Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
THE STAND-OFF The other day, I challenged the World, To a gunfight. It told me It couldn't come. It was too busy, Circling around the Sun. Poor excuse, I reckon. Dusti Rodes (2007)
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Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
FLOWER POWER Bougainvillea, Stretching up out, Seeking the sun. In a south-facing window. Dusti Rodes (2011)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
WOLFGANG Harley riding, Snuff taking, Mah Jong playing. German Hell's Angel. Holding court daily, From his pool-side seat. The family man, Playing with his boy. Joking with his wife. Making instant friends, Of the strangers that he meets. Sharing a day to themselves, Doing nothing in particular, But everything in general. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
L'HIVER APPROCHE Il fait chaud. Curtains, like the evenings, Being drawn earlier. Cyclamens, on the window sill, Leaning towards the light. Dark before dusk. Leaves falling by the second, Whipped up by the winds. Temperature droppin' With the sinkin' sun; That spends most days, Hiding behind clouds. Half moon present In the failing light At four thirty. And it's not yet November. Dusti Rodes (2010)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
THEY'RE PLAYIN' WITH THE CLOCKS They are playing with the clocks, Stealing our time. Precious moments, passing us by. What was it they said? Spring forward, Fall back. They're playing with the clocks again. Messing with our minutes. And our minds. The British Summer has gone. It's certainly a mean time, In Greenwich. Still light in the morning, for now. But dark long before dusk. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
MAKING DUMPLINGS Two parts flour, To one part fat. (Fancy that!) Add a pinch of salt And some pepper. Then some water, Cold is best. Finger it gently Into balls. Making sure it's not too wet. Stick'em in the stew, For twenty minutes. Then enjoy. Just like you did, When you were a boy. Dusti Rodes (2009)
Gord
2014-03-05 12:00 am
I feel like Bernie. The way I sit among the living, Not yearning for my turn again, Yearning for a place to lay down, Learning if I turn the bass down, The treble will just sound louder. Este Lauder is 80 dollars a bottle, and I'm their top seller, I feel like Bernie the way I Madoff.
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
The Illustrated Man Some called him, 'freak', For openly inviting public critique, Of his fabulously illustrated physique. But he is not so unique. Merely a strutting peacock, Soaking up the summer sun On some far distant shore. Nothing more. Dusti Rodes (2010)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
In a Japanese Vein Koi Fisherman, Solitary, seated, Beside the endless water. Wherein the single specimen Silently swims. Casting a line that leaves No trace on the still surface. Bonsai In Japan, it is Bonsai, In England, it is August. It will soon be the Fall. In both. Dusti Rodes (2011)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Memories of Menorca The solitary star The lone gull Lack of light dark and deep Guarded by the lion-dog In two-tone green and black and white Part Chihuahua, part Pekinese. Sunrise over Citudella Purple and pink Blues and browns Age old ruins Built of rocks That are tumbling down. Out of the stillness Came a rustle The wind whispered "Morning" Gull winging, effortlessly Sparrows busying in their daily task Of feeding their families. No different from other mere mortals Who stand and observe Through peephole portals On life below and above. Pylons, all in a line, Taking power to the people. John Lennon would be proud. Illuminated cars, kerb crawling At dawn's half light; Wondering whether to switch off As it is no longer night. To hell with sunrise Watching the clouds come up, Shrouding the stars With their whiteness From the deep dark blue Of Menorcan night. An old boy, reminds me of myself, Lone party goer, maybe? One hell of a walk From Cala Forcat After our session at Night Fever. Sun rises over Citudella And Cala Blanes. Rabbits running, Ants busy, busy; Relaxing perhaps, For a jam sandwich Carelessly cast away. Before the heat forces Them to siesta, On a Menorcan morning At the end of June. A lone songbird, Chortles its wakeup tune; My bag, bathed in Menorcan sunlight Casting shadows of strangest hues The old currant bun Promising a day of brightness. Painted by light, In Nature's brightest colours, The single rock on the lawn Looking like a monolith From eons past. A donkey, braying, Radio, playing People, singing, And speaking in Spanish. Then, Rick Astley, In English. Never going to give you up. Menorcan memories. Dusti Rodes (2002)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Spoilt for choice - Sainsbury’s Saga I think I'll have fish today. Fillet of fish. Served in a dish. Probably be nice With a portion of peas; Don't want that