The Last Dance - Joan Raleigh

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in January 2013.

We always danced the last dance of the evening.
Neither of us were what you would call dancers, but
that one was special. You would move lightly and slowly,
so that you wouldn’t step on my feet.
And we would hold each other,
concentrating yet feeling the moment together.
Too soon, the music would finish.
I didn’t want it to, I wanted it to go on, and on;
So I could feel the nearness of you a little longer.
When would we dance again?
Time would not allow that hope,
Or answer that question.

Joan Raleigh

A Night at the Bar - Joan Raleigh

Straddled across my usual stool
in the Excelsior bar one night,
I watched the punters coming through,
male, moneyed, right for a bite.

Pete at the bar’s the prevalent pimp;
gives me a nod when he sees a full roll.
Then leaves me be if business is good,
(and if I come up with a cut ... arsehole!)

Playing the game as long as I have
when your instinct is right you can tell.
I can easily see a potentiality,
and their choice of tipple as well!

The guy with the cocktail could be good
but he plays for the other side;
And a treble whisky has got to be risky
in the one that’s a bit cross-eyed.

I thought ‘my luck’s in!’ with the next one in,
(a pigeon ready for plucking!)
Till a blowsy cow joined him at the bar ...
I swear that’s ‘Cliquot’ they’re drinking!

But when a good night works out right
and sex is with cognac in the sack!
I’ve got to admit, the graft’s pretty good,
so until I’m too ripe, I’ll be back!

Joan Raleigh

Drifting - Joan Raleigh

Old Bill had a fright one day
while fishing out on his boat.
He fell asleep as usual
wrapped up in his duffle coat.

The sun was shining and the sea
lapped dreamily on the planking;
and although Bill had two rods out,
it seemed the fish weren’t biting.

Now up the Banks just off the Point,
the tidal flow’s deceptive,
especially when a fog comes down
and your mind is less than active!

The boat had all the usual gear,
radar and auto-steering.
All other boats had motored home,
but Billy was blissfully sleeping.

The fog was dense as Billy’s brain
and the current surruptitious.
He didn’t feel the movement, so
the signs were non-auspicious.

He past Fermain away to port
and drifted past the harbour mouth.
The Salerie slid swiftly to his stern,
soon Paradis was to his south.

Then a siren suddenly rent his dreams …
He awoke at the Platte Fougere.
Said Bill “I’ve not a clue where I’m to,
I’m lost, neither here nor there.

But if I set a course on auto,
and head sou-west somewhere,
with luck I’ll hit old L’ancresse beach,
and caw dammee … I’m staying there!”

Joan Raleigh

When We Parted - Joan Raleigh

When we parted I watched you drive away
into the maelstrom of morning traffic
early on this shimmering summer’s day.
Last night, as each hour raced into the next
you kissed me with a cruel finality
that I, still unaware in the neon glare
of our hotel rendezvous, naively
returned your Judas ‘coup de grace’, to be
proof of my lover’s perspicuity.

Now, in the turbid haze of the station
I see you on the platform, waiting
for a train that will unrelentingly
take you a thousand miles from me.
Pitiless, your case at your feet, pristine
in the grit. A square symbol of evermore.

Joan Raleigh

Lines - Joan Raleigh

It was a night of destiny
my future was foretold,
He brooded with a sensual charm,
one look and I was sold!

His whispered words caressed my ears,
“let me see your hand.
I’ll tell you all you need to know,
don’t fight it, you understand?”

Slowly like a secret flower,
I opened to his sight.
He gently prised my palms apart,
and cupped them to the light.

His thumb revealed a magic web
of lines, a mystic tracery.
He said I had a psychic bent
bordering on elementary.

But most of all my Venus mount
was unprecedented passion.
And for another ten up front
he’d show my Ring of Solomon.

He bared my heart line to its soul,
and sussed out my stigmata.
But as for paying through the nose,
he might as well climb Luna.

Now I know that I’m a sausage short
of the proverbial barbie.
But my line of intuition said,
don’t trust this sexy swami!

Joan Raleigh

Jerusalem - Joan Raleigh

This Holy city is torn apart,
with man’s hostility to man.
There’s no benevolence or love,
just rockets and Kalashnikovs.
Bullets tear into your mother,
father, sister, babes and brother.
My name’s David, yours Abdullah ,
is yours so different to mine?

They say ‘We’ll cancel Christmastime’.
Jerusalem will not celebrate
the deaths of so many people,
the hate of race to race.
But how can goodwill ever come
in this blessed war-torn place?

If there’s no Holy Christmas birth
can peace be born again on earth?

Your name’s Abdullah, mine is David,
our lives should be forever sacred

Joan Raleigh

Depth of Silence - Joan Raleigh

Switch off the radio.
Lock the door.
and try to listen
to silence.

With no noise to disturb
the nothingness,
your brain is still.
But listen,

listen to the stew of noise.
A high resonation
whirling
inside your brain.

It’s not tinnitus
but anathema to peace.
Your blood is pumping,
pumping, and you hear it.

Soon your breath
is noticeable in its rhythm.
Soon you see there’s was never
silence at all.

Joan Raleigh

Wash Day - Joan Raleigh

‘Mind you see that while I’m out
you wash those dishes clean and nice.
Don’t forget to poke the spout
and check the glass is rinsed alright!
Set the water nice and hot,
(you can’t clean things with lukewarm suds),
and do the floor while I’m in town,
I want to see it bright, not brown!’

Now no-one’s such a pain as she,
and so I made a cup of tea;
then turned the taps on, cold and hot,
the water filled the plates and cups.
It filled the bowl and then the sink,
(I think the cupboards had a drink).
The water seeped across the floor
into the sitting-room next door;
it washed the rugs and more than that,
it washed the sleeping Persian cat.
And so the house was washed right through,
while I had tea, and biscuits too!
The moral is, she shouldn’t oughta
command the use of all that water.

