Sunday, December 07, 2008

I now offer for sale a PDF containing 21 of my poems, entitled ‘Movers and Shakers.’
If you wish to purchase this file please send £5 to delspoetry@hotmail.co.uk via PayPal. The 21 poems on the PDF are as follows:

Angel
Cold Reception
Crowded Beach
Dog Days
Gravy
Keeper
Horatio Lord Nelson
Movers and Shakers
Mr. Herring
No Zimmer Zest
Not Done, Nor Dusted
Pendolino Morning
Outside the Box
Raise the Bar
Pitcher
Romeo and Juliet
Tall Ships in Liverpool
Takeoff
Tewkesbury
The Night Before
The Track to Slaggan

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Junk Mail

Junk mail! Junk mail!
No more! I hear you rail.

Up the road he comes at last
Carrying bag he delivers so fast.

Through the doors he pushes the mail
For the fat, the hearty and the frail.

Junk mail! Junk mail!
No more! I hear you rail.

Advice he gives out, oh so free
How to stop the junk for you and me.

But it had to stop said his boss
You’re suspended, you’re no loss.

Junk mail! Junk mail!
No more! I hear you rail.

Junk mail earns the Post Office loads of money
Stopping this income is not funny.

But Posty took his tale to the press
Now we all know how to stop this mess.

Junk mail! Junk mail!
No more! I hear you rail.

Martin Delemare
30th August 2006

Friday, September 05, 2008

Cold as Ice

Tomorrow it will all be gone.
Tomorrow they will be here
With their documents and warrants
With their vans and chattels
Of repossession. Take it all.
Take it all they will,
If I let them.

Gone will be my mansion.
Nowhere for the horses
Nowhere for the dogs
No more daughter’s education.
How will I face the day?
How will I face the wife?

Well, they will come in vain.
They will come for a different task,
For they will come too late.

I have my gun
I have my petrol
I have my matches.

No more time for thought
No more time for reflection
No time for tears.

I have work to do.

Martin Delemare
3rd September 2008

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Flame

Flame in the dark
Shines in that place
Of no trees, no grass.
Shines on the rock
But here there is
No rain, nor sun
No flowers, nor bees.
Shines on the polish
Of many dirty hands.
Shines on the wet
Of the running stream.
Shines on the mud
Of millenniums past.
Then moves away
Up into chambers
Silent chambers, dry
With hanging forest
Of thin, hollow straws
Lined with stone curtains
With pillars of white.
Flame follows trodden
Path on packed floor.
Flame moves to explore
Passages, creeps and more.

Martin Delemare

20th February 2008

Friday, March 28, 2008

Sometimes

Sometimes the words
Just sit
Inside my head
For they
Don’t want
To play.
And try as I might
Cannot make them
Come out.
But they are there
I know they are.
It’s just that
I see one or two
But cannot find
The right order
In my mind.
But tomorrow
Is another day
And then they
Might gladly say
Write us this way.
But do not delay
For
Sometimes the words
Just sit
Inside my head.

Martin Delemare
2nd September 2007

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

River Ruffian

Know well the river ruffian
Puts on a smooth face
In the drowsy summer days
Dabble, drift and dawdle
Around in the lazy eddies.

Swells and bruises in the rain
Boils over ragged boulders
Riffles down gravel glides
Casually claims swimmers
Sneakily spews unwanted
Debris deposits downstream,
Later to be found
High in the tree branches
Or sieved by the reeds.

Dream world of the fisher
Mysterious bubbles and ripples
After dark noises wild
Shrieks, cries and calls.

Know well the river ruffian
Waits forever for our
Frailty, foolishness and faults.

Martin Delemare
8th January 2008
Elvers

Cold water, slimy weed
No socks, no shoes
Water snails between toes.
Wade along very carefully
Try not to tread on broken
Glass, jam jar in hand.
Watch for the wriggle,
Tiny elvers climbing
Up the wet, wet wall.
Sudden grab in hands
Hold tight to wade
Back to the wall
Plastic bucket safe.

Caught little fry
In long-handled nets
Put them in same bucket.
Back home in a tank
Less fish every day
But the elvers were …
The elvers were fatter.

Martin Delemare
23rd February 2008
The Black Bridge

Sun was climbing in the bright sky
Shone on fields of stubble, after harvest.
We were little lads out on adventure
With shorts and sticks we made our way
Beside the slow river, looking for lost
Bits of tackle, line and fishing gear.
By trampled swim we poked and searched.

Moving on we looked for plums at edge
Of old orchard, long-abandoned now.
On a fence hung a dead, black crow,
Maggots wriggling fat in decaying meat.
And passed near the place by a ditch
Where bloated cow had lain all winter.

Back on the river bank we saw it coming
Bumping down the dusty track
Old blue Fordson Major with trailer
Sinister bundle inert upon the boards.

We saw too the distant black bridge
That took steam trains over the river.

Twisted rope hanging down, death-line
Hanging down from the life line
That ran across the bleak marsh.

Money problems they said to me
But that meant nothing
Nothing at all to me.

Martin Delemare
10th November 2006