See you Later

After the driving rain and angry drivers, stuffy rooms and rubbed eyes, I’ll be seeing you. Balm for my ears. My anti- anxiety. Perched in calm readiness, bathed in morning rays.   Copyright Tom Tide 2016

Proserpine

  Your name trips from my tongue in three brief sighs, Proserpine, fair empress of temptation. My gaze is ever drawn to your dark eyes; Twin pools, offering such pure libation.   Yet you, the epitome of denial. Left hand clasped to steer you from desire; Will never more your crimson lips defile, From this … More Proserpine

Never be Forgot

The whole city a coral reef. Resplendent with phosphorescence. Beautiful, really. Punctuated with staccato blasts. Syncopated echoes to every flash. Yet so fragmented. Too many, many small, pigeon holed shouls. Hardly an ecology. Or society. My God, united, all displays could make a blaze fit for a King. Whole streets pooling  knives and Fawkes to … More Never be Forgot

Out of Doors

Tantalising passageways going nowhere. All still, save for pirouetting feathers shed from lofty inhabitants. The whole place crying out to be made whole again.   © Tom Tide 2016  

Ghost Sign

This is Ghost Sign, my poem about a beautiful mirror and gilt shop sign that was rediscovered behind paneling in Bath recently. Hidden for nearly 70years, its discovery marks the building’s transition from Fancy Dress shop to a Bar and Restaurant.   Ghost Sign What did you hear, in all those years locked away Boarded and barricaded? … More Ghost Sign

Take Me

Bathwick. Bath. 1927. Valeria had watched the man for over a week now, and always in the early morning. From her solitary table on the balcony terrace she would first hear the gentle slap and pull of his oars working the river, then see him glide slowly in to view. Straining on the oars and … More Take Me

Shepherd’s Warning

The day is but newly struck. Blushing in its naïveté, yet still A Brave New World. Most still abed: whether Messiah or monster (and everybody else in between). What a difference today could make, In its increments of pivoting hands. Shifting digits. Whatever. I take you, day. For richer, for poorer. In rank sickness or … More Shepherd’s Warning

Beacons

This is a poem about smoking. Burning through a pack of Ten. Ten moments in time. Ten streams of conciousness. Ten pauses.   The first? A smoke screen hiding inner fears. The second blasts the fear, yes every trace. Third one  blows up clouds that squeeze out ashen tears; Fourth a signal, steeling jaw in … More Beacons