To The Sky

Terraced
With slums
All roads led to Scotland
Road
To the scouse it was Scotty
Road
Piped and drummed
The road turned into the Battle of the Boyne
Midsummer
July 12
The Orangemen would march
Through the shamrock streets of Scotty Road
King Billy
Would once again ride on his white horse
Leading his lodge
Of soused scouses
In a brassy parade of titian jubilation
The cymbals crashed in confrontation
Caught
In the cross fire of Christianity
Masses
Wrangled and tangled
Under a saffron sauterne
Music
Crusaded into the crowds
Songs
Crushed into slurring shouts
Missiles
Whistled into a synchronous
Clash
Sloshed songs
Sozzled shouts
Soused souls
Trailing
In the spirited wake of King Billy
Leaving
The Irish scouse
To shovel up his stallions shit

At the End of the Day

The city consecrated their love
With the birth of two cathedrals
One for the Anglicans
One for the Catholics
Eye to eye
They tower the sea
Crossing the city
They span the sea
Netting lost souls with a saucer of tea
Flying
Over St. George
We can see the Anglican Cathedral
Neo-Gothic
Monolithic
Red
It silhouettes the skyline with its sandstone
Stone
It mounts St. James
With its austere tower
It looks towards the Irish Sea
Like a tantalizing Trojan horse
It is filled with ten thousand
Pipes
Bells
Thirteen
Bartlett bells
Drown out the sirens of the sea
With their chorus of winds
Souls
Lost at sea
Will be saved
With savory tea
Stone masters built it
From Scotland
Road
Once
It stood in a stoop of slums
That sloped to the River Mersey
Once
A plaque of poverty
Now a pool of plurality

Harmony

Arrived with the Metropolitan
Cathedral
Catholicism encircled the city with a mosaic of glass
Crossed on a hill
Its thorny crystal crown
Mounts a pleasant view
Standing in hope
It stains the sky
With an alcove of light
It arches its arc over its archdiocese
A beacon of faith
Towering its torch
It tapers off into a dove-slated sky
Like a wigwam
To Paddy’s eye
Once
A neighborhood
Pockmarked with paupers
Now
A pool filled with peasantry
Topped off
Sir Edwin Lansteer Lutyens (Anglican)
Slept
In a cold crypt
Waiting
In his architectural chamber
To be relieved
From his dying duty
Sir Fredrick Gibberd
Built
The Catholic cathedral on top of Lutyens calcified corpse
Topped off
In 1967
Consecrated
After a decade of conception

Meanwhile

Seven decades had passed
Under the dying direction of Sir. Giles Gilbert
Scott
And his sandy stonemasons
Chipped away with Woolton quarry
It rocked the Anglicans
Churchyard with its chord of cold chisels
The cathedral grew
In austere
Topping the tombstones with trickles of timeless
Sand
Castles of gothic proportion
Bell Towered over its congregation
As Bodley
And Scott
Sit side by side
Strained
Sorry stained
In glass
Under jubilant skies
Completed
In 1978 under celebratory skies
It carved the heavens with their celestial edifice
As we look down

Upon

St. Georges Hall

Stretched out
Like a colossal mausoleum
It sleeps
Along
A Corinthian column of confluted pillars
Were four lions rest with Maggie Mays
Lime Street

Outside

British Lions
Guard the Courts
With Augustan pride
They lie in judgment
Outside its vaulted great hall
Inside
Were Allegorical figures
Look down on Minton tiled floors
As the bronze doors
Open up
To the music
Of the people
Who will have their day in court
While justice rallies
Their tune
On a plateau
Served by
St. George

Called

To the bench
Old veterans would sit with a sad smile
Watching
Heart-warming mothers
Teach their young children
To bestride the austere lion
Stroking
Its bare back

With squeals of laughter

My husband would hoist our son
Onto the bronze mane of the lion
Once safe on top
His little arm
Bent into a salute
To all the men and women who passed him by
In a parade of thousands
Young veterans marched in a pride of silver
As the bold British Lion roared
In silence
Heart-breaking mothers
Watched
In tiers of red
As the last post echoed

