Category Archives: Poems

What will we do?

A rainbow opposite the sun as the rain patters down on my yellow coat.
As I splash through the puddles rings erupt radiating from the drop’s root.
A brown tree drinks silently in this weather its inhabitants shelter, mostly, from the damp.
The purple plastic pollution that litters the ground looks like a human horror show.

We will wake the mammoths from the permafrost. The lakes will rise from the glaciers. The oceans will grow eroding all before them. Youth will suffer. Their children will suffer more. Will we do nothing?

Let’s drown our hatred and anger.
Seeing red mist float above the ever swelling sea.
No fish left. A bluebottle flies over plastic soup.
Let’s get in the water and swim for our lives.

Equality further away. Social division. Maths ignored at school; replaced by patriotism. Debt ever increasing. The few are taking control. Support is falling apart and our health is taken for granted. Will we do nothing?

Watching the world from your white house on the hill.
We hate you and all you stand for.
Wet from your ignorant spew we can turn you green.
A change from the orange burn of your hostile heated hatred.

What will we do?

Relationship Autopsy

A ghost in my left hand. Air in my right.
A fight for my mind starts and lasts all night.
Why should I do this? I don’t have to do that?
A cat gently breathing. Waking up. Emergency lick of it’s leg! Back to sleep.
I’m sorry if it seemed I didn’t care.
I really did. I just didn’t know I had to lick my leg.

I have new plans but I miss you.

A light is on in the bedroom

A boy watches silhouettes walk around the neighbour’s house.

The light’s on in the bedroom. Are they alone tonight? Or tomorrow or any given night this week?

Night windows show the post declutter calm. A sad anticlimax and an empty room. Lonely footsteps back and forth. A wait of the modern age.

They don’t care if they don’t reply. He can’t see the tears landing on their phone. Waiting for a message while they sleep. It is folly.

You (me)

You cannot block the flow of life.

You can regulate it or change it’s future course.

You cannot change where it has been.

You can choose to focus on the bits you really like.

Christ’s Emotional Instability

The crucifying pain I carry in my head.
I’d smash it against stone walls until I drop down dead.
The pulsating murder of horror in my brain.
If only it would drown; deep in never ending rain.

I cannot walk. I cannot see.
Humanity’s hatred rules do not dare blame me.
I cannot hear. I cannot pee.
I’m fit to burst with rage; unforgivingly.

I want to die.
I can’t continue.
My mind has gone.
My rotting organs, a congregated retinue.

Let me go. I cannot wait.
My hatred burns all my mates.
I ruin everything. Don’t let me go.
I need you more than you know.

A lovely, fluffy, fuzzy dream

What whispers do you hear in the wind?
When your mind withers and you are just a bag of meat.
An object of lust for envied eyes.
Or a welcome companion to a loved one.

Horses canter through the field.
Playful nights and days in the elements.
Cold in the outside setting sun.
Moving brings health and warmth to those who come.

Such a lovely place.
On a hill with trees, bracken and heather.
Lone cow wanders.
Such solitude is healing.

Shared adventures postponed.
Lives split and shared more thin.
A calloused finger runs down my chest.
I don’t recognise this touch.

What is darkness to those lost in the wilderness.
A habitable home full of comfort and hope.
We survive here.
A solace of familiar weather.

Home at last.

*Until we all inevitably die, alone, suffering in the tremendous agony of what feels like an wasted eternity.

*Added for a friend who prefers a sad ending.

Sand

Time falls through my hands
Sand on floor
By the door
On the scratched stone tiles.

Never coming nor going
The circular bus
Drives on a round route
Serving as many streets as possible.

Never ending or beginning
What really is space?
What is brain activity?
A switch to be flicked on or off.

A journey of recovery
Doesn’t take time
It never ends
It is time.

Raindrops in my head

This is to be read in your head
Or appreciated in bed.
Like a flood of information
from every nation
For your brain to be fed.

