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	community of poets Copyright © Philip Bennetta the online poetry journal of Philip Bennetta



	vines (I have trodden the winepress alone ...and my fury it upheld me Isaiah 63 ref. vs. 3,5) i watch him on the lane cross the village boundary his half-weight solid on a heavy stick bearing off into a distant copse and beyond; now hidden two rows of ancient vine spirit from the rocky soil. i watch his return everyday straightening at regular halts, to look. the invaders’ now return silently; as tourists. we shake hands at my gate unspoken stains redeem us and a sprinkling of loving kindness our daily observance
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Acknowledgements
	Some of these poems have previously appeared in Community of Poets Magazine and other publications including Connections The Journal of Management Education and Development Pause Platform 'approaching and' and "poetrypf "website cinosargo.bligoo.com



poems by post he imagines posting a poem to himself everyday most return next day some take longer some arrive in two’s or three’s today an envelope arrives with a broken seal he is stuck with this ariel thought forever


utopias (in memory, Francisco Melo Santos) we spiral away through the years then pencilled in, your faded name spinning webs now winter is here dust embedded in my fingers across the world we are the same we spiral away through the years you help light the fire, without fear then retire to your home, in pain spinning webs now winter is here you turn the tap, intentions clear and why extinguish that one flame? we spiral away through the years i find your book again, so near utopian plans seep through, untamed spinning webs now winter is here anninversaries are forever your poems, authentic, now reclaimed we spiral away through the years spinning webs now winter is here © Philip Bennetta from his new pamphlet Those Marks So Deeply Scored, 2009
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scrapings (the barrel's empty, not even scrapings, Ted Hughes) empty caves the aching sinus hungry for the rush empty tables the reservoir is low and yet... in a cosy bunker fat gushings flow and some still play with pebbles on the shore a new song rises on the day like surface water it does not count as winter rain the barrel’s still empty not even scrapings, he'd say
to be continued we speak at dinner parties, supermarkets and on the street. today no superficial chat this invitation given or mistaken starts a story... two women, one old one young. outside a poetry bookshop one stroking her own arm shouldering her neckless head imagining safety for a while ... tells her story then leaves damp around her eyes the other comes inside ...



	long since gone we were four hundred then i don't pretend to have known everyone but even twenty five years on you'd think i'd know one ... where have they gone? black polo neck sweaters the rolled umbrellas - i should have written - reunions never turned me on i never wrote to anyone except, thanks for the ten embassy mum. then one day in the park i didn't like to wave or shout again later there you were in sainsburys looking serious and mooching about around the spice re-fills or campbells soups in an overcoat the short military kind - apart from the beard i go incognito now- a camel crombie to keep you warm in winters and life away from home. we all had one then mine long since gone... i have an old duffle a later addition hangs quietly in the wardrobe, cinnamon with one cigarette burn, tight squeeze i wonder if you have some dreadful disease greasy hair strange shade you catch my gaze no heavily laden trolley at the checkout - recognition long since gone - peeping out between epaulettes and ashen face the striped colours of that place everyone had one, mine long since gone...

don't speak

i remember your footsteps up our side path

past the pink cherry blossom tree ...

i hear the special way you round the corner

your clicking heels briefly rest ...

gently ... by the back door, just before

you turn the handle ...

just let me put these things down

when did you get here

did you just arrive?

i've remembered you since at the kitchen sink.

i can see you now looking up

through steamed up window and a sink full of pots.

i remember too being proud holding hands

your tight waistband and make-up on

walking to the bus and home through the park

and by the building site

everytime

their wolf-whistles your wiggly walk

come on, quickly, ... and don't speak



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