one, though, Too many E's. Beluga caviar, Cor, isn't that taking Housewife’s choice A smidgen too far? Tuna in tomato sauce Or shall I have Sunflower Oil? Here's one in brine That'll do just fine. Now, do I want it, In chunks? Shall I have it in steak? Maybe I should just settle For a nice piece of Hake. Have it fresh, shall I? I could have a packet, But then again, Maybe a pie. But then will it be, John West, Findus or Ross, Or just plain Bird's-Eye? There are mussels and cockles Scallops and whelks Sardines, mackerels Oysters and squid. Pilchards, salmon, Haddock and plaice, Cod, coley, sole and skate; There's even a fish called slid. Look at the lobster, The prawns and the shrimps, Kippers, herrings Dover sole, lemon sole Brown and rainbow trouts Shark steaks, swordfish With very long snouts. Jamaican snappers, Whitebait and sprats. Not much on them, Even for cats! Then on its own Or sometime in sticks; Even professionally dressed; Comes the regal crab. Making the dour monkfish Sound positively drab! Thinking of medieval monasteries, Is Friar, Latin, for Fish-cook? And was Friday named for fish? Has it always been spelt With an I, Or should it be Fryday, Spelt with a Y? Sod it, I'll just have pasta! Dusti Rodes (2003)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Reflections on the demise of a Neighbour Everywhere here Is full up with junk That isn't really so. The building of a couple's lifetime. These possessions that are left Are all there is to show. The winged ducks Pots and pans Brooms and mops The crystal decanter with its glasses Projector and screen Slides taken of foreign mountain passes Planes and trains Books on stone polishing, birds, gardening and roses Videos and stills of Formula One heroes Transfixed in winning poses Sewing machine, curtains Cups and saucers Things that should have been handed on To beloved sons and daughters That never materialised. The log box, embellished in brass Figures of snails and owls Made in Caithness Glass Squirrels, dogs and hedgehogs Porcelain men and women Music boxes that play tunes While in the cutlery drawers Fish knives, glass rolling pin Even silver apostle spoons The collection of records, cd's and tapes Recorded by artistes, many long gone A multitude of stereos and tape decks To choose to play them on. Clocks and timers Wallets and watches TV and twin tub Clothes airer and spin dryer Pencils, pens and paper (by the ream) Plastic bags in all sizes Enough for several lifetimes Drills and saws Fishing tackle Fly, sea and coarse Full blown sou'wester sailing suit And around in the garage Long wader boots An iron gate Wrought with his own hand All serve to measure The mark of the man. Dusti Rodes (2004)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
A Week Away A week away A cottage in the Cotswolds Solitary single socks All in a line On parade Hands like hooks Feet that throb Barms and breezes In Blackpool Fortunes found and told Tramlines Scarring the seascape Soaring seagulls Hawk-like hands Flaying feet Seagulls that screech Mayhem in Mablethorpe Being Stumped in Boston As to which way to go Kiss me quick Squeeze me slow hats For edible orifices Wonka's Willies Trams travelling Towards the Tower And down the Golden Mile From Fleetwood North and South Piers Sandcastles Big and small Towards Town Postcard pictures Picture postcards Pencil drawings By computer The Mere at Marton Limousines And lycra-clad mirth-makers Mobster's metal machine Made from a Mini National Savings & Investments building Blocking the breeze And the light Standing in it's shadow Comfortable caravans Laughter from Leighton Jokes from Jamie Sparkling grape juice All the way from Grimsby Via the M18 Panoramic views From the highest motorway In Britain Deep dales High Pennine peaks In Yorkshire Rain and sunshine Traffic build-ups In Blackburn Blues in Burnley Families fighting Four-pint pitchers Of foaming ale Mussels and whelks Oysters and orange squash Cockles and crabs People driving Dangerously long miles Without falling faint Of fatigue Passion in the Pennines The castle moat Golden sands Tilting telegraph poles Going up And coming down Steep steps To silver sand Shorelines stretching As far as the eye Can see Whirling wind turbines Whitewashed windmills Scattered over the Northwest frontier Unfurled flags Flying furiously In a westerly wind Cod and curry sauce Pen'orth o'scraps And pots of mushy peas Wrapped in writing Mablethorpe Messenger Blackpool Gazette Cotswold Courier Yesterday's news Today's chip wrappers Tomorrow's waste. Dusti Rodes (2006)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Picking up the Pieces The wind ripped up my roses, Tore down the tomatoes, Mangled the mint; Crucified the coriander, And the carrots. Belted the beans, Both French and Runner. Obliterated the onions, Lashed the lettuces; Bruised the beetroots. The mighty sunflowers sagged, And the potato heads were Pulverised to pulp. As for the apple blossom, It wilted with the