Joan Raleigh

Golgotha - Joan Raleigh

‘Crucify Him!’ the people called
in the heat of a Jerusalem day.
‘Let Barabbas go!’

With leather scourged, and step by step,
He bore the heavy cross of redemption
on to Golgotha.

Through the shimmering haze of dust
the people gathered to watch Him die -
flanked by two thieves.

The Judean sky filled with portent
as they heard in the midst of sacrifice:
‘Father, forgive them!’

Darkening clouds were spreading forth
black as a solar eclipse. The people
were afraid, and left.

On the ground a torrent of rain
drained His blood, and all who stayed knew,
He was the Messiah.

Joan Raleigh

It's Up hill All The Way - Joan Raleigh

With apologies to Christina Rossetti.

It's Up hill All The Way - Joan Raleigh

Is the road "no entry" all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the journey from town take the whole long day?
Not far off it, my friend.

But is there, somewhere, a short cut to take,
to reach home when the slow, dark hours entwine?
May not a diversion be a mistake?
You cannot ignore that sign.

Shall I meet a queue at a traffic light,
those who have gone before?
Then can I hoot, or brake when just in sight?
They'll not keep you forevermore.

Shall I find comfort, at least by mid week?
On radio you shall hear the sum.
Does the chance of an open road still look bleak?
Yea, join the club, old chum.

Joan Raleigh

To Rose, Who Loved Them All - Joan Raleigh

Nowadays there’s few men who
remember back to the old 50’s
when they’d sit in groups
astride their Ariels, Nortons,
A.J.S and Triumphs along the ‘front’.
They’d watch the evening orbit in town
of girls passing up the Pollet and down
the High Street, and turning then
sashay slowly along the ‘front’ again.

And Rosie was there, bewitching them all
with her hearing honed for a wolf-whistle call.
Though to those that Rose took a fancy to
she’d say: “Okay darlin’, just a fag will do!”
And when some nights the Navy was in,
Rose would be happy and welcoming.
With less pay in their hips
they’d go back aboard ships
at sea with Rose on their minds,

But time must move on,
and all good things must pass,
and Rosie retired growing tomatoes in glass.
But men would think, with wistful sighs
how eager Rose was to gratify.
Though still the Navy came and hove to,
her crew looked for other pleasures to do.
She remembered the fun and the buckshee fag
while having a Senior Service drag.

Joan Raleigh

Richard The Third ~ The Sequel - Joan Raleigh

From the media, (as we know by now),
King Richard wasn’t dug up by a plough,
or discovered under a Bosworth field ...
but instead his bones were buried to yield
(through the auspices of a council clerk),
beneath a city’s municipal car-park.

Leicester is now exceedingly chuffed,
claiming ‘finder-keeper’ rights of bluff.
But white-rose York expects by Easter
to inter King Richard in their Minster.
They’re calling for a judicial review,
to settle the disputed ‘rite of venue’.

Planning to meet in twenty-fourteen,
a ‘red and white’ battle is foreseen.
The outcome being dependent upon
the extent of arguments undergone.
And so it appears the King will ferment
Another winter of discontent.

Joan Raleigh

Ode To Richard - Joan Raleigh

I’d like a serious word
about Richard the Third,
who was badly misunderstood,
and really was good.

While up in the White Tower
and with the best of his power
he took care of the boys,
(gave them comfort and toys).

Although much maligned,
(he looked oddly aligned),
there was no need to wisecrack
and call him Dick Crookback!

He earned noble renown
and secured England’s crown,
that he tried to hang onto
but at Bosworth got slew!

In a car-park in Leicester
A few hundred years later,
they said his back had a curve
from the neck with a swerve.

But what else could you expect -
him having a slight defect?
Flaws any could foresee
under tarmac and a JCB.

And as for the histories ....
Just one of life’s mysteries?

Joan Raleigh

Circles - Joan Raleigh

I saw in a dream
a circle of spiralling suns
spinning from the East,
and as the gauze lifted from my mind
you stepped into that symbol
of the self that is me.

Your love seemed as the Lotus,
that He gazed upon
at His birth.
It devoured my spirit
as I slept, and I knew
the sphere of life eternal.

Was it a cruel caricature
penetrating my inner being,
like the slippery thrust
of a demonic phallus?
Or was the vision a true
intercedent to my senses?

Let me dream of you once more,
and I shall sleep forever.

Joan Raleigh

A Melancholy Tale - Joan Raleigh

This sad ode has a bit of a sting
as I recall when I used to be thin.
The memory’s clearer than I’d like it to be
since my hour-glass figure became history.

Years ago I would trough-in chips
cooked in oil and cheesy dips.
Then I’d plaster butter on my bread -
‘laid with a trowel’ my husband said.

Drinking wine or a rum and coke
went well watching tele and having a smoke.
I didn’t know back then that in time
gravity was lurking along the line.

I guess I should have exercised,
instead of stretching to oversized!
But I know now I’ve learnt my lesson
and doing a regular training session.

I’m counting the calories, each damn one,
before my feet are eclipsed and gone.
The programme’s tough, to build muscle anew,
and the fitness instructor’s quite nice too!

Joan Raleigh

The Last Dance - Joan Raleigh

We always danced the last dance of the evening.
Neither of us were what you would call dancers, but
that one was special. You would move lightly and slowly,
so that you wouldn’t step on my feet.
And we would hold each other,
concentrating yet feeling the moment together.
Too soon, the music would finish.
I didn’t want it to, I wanted it to go on, and on;
So I could feel the nearness of you a little longer.
When would we dance again?
Time would not allow that hope,
Or answer that question.

Joan Raleigh