tony Noon

Tuesday, September 25, 2018

OCTOBER'S NEAR









The summer stock is pushed
Into the corner now

The Christmas Shop will soon be here

Twinkling lights are on
Much sooner now...

October's near




( to the tune of "Forever Autumn" by Justin Hayward and John Lodge )

Thursday, July 12, 2018

At The Last Petrol Stop Before The Harvest




At The Last Petrol Stop
                 Before The Harvest


All the time in the world
these people.
The guy in the shorts
inseminating an old Astra
and the Fiat man slowly
checking that his parts
are still in place.
While they move steadily
the attendant
scans surrounding fields.
Watching crops ripen.



Tony Noon

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

DANCING LADIES





Dancing Ladies

Dancing ladies cartwheel,
enchanting the wind.
Spinning our pasts dry
on this grassy spine.
The powerless winters
with empty bellies and distant fields.
Spinning them out.
Dirt, sweat, heritage yarns.

This is now the green north.
The people free and clean north.

Dancing ladies cartwheel. We are dispersed



Tony Noon


Friday, June 15, 2018

BASEMENT JAZZ




BASEMENT JAZZ

Still bagged I bought you,
bought your west coast vibe.
The cool joust of piano
and sax driven all night
through smoky rhythm.

New to me,your new directions
told me what road you were on.
Bargain bins were cheap motels,
bringing you here slowly.
Unopened, your groove untested.

Unaged you lounge now waiting to startle.

Tony Noon


Saturday, March 3, 2018

THE TALL MONK



THE TALL MONK


In 1974 I was working for Nat West Bank in Doncaster and had to pass through what was then known as  the Arndale Centre on my way from and to the bus station . A large , modern shopping mall, the centre was host to all kinds of colourful people ,some of them buskers , some aspiring to higher concerns.

The Tall Monk definitely fell into the latter category. His shaved head and orange robe identified him, I believed, to be a member of the Hare Krishna Temple.

His voice was less heavenly.

As I was rushing homeward , he strode purposely towards me and in a broad Brummie accent asked“ D'yow want a record ?”…

I didn't really want a record but thanked him anyway and tried to sidestep him.

With a skill that made me think he may have been a door to door salesman in a previous incarnation, he seemed to swerve around me and was again in front.
“ It was produced boy George Harrison …” he went on.

I was still determined to get home without a record , but I'd made a big mistake.
I paused long enough for him to continue with “ He plays on it as well … but he didn't want a credit… all for good causes and ITS FREE…”

I still didn’t really want the record , but as it was free , I thought if I took it he would let me get on my way … which he did.

I was only about five paces away from him when he shouted “ Mowst  people give a donation” … I was lost by this stage , I had the record in my hand and it was all for good causes… I fumbled for my wallet and offered him a couple of crinkly green notes , which he grabbed eagerly.

Ten paces further on , he shouted again “ Mowst people donate five pounds” …

I didn't look back. Eventually I played the record , which was an amiable collection of Indian music and chants. Pleasant enough. George Harrison wasn't credited , of course , but if you listened carefully there's a bit of sitar playing on track 5 that could be George.

Yes , it definitely could be George.That made me feel better.



Friday, February 16, 2018

UNTOUCHED ENVELOPES




UNTOUCHED ENVELOPES



My hands are probably famous now.
Some novel, a poem maybe,
describing the texture.
The span of my ringed fingers.

I saw the sideways glance.
Quick notes beside
thumbnails of Lowry porters
and the dull paraphernalia
of suburban platforms.

My hands may have an alias now.
Skills ascribed to them
in some thick plot.

Pushing envelopes I never touched.



Tony Noon

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Doing Lunch With Janus




Doing Lunch With Janus

Such things you were telling me
as we shared macsomething deals.
The atrocities of the red army
when the reich fell. Not quite
tit for tat (how could they be)
but appalling nonetheless.
It couldn't happen now,I say,
the beer halls which fomented
madness are long gone or re-painted.
The silence you smile between us
looks both ways before allowing us to
pick out whispers among the happy meals.



Tony Noon