weather. The snap-dragons snapped, The foxgloves fought well; But only went a couple of rounds; Till they too, joined the lupins on the ground. The hollyhocks held their heads up, When even the willow waivered. And I am left, Picking up the pieces. Dusti Rodes (2006)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Postcard from Spain The deep blue Med, Bleeding red, With green seaweed. Ten thousand immigrant flies, Travelling in on the wings Of the Sirocco; From north Morocco. The power of the Siesta Sun, Making the sand in my shoe hot. Luscious lips, not bruised Neither battered nor burnt, Grappling with grapefruits. Paradise Beach, Paraded with parasol palms; Waves breaking On a wind-kissed shore. I may be bathing later, I am still not sure. A lone bathing beauty, From the Lone Star state, Ear to the phone. Southern Belle; Listening to Western Bell. Had to go and see My mountain, Standing stark In darkest Dakota. Aqui,Casas de Lujo. Here, Luxury Houses. Cornish Cream, Mandarin Palace. Urban graffiti In an idyllic setting. Perfect paradox. Jet plane trucking Leaving tyre tracks In the bright blue sky. Sun-kissed shingle. Sitting on a man-made rock, The sea has shaped To blend in with the shoreline. Concrete clusters; Indistinguishable, From indigenous icons Seaweed green, but yesterday, Bleached red, By the unforgiving sun today. Granite granules, Marble monolinths. Sculptured saline symbols. Yellow bouys bobbing, Effortlessly. Looking like a line of sweet corn, Positioned precariously On a willow patterned plate. To my right, A multitude of people, To my left, A hundred more. But I sit here, Surrounded by the solitude of silence. Alone, with only my thoughts, For company. 'Cept for the gentle breeze, Whispering words of untold wisdom. Gleaned from eons of eavesdropping, On its many invisible travels Around the globe. The unseen listener of many conversations, Keeper of Confidences, Storer or Secrets, Librarian of Lies, Treasurer of Truths. Spreading the gospel of God, By the Mediterranean Sea. I went away And wrote. Warm winds, Helicopter hovering, Gentle gyrations. Drenched dog, Bedraggled by brine. Dappled writing, Caused by the sun Through the brim Of my hat. Beach-combing bum, Scouring the shoreline, With a plastic bag, because of the hole In my pocket. Gone is the moment For forced photography, A thousand photos, But only one picture. Stranger on a foreign shore, Leaving only footprints In the sands; Taking nothing But memories. Beached rowboats; Wooden rafts, Made from discarded Wine crates. Dusti Rodes (2002)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
A Day in the Life I Morning Up early for a Sunday The clock says eight But even that's late For what we have to do And where we've got to be Breakfast hastily eaten A schedule that has to be beaten The taxi comes just on time The clock strikes the half nine The train will leave at ten So we have to be there then II In a railway waiting room People sitting Waiting for the train Some just there To get out of the rain The sun is starting To shine now Making the outlook Better somehow The fire Glows brightly Offering security In its warmth There must be a hike Somewhere By the amount of people Going there Dressed in their anoraks And their boots A passing express Gives warning toots Waiting for the train To friends Still far to go Before our journey ends Although having already Come this far Still there are miles To be travelled By car Sitting patiently, waiting For the train Marking time To the pouring rain III A ride through the countryside At our destination We are met Commiserations Hoping we did not get Too wet Outside the station They had parked the car Comfortable seats Our journey Not to mar We are off Through the countryside Making quite a pleasant ride Of our quest To the coast Never really deciding Which we prefer the most Ever onwards We are drawn Towards the outskirts Of Eastbourne IV Eastbourne Eating eggs Hard boiled Liver sausage sandwiches Cheese and ham Fried sausages Oranges too What a sight For people to view Throwing stones Into the sea Stopping to watch The tide roll in Then a walk Along the pier Perhaps to stop For a cool glass of beer Buying ornaments Made of glass Playing the games That made us laugh Throwing balls Into walls Listening to the radio In the warm Then on again It was said Towards the crags Of Beachy Head V Beachy Head Climbing up To the Bell Tower Pausing to view A lonely flower The long climb Winding a few The breathlessness Well worth the view On looking out to the sea So calm One could scarce believe It could do so much harm Then suddenly The gunshots Warning us of the coming rain So we quickly make our descent again The rabbit droppings In the tufted grass Is the sight I remember last The gulls wheeling On the wind Showing aerial acrobatics That Man will take A thousand years To conquer VI Newhaven When the tide Is full in It is a facade To walk along The esplanade At Newhaven For the angry waves Batter the man-made wall Persistently trying To make it fall Spraying Unwary travellers With showers of stones And the flying Sea spray That rusts Even the lamp posts Within a month The road to the west This is our quest Pass the ox-bow lake On the river That meanders Through the open fields Filled with Sweet smelling air The road takes us Past the harbour Where, the ' Chichester Star ' Lies anchored there Moored at her rest VII Brighton The Palace Pier On a Sunday Even in March Full of people Having fun Some lie on the beach Catching the sun That hides Behind the clouds Of the rain-filled sky But here we do not stay Perhaps I'll return Some other day The time has come Not to linger Drawn ever onwards By a wandering singer Dressed in sandals And in jeans Singing songs of the Changing scenes Sentiments felt By myself He did quote. He sang, Whilst I wrote VIII Shoreham Dark, dank and dismal Grey and grim Stands the power station The side, the day-tripper Does not see The squalid surroundings Of the industrial side Where the rubber factory Takes the coke works For its bride There, beside a mountain Of metal scrap Stands a fellow In a cloth cap Surrounded by Carcasses of cars Burnt out By long cold fires Wasteland covered With prickly briars Rubble strewn around Sweet papers, magazines Stones cover the ground The road carries on Pass the gasworks To playing fields Where people sit watching Others using their energy To a useless end A steel girdered bridge Spans the road Along by which The river still flowed IX Worthing Having high tea In the lounge Sardines, rolls Tea and toast Watching the sea Leave the coast Playing the pin machines With pennies Reading the paper To find the news Desperately needing To use the loos Off on our trek again Running from the Fast oncoming rain X Half a league ..... Destination somewhere In the west Selsey, probably At the very best Time, like the tide Rolling on Light of day Has nigh nearly gone The lights burning Along the road Turn from the palest pink To shimmering gold Eve draws on Darkness, soon to follow A level-crossing That isn't so level In fact, the road Looks like more of a bevel The road becomes Winding and long Making us remember The young minstrel's song Following the line Of cat's eyes Broken only By the sound of sighs A solitary star Guiding us, as of old The weather becoming Increasingly cold The long boring night Is broken By the bright lights Of the big service station At Crawley Say as they might To me, the most welcoming sight Was that of The Thorns pud At Horley Liquid refreshments For parched dry throats Although there was nowhere To hang our coats Having once Quenched our thirsts The road leads on To Billinghurst Then on down Cowper's Lane Just as it starts Again to rain In the comfortable warmth Of her home We are again Free to roam Tea for three And one for coffee Arguing who'll get to eat The very last toffee Onwards then, Homeward bound The car really seems To leave the ground Till the lights of Croydon Are encountered And as we are at our door " It was fun, we must do it more!" The two of us Climb the stairs Once again To all our cares Very quietly Into bed Nothing more It has all been said. Dusti Rodes (1975)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
* The driving force within - I don't know the meanings, I just feel the feelings * The kick inside, Gives the reasons to write. It's the sign of the writer, Not the fighter in me. Or maybe it is. It's all here. That which has been written, Honed and pared, To give timbre to the tomes. The fears and frustrations, The high days and holidays. The black days and the blank days. The literary diamonds, the golden nuggets. All the bum lines and the b******t, Of poetic wisdom, and otherwise. Dusti Rodes (1997)
Dusti Rodes
2014-03-05 12:00 am
Windows I was still but a boy, When my people first started horsetrading, With the white man, Bill Gates; For livestock to be used on the cyber plains. Ninety Five was a poor breed, Made up of mixed bloodlines. Favoured by the white man. They know nothing of horse stock. Ninety Eight, though mixed with broken mustang; Were a bad breed, skittish, having to be hobbled often. ME were ponies that found much favour with the Pawnees, as pack-horses. They did not ride well. XP are better, their bloodlines come from the wild mustang herds, That frequent the vast plains. Apaches, the best horsemen, in creation; Use them to great advantage. The Vista are good animals but unpredictable, Causing their users many problems. But I have heard of a new breed,The Seven. It is said to be the result of mixing wily mountain mustang herds, With the speed of the white man's Arabian stallion stock. Creating a truly unique workhorse. I shall get one and find out if this is true. They say that with such a beast, I shall need all my rodeo skills. It is yet to be seen, Only time will truly tell. Dusti Rodes (2008)
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