The cries of their children

Echo
Echo
Echo
To laughter
As we guide the Liver Birds
Towards Lime Street Station
Where we watched
Heart-broken mothers
Comfort
The cries of their children
Turn to tears
When Punch beats the living hell out of his Judy
Punch
Like Maggie Mae
Will be taken away
And neither one will walk
Down Lime Street anymore
We will leave Punch
And end on that line

Over to

St. Johns Open Market

Listen
Hear them sell their wares
Taste the scouse
At Paddy’s market
Or
Smell the farts
That comes from St. Johns
Arse
Hole
Cried the hawker
Who hustled in a barrage of bustling
Barrows
Of people
Carting live stock
In large wooden handcarts

Top of the Morning

Yelled the Barrow boy
Top-flight fruit
Topnotch vegetables
Topside beef
All my produce
Top of the line
Top off your lamb with a lovely topping of mint sauce
A special for you
Ducks
With a wink
That classifies as top secret
The tops love
Tipping his top hat
He smiles like a tope
As he pulls out his pocket watch
From under his worn out black topcoat
Time
To top up
With a toper of black and tan

At The Grapes

To the topmost
Don’t spill a drop
Love
Tops poppet
Spilling a smile
With a wink
Top that
And keep a crown for yourself
Love
Thinking
With a leering eye
Wishing
That the buxom barmaid was topless
Top-up
Again
Love
You are the topic of the day
Tanked up
Top-heavy
He sang at the top of his voice
Cart him to his barrow
Shouted the top barman
Staggered
And spinning like a top
He topples into his topsy-turvy world
Where he sleeps like a spinning top
Until the top brass hoist him up
As a sailor does to a top mast

Did I tell you

That your dad read the comic the Topper
So top that for a story
Because I am top-out of tops
With an endearing smile
The grandchildren thought grandma was the tops
As John Lennon would say she was the topper most of the popper most

Time to leave St. Johns market
And follow the Queensway

Tunnel
Under the River Mersey
Were buses weave under wakes of waves
As cars and lorries honk on the on coming tides of rush hour traffic
Submerged
Under the sea
Like yellow submarines
Avoiding the meanies
So that they can rush home for their afternoon tea

Let’s flap our wings
And bow our heads
Listen
On the left wing
You can hear the applause
From the right wing
Of the old Play House on Williamson Square
Winging our way
From the old repertory theatre
We will fly over to Matthew Street
Let’s land
Hear the band
I want to hold your hand
Grandma
Took the children under her wings
Listen
To the music of yesterday
And imagine what it was like
When your dad would twist and shout
To the beat of Merseyside
Your dad would play
Love Me Do
And all I could do
Was to cry

Help

Me tell the tale
Please please
Me
The oldest granddaughter
Told the tale
That her dad told her

The Cavern

Was arched in a brick dank caller
Dark
And dim
But filled with vim and din
Eighteen steps down
Watch your crown
Under a little arched stage
The bands of Merseyside became all the rage
Pacemakers to Blue Jeans to Hurricanes
Swing and Storm
Would rock the stage with rock and roll
Suited up
Dressed up
Boozed up
Lined up
On Matthew Street
So that you can dance to the Mersey side beat
Because the Cavern was so small
The waiting line was long
Once in
This old Victorian brick warehouse
You would step onto the dark dance floor
Crushed with crowds
Jiving to the beat they would skiffle to their feet
Sweat stained shirts stuck to your skin
Sweat stained skirts stuck to your skin
Screams
Shrieks
The shrunken cavern shattered
With the raw boned sound of the Quarry Men
Raving
Ravishing
Lasses
Pointed to the band
Frenzied girls would point at each other
And then point to the raunchy rock group
And shout to the fab four
She loves you
Yea yea yea
Raw and raucous this overdrive band would rock
On
At lunchtimes
The weekends
The rock bands would jam all over the city
Clubbing
Here
There
And everywhere
Knowing that each club was going to be
A hard day’s night
But for the Silver Beetles
It would be their ticket to ride
On
A magical mystery tour
Thanks to Epstein and Eleanor Rigby
Hello goodbye
Stuart Brian John George

