What’s the risk
we take, we
the music makers,
compared to
the dancer’s shifting,
slipping grip;
the penalty taker’s
injudicious shot that
hits the bar;
the climber and
her crew lost
on the implacable
rock for a
final hand hold?

For us maybe
a clinker dropped
across a piece of
pristine harmony
before a crowd
we’re trying
to impress. And
even then
at half time
it’s a shrug
and, “I didn’t
even notice, mate,
and I don’t reckon
they did either”.
Or maybe it’s
stomach cramping
laughter, the three
of us hunched over,
all in tears at
the absurdity:
the sacred
made profane.

Death or glory
under the lights,
the sun, the stars,
we the mutualists,
the diggers and
the levellers
are bound in
a cargo net
of love that fills
the heart and stops
the breath. There’s
a joy you simply
cannot buy
in the moment
pledged towards
the shared self.

Clinker = bum note.

About Dick Jones

I'm a post-retirement Drama teacher, currently working part-time. I have a grown-up son and daughter, three grandchildren and three young children from my second marriage. I write - principally poetry but prose too, both fitfully published. My poetry collection Ancient Lights is published by Phoenicia Publishing ( and my translation of Blaise Cendrars' 'Trans-Siberian Prosody and Little Jeanne from France' (illustrated by my friend, the artist, writer and long-time blogger Natalie d'Arbeloff) is published by Old Stile Press ( I play bass guitar & bouzouki in the song-based acoustic/electric trio Moorby Jones, playing entirely original material. spotify:artist:07MDD5MK9MnRGSEZwbsas9 I have a dormant blog with posts going back to 2004 at Dick Jones' Patteran Pages - - and I'm a radio ham. My callsign is G0EUV
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