I don’t want to move.
My situation won’t improve.
Lying here will rest my brain
not moving an inch just listening to the rain.
There’s always something out there to sooth.

*Sooth your arse as it gets rubbed with steel wool!

*Added for a friend who prefers a sad ending.

Voice of the abyss

The faceless voice that follows me around.

It is the nameless power that fills everything.

An anchor that roots me to my upbringing, to the places I lived, where I survived.

I want to share it with you.

Palindrome

How did this story unfold, let me tell you…

A pal in Rome took me swimming, she said she liked to be afloat, gliding with the current.

Now in the depths of the river; water flows lowly and in this place it was lifting us softly.

Neither strong nor solid life’s liquid fed the luscious growth on the river bank.

As we swam, it occured to us that water is the universal solvent, wearing away at everything it meets.

How we laughed after our day; laughter bubbled up spontaneously like a hillside spring.

Drown

Ice struck hard. Cracked mirror melts. Sea levels rise. We all drown.

***

What could happen between us. If we could watch the tide. If waves would roll over us. If we would never die.

Some people live on stilts, knocked over by the breeze, the lapping sea gently lilts, as we fall to our knees.

Not one of us is in control. Never acting out our intent. Don’t worry for what you can’t control. Your iron will is still there hell bent.

Trees

Planted by squirrels, we march to life’s whistle

Together in mud, we tower above

Spring bulbs below and birds in our hair

We all have some bark but make no sound in the air

What goes on beneath anchors our feet

We bind the land is how we play our hand

Leave us breathing well and oxygen we will sell

For we are the trees that build your society’s deeds

Hazel

Three lifetimes ago I was born.

I came from a strong nut, one of many, my mother groaned as I fell from her grip.

My name is Hazel and I am 200 years old. I live by the water’s edge, where I drink and swim, stability my pledge.

I feel my dear old Russell run his presence through my hair, day to day, a familiar face of nature’s affection.

Seasons come like a day night cycle.

Polly rides past on her bike and stops by me for some shade, deserved mind, she just isn’t fabulous yet, dahrling.

I will feed and shelter until my day is done, be it lightning or blight, my day will come.

Observing the woodland is a hobby of mine, we tend to it’s upkeep, bird’s homes combined.

When I was young I didn’t know myself but was full of potential. When I was mature I peaked with doubt but was rash to show my strength. Now I am old I know all that matters and what happens, happens.

You are the Lily in the pond and I am Hazel in your reflection. Treat me well and I will reward you.

The Strength of Water

The cow stood alone, crunching on the cud, one field away from beach.
Dividing the field from the beach were wind carved dunes; obscuring the sea from view.

The sound was immense. Crash after crash.
The cow didn’t know what it was. It came again and again. Like the never ending tide of love between two lovers exploring what they could be.

The grass was long enough to rasp a quiet rustle in the breeze. The cattle’s table spread. Yet there was only the cow around. Night rolled in. Thunder struck.

As the rain fell the cow sought refuge in a rocky cave by the lake at the top of the field. Only to discover an inhabitant was already there. A weight was lifted from the cow’s heart at the site of a bull.

The bull was neither young or old, he was in his prime, not extraordinary, not plain, he was unremarkable. The bull stood next to the cow in silence for some time until the rain stopped.

An almighty torrent came from the back of the cave. Both the cow and the bull were swept up in the water. The lake had burst its banks. They clung to each other for dear life, carried along towards the dunes and the beach, they were dropped, wet to the bone, to the sands of the beach.

The cow mooed at the sight of the waves, seeing what caused crashing sound for the first time was a revelation. It felt like her brain was alive with discovery. The bull stood and gently put his head next to the cow’s as they watched the sun come up over the roaring sea.

Water fills every empty gap. It is the universal solvent. It always seeks the lowest places to lift us up. Natures bounty bringing the cattle together.

Show off

Flexing my self worth to my friend showing off 15 years of momentos.
I’ve never had a time when inspiration don’t stop the flows.

When I walk down the street, I don’t turn heads, I turn hearts.
So polite and so kind you’ll never to smell the odour of my farts.

I laugh and I joke but am real when you want me to listen.
And if you look me in the face you’ll notice my eyes always glisten.

Be real to me, I’ll reward you with your dreams, that’s a given.
When we touch and you go; you’ll always wonder what you are missin’.

Ok, so maybe I don’t believe this but you can fill the emptiness inside.
So, be true to yourself and live your best life on the outside.

Ex musings

Does the sun make a noise?
I can only but wonder as her silence speaks volumes.
Broken promises and a broken mind.
There is no fixing but we continue living.

Hush. I hear rain. I hear the onset of autumnal hope.
A cool breeze makes a warm hum on the window pane.
Traffic planing on lying water on the road.
A whoosh of joy as memories warm my heart.

The same horizon; the same place.
Things are somehow different.
A catalogue of comfort is no help.
Too different. Too unknown.

A carrot can be a treat for a hungry deer.
What I’d give to hear from the trees.
Living a slow life, perfectly still.
I can only be ponder what life has in store.

Living young is full of strength and unknowns.
Maturity brings adventure and misplaced confidence.
Old age brings acceptance and certainty.
I feel old before my time.

Sleeping aged 15 in a room full of heroin addicts.
I can appreciate the kindness of the inn keeper.
The night before in the cells did me no good.
A life of deserved mistrust for those in authority.

Fast forward eighteen years and I walk past the shops.
Police racially profile black children for a stop and search.
I walk slowly so they know I’ll be their witness.
We cannot let our friends live with this injustice.

Gathering bilberries on the moors is therapeutic.
A small handful may take five minutes to pick.
A five second chew, an explosion of juice and flavour, they are gone.
Time well spent.

Unnoticed Potential

I feel like a Nissan Micra with a Ferrari engine stuck on a 20mph road.

If I start I’ll be stopped and if I stop no one will notice.

Playing with the constraints of my mind.

I can keep hope but it seems only of use to spread.

A Damaged Cord

I hold on to cords of my dream.

Fraying fabric felt through my fingers.

I’m holding tight but gently to the memories.

As to not to sever the bonds.

But they cannot compete with reality.

A dream is a dream. Nothing more.

Yes, dreams can be real, and it was.

I need to repair and make new cords.

Healing my connections to the outside.

Untitled by Ася Орешкина

You’ve never been loved like that.
I’ve heard that before, somewhere.
A refrain after every disappointed verse.
I loved you, does that make it better or worse?

I’m a lesson you needed to learn.
The well-worn silver lining of mine
That won’t keep me warm as I walk all alone
Through the storm that I summoned to never get home.

The Dust Hare

Everything is particles and waves: Energy. Dust.

A conscious thrust. A conscious thrust.

The dust hare kicks its legs and forces are transferred.

The pull between us is what it preferred.

Thank you Dust Hare for working in mysterious ways.

You keep the sun burning, even at night.

If anyone sees you they are in for a fright.

For you are beyond comprehension, these words not enough, to describe your beauty, to talk about your dust.

Adjustments

I need to adjust how I see you.

You came to me with love.

I’ve never been loved like that.

Now it’s gone, or on hold, or changing.

I hope this is just act two.

There are things I haven’t said.

Things I haven’t done.

Maybe I should look for someone else too. It will not be the same. That scares me.

This is my life

I’m powered by tea.

Fallen dreams and new realities.

Corruption and lies is not exclusive to governments.

I hold my head high.

A new caffeine start.

Self care is my priority now.

This fleshy husk on a rock in space needs a shower and a walk.

I will always take a new leaf over the ending of the book.

In her shoes

The slow burn of a heartbreak injection

Injected first thing this morning

Fight or flight was truly tested

A heavy weight of pain hangs around my chest

I must let myself love again

Rebel against the fear and doubt

I’ll choke up getting ready for bed

Using help to shut my eyes

Closed doors in an empty house

A fresh breeze awakens my face

A few days sleep needed for self care

I may have administered it myself in her shoes

Alas, a healthy dose of pain may just be what I needed

Memory of a new start

Petals fall. Seeds drop. Leaves loosen.

New growth is still some way off.
A forgotten celebration of life in the distance, springing forth like laughter from the diaphragm. Until then, winds rise.

Discomfort. Aching muscles and tired eyes dried by the breeze. Columns of light cascade through the window, occasionally, when the sun manages to poke through.

A fireplace stoked while music plays. Folks well fed and drinks flowing free. There is still cheer in the air where there is water and warmth, where the memory of new lives is fresh.

A roof over our head, we clothe ourselves in autumn colours, waiting for the next thing to break and be fixed. Creature comforts from little routines keep us going. And listening.

Lost in the moment

Staring into space somewhere in front of your eyes I give an extinguished sigh. A stifled noise. One moment in time. Forgotten.

This happened but won’t be remembered. Following the glazed look was a spark of life. Face muscles contracting commitment to a smile.

An out of place hair on your brow brushed away by a fingertip’s gentle touch. I looked at the strand and placed it alone in your palm. I learned forward. Silence. Before I received a kiss so pleasant it will stay with me forever.

This hasn’t happened yet, but when it does, I’ll remind you that I love you.

The old boat by the sea

I take my old boat ‘Ася’ down the Serpentine River. She’s a glorious craft. She’ll do for a lifetime.
The water laps and whirls around her freshly oiled rear. I duck a branch to live another day.
Safe surrounded by her streamlines. A temple on holy ground. Security.
The ebbs and flows as we stay the night in the estuary. Bobbing up and down. A lifetime at sea awaits.

Let me out

Frying fat sizzled sound ears pop.
Jelly wobbles worse sugar sweet burst spot.
Often colours blend and swirl mix up make a new one.
Simple sayings sickly sink into deep thoughts all gone.

Purple picnic mountain side rain is here.
Hide the food mood has dropped take me home.
Sometimes squirrels eat our crumbs in the sun shone.
Now we’re home weather fine itchy John.

Plucked before time

Dense, fine hairs on a leaf like fur.
He purrs until I pluck him off the tree to put in my book.
Saved or sacrificed? He lives with the letters I sent to this page.
A message just to say that all leaves fall eventually.
But don’t worry, they’ll soon spring back.

Spears and needles

Nettle tea.

Give me iron.

Steam my engine.

Rocket to the moon.

Riding my cognition cycle.

Beetroot and sour cream.

Warm and wet.

I fall off my bike and tear up my knee.

A door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway to a door and a walkway.

Put down the book. Get back on.

How’d you like them clichés?

I’m tired of all this sunny weather. Give me perpetual autumn. Cozy nights wrapped up in thick jumpers next to warm fires. The movement of falling leaves. The cold breeze against my face. The washing up a treat for my hands after eating some comforts.

A fallen star is just some grit to harden my chicken’s egg shell.

A positive move. Just smile more.

Just smile more. It’ll make you happier.

Smile more. It’ll please them.

Smile or forget.

Brain fog.

Nothing is forgotten because it was never remembered. Not truly.

…give me strength.

Feeding friends

I feed you food in hope that you produce compassion if not empathy.

May hope be a by product of staying alive.

May staying alive be easy and of value.

May ease come to you as an instinct.

May your instincts be kind.

Autumnism plague

The pages turn as the trees shake off old growth. A quiet melody plays whilst she reads by the fire. The plates are full. The cheer is here. In this moment we have no fear. October nights glow in our memories with smells reminiscent of smoke and warmth. When the nights are cold and strange and all the pets sleep on, and all the light has gone out and we go to dream new songs. I’ll think about the time you stayed with me and kept me as your own.

Ghosts

I am just a ghost in a ‘morbid dreamland’ but this is where we congregate now.

This is how we meet up and provide each other with the help we need.

My imagination will help power yours and yours will help power mine.

Let yourself drift.

Slide down every watery path until you reach the sea.

You can overcome everything you need to.

The sun and moon will glisten and the darkness will contain.

Books will expand the world if you are a prisoner. Food will contract it. Use them well.

The rules are simple but best forgotten.

Welcome.

The French Connection

The garlic sellers hands had an all day smell.

Stale from yesterday when the garlic sold well.

The hands were large.

Fat fingers like sausages.

Her date for the night was a crêpe suzette.

He said your scent is great come sit on my baguette.

My Dream of your Dream

Softly the feather cushion supports your skin.
Naked on the settee, free, otherwise not concerned.
A patterned patchwork dream in your head.
You want to act it out in 4K HDR colour before you’re dead.

Pretence and arrogance.

Often your day is long and you are tired.
There is housework to do and everything is unattractive.
What falls eventually rises again but not tonight. Fuck that.
Something soft is still relatively hard because I can’t do it. Shit.

A Plaice In Mind

There is often a case of caution with plaice. Leave this fish be in the ocean. A hazardous race of engines at pace is done by the boat as precaution.

But a potion is drunk by the sailors who stunk of fish kept in ice like lotion. It comprised of rum and felt like fun but sleep became their eventual notion.

Furious rage woke from drunken haze as the night turned to day and all the fish swept over. No luck, no clover, the drunken seaman went over as the seas demanded attention.

The trawler was ruined. The seagulls were stewing their plaice with salt water and kelp. The fishermen died without help and the shorter straw was drawn by the fish and the men who passed with a yelp.

The sea calmed it’s waves and said goodbye to the days where boats would claim it’s bounty. The wind had dropped. All the corks had been popped by nature who never would die.

So goes the story of catching plaice and men snoring drunkenly into the night. Their vessel had failed because they drank too much ale. Natures debt was dealt without commotion.

And so this tale is sung as warning old and young to people at this charity. Don’t be greedy, reward the needy, and the world will find it’s own parity.

I don’t know what this is meant to be

What can I say?

Great green swamps of the East.

Nutritious algae looks unappetising.

Sniff a beaker of soil, my friend.

The smell of Earth is your base.

Surely a rainbow would brighten your day.

It’s starting to rain.

We’re all in pain.

An empty stomach is a shame.

Let’s eat.

Forever beginning

At the start of things the Earth eats the sun. It feasts and brightness is forever tarnished.
We then retreat into our minds and feast on moonlit imagination.
With each subsequent thought the darkness grows.
Reality dims to the point of the original source.
Hopefully we can send our selves there and dissolve as brightness reigns again.
Just so the mountains can once again eat all the light and grow trees on their peak.
The cycle goes on to this day.
Forever beginning, we are helpless, as the skies and the soil do battle.

99

99% of humanity’s tears are yet to be shed.

99 buttons in my box but no thread on the reel.

99 reasons for ice cream still I deprive myself.

99 carved decorations but I keep looking for the blank block.

99 possible outcomes started from the same place.

99 colours would make me go blind.

99 thoughts but I have to choose which to use.

99 steps but no dance, no stairway, and no instructions.

The Oblivious


I could lighten your misery.
Your darkness would lift.
Shower you with brightness.
But what would you see?

Nothing.

Blinded by light.
Untouched by night.
Howling your ignorance.
Writhing on the floor.

Narcissism exposed.

Guided by faith.
It is always a sign.
When it’s convenient.
Otherwise it’s sin.

Hypocrisy.

A cold touch.
A withered hand.
Weight on your lower back.
You could fall at any time.

Hand of God.

Whisper on the breeze.
Schizophrenia or holy spirit?
One pious rationale.
One debilitating illness.