Pausing

Turning
To grandma
With a halting question
Are you all right
Grandma
I feel fine
A trickled smile
Jerks a tear from her watery eyes
I was just strolling down Penny Lane
Time to move
On
Our own magical mystery tour
Can’t be late
These two bloody big green birds
Have to be on time
If not
Great George will punch their clock
Ticked off
The Liver Birds point their emerald beaks
Towards the long and winding road
That leads to the River Mersey

Flying off
Banking towards Castle Street
A bastion for banks and insurance
The drawbridge for industry and commerce

The Town Hall

Encroached
Castle Street with its ample presence
Empowered
With its ascent
It jotted out onto a warren of pigeon hole offices
Where it overshadowed
The narrowing space of its taxonomic existence
Built in 1754
Wood
Created and constructed this Corinthian
Burnt in 1795
Wood
Collapsed and charred into cinder
From its ashes
It rose like the phoenix
Crowned
With a dome
Neoclassical
Danced
In its new ballroom
It entertained the toffs
By taxing the plebe
It would waltz away its gilt-edged taxes
Side step
Into the Portico
And listen to the councilmen
Sitting in their grand chamber
Suited
And steamed
Hot air and cold gin
Coughing
And choking the room with a din
Exchanging
White cotton with a bottle of rum
Leaving
The black slave on the North American Run
Decisions
Made with dissension
Dissipated into discord
Under duress

Recess

Descends into depression
Dockers
Drone on the dole
While trade unions fight for a peacock throne
Immigrants
Leaving
Their Erin home
Starched with hunger
And fleeing their plight
Searching for work
Under flitted moonlight
Poitin
Poverty
Swilled with scouse
Skimping and saving
To live in a rented terraced house
Bull
Shit
Whitewashed the walls
With the winds of war
The window was wide open

To change

Direction
The shirty Liver Birds flew over the council
And dropped their droppings into their chamber

Cross

Lord

And pass over
Into James Street
And along Albert
We will land
On George and step into his stage
A wooden pier
Anchored to the Mersey
A floating dock
Resting on the river

Grandma

Waves to the water
Seeing the sea
To the south she could see the ferries
To the north she could see the steamers
Behind
The triumvirate buildings command the riparian river
Together
Isolated
Widows of the Wharf
Mann the island
With a facade of strength

Grandma

Turns to the sea
Shipyards
Dockyards
Warehouses
Filled with tea
Salting the tea with industry
We follow the wake of history
By sailing on a wave of commerce
We carried our soul on a salted hearse

Grandma

Shakes
With the siren of singing
Children
Grandma
May we have one more ride on the Liver Birds

Alone

She watched
Notes
Turn to applauding cries
As the children soar to the sea
High
In a tail wing
Piloted by a current
Banking
Careening
Into a hearty headwind
Low-level
Flying
Sky to sea
Bob up and down
In curls of cream
Sprayed
With froths of foam
Wings
Flap into a flat spin
Barrel rolling
In a crested whitecap
Skimming the sea in shards of spray
Dipping and dunking in a whisk of gray
Surging
Purging
Swells of spume
Lapping
Flapping
Into waxed waves
Whipping
Spitting
Surfing the sea with the beats of time
Stalling
Staggering
Skipping the surf with the wings of time
Screaming
Squawking
Into a squall of surly wind
Pick up
Pull out
Pull up
Shake off the rogue
Outpace the foaming fury
Accelerate
Exhilarate
Into a thrusting throttle of terrorizing
Joy
Sweeps the sea with speed
Euphoria
Leaps with the notes
Keylara and Shu
Trim their feathers
With winged pride
Soaring
Into swiftness
Pushing
Into propulsion
Climbing
Climbing
Into a victory roll
Whirling
Whirling
Into a breezy sky
Lilting
In levity they tilt their tail
Into a withering wayward wave
Watching
It whimpers into a whittled wisp of woeful whisper
Drifting
With delight
Gliding
Onto a whispering breeze
Clouds
Tumble
Nudge and jostle
Into a diminishing basin of ethereal blue
Darting
In and out
With palmate wings
Notes
Whip the powder blue sky
Into whisks of dallying white
Clouds
Tumble into tufted puffs of tumbleweed
Rolling
Onto a blue prairie sky
Tagged
Together
In a nomadic desert of driftless freedom
Windless
To the weightless sounds of chime-less sand
Time
Bathed in blue
Breezing into aerial bubbles of white lather
Frosted
Into a frothy foam
It floats in a hynotic haze of glazed ecstasy
Washed
In a quietude of aquamarine
Clouds
Gather
To soak under a shower of toweling sun
Lulled
Into the timeless warmth of its light
Clouds
Rest on a leavening breeze
Passing
Halcyon days with ephemeral dreams
Sailing
Into flights of fantasy
Windmills turn
Quixotic dreams into euphoric grains of powered memories
Down
To earth

The Liver Birds land

Time to leave the Liver Birds
Leaving
Departing with deference
Saddened with strength
Farewells
Unfurled
Beat time
With motion
Keylara and Shu
Spread their great green wings
And with strength of steel
Lift up their spirited wings
Were they take off
To the sea
With riveting speed
Spanning the sea
With a protective eye
Watching over the ships
As they sail on by
Returning
To rest their rooted talons
On the luminous orb of time
Mounted royally
The Liver Birds tower the River Mersey
Were their timeless memories
Illuminates
The passing of its time
Facing the tide
Shu strikes a resilient pose
Facing the city
Keylara strikes a resolute pose
Back to back
Side by side
The Royal Liver Birds are Liverpool’s pride

Looking Up

Towards the sea
Grandma and the children stroll
Along the wharf
Towards the pier
Hand in hand
Down Canada Boulevard
Heading towards Princes Landing Stage
Stopping occasionally
To watch
The ships sail out to sea

Strings

Of white wakes purl and curl into the passage of the river
Voyaging steamers pass on by in wakes of white
Leaving
The sea brown waves to break away
From the thrusting edge of their crustacean bows
Leaving
The great white wake to trail
Into the crossing of its passage
Soon
That will disappear
Into the dark depths of a shrouded sea

Tears
Spill into the sea
Down
Dropping
Into the dispassionate depths of a dispensing sea
Dissolving
Dispersed
Into the spiritual soul of the soulful
Sea
To
Salt
Tears
Scattered into the dark fathoms of

Grandma’s mind

Held onto her mooring line
Letting go
She walked away from the bollard
Turning away from the river
With a saddened smile she said
At times
I do meander
My muddled mind tends to toddle
Around the pier of my maudlin

Head

From the Pierhead
Let’s get the double decker bus home
We must all be on our way
Like the departing ships all things must pass
Anchored to her arms
We all knew
That grandma had taken the long and winding road

Back Home

The telephone rang
Nodding Great Aunty out of her nap
The French door opened
Onto the white porch
A call echoed out
For grandma to take the phone
Rocking out of her white wicker
She walked towards the open glass French door
That led into the sunlight
Kitchen

Closed

Great Aunty picked up the story
From where grandma left off
Great Aunty would begin

Her Story

With her corpulent body
Great Aunty would soften her chair with content
Relaxed
Sitting under the shifting shade
She would knead her mollified cushion
Into her pliable doughiness

The third sister of four (Aunt Doris was the youngest and she was your dad’s godmother)

A dowager
With soft-heartedness
Settled
With five children
A recent widow
To a stout hearted bricky
Darby and Joan
A foundation
Mortised with love
And toasted with tea
Such was the life for Great Aunty
Down to earth
But not downcast
Dozy
But not daft
Listless
But not lingering
Literate
But not litary
A fulcrum
With wisdom
A leviathan
Who could levitate
A problem from its elevation
By alleviating it with a leverage of common sense
A Lancastrian lampoonist
Who harpooned humor
To lance the levity
By healing the hurt
She was all those things
Mother
Earthy
Lackadaisical
With a laconic lilt
That stuck into your minds eye
Like Pooh Bear to silken honey
She told her venerable story
About her eldest sister’s only child

Your Dad

A bright spot
In this mother’s orbit
The only child
Not spoilt
But to my standards
Pampered
With love
His mother used to bring him
To our small libertarian terrace house
A tinderbox
That ignited when your dad came to visit
Our little seaside town
In the best of times
Our house had some running order
But it was more like Lime Street Station on a Friday night
Unlike his mom
We had five young children
And we could not afford to be so fussy
But your dad
Loved the libation of laughter
And the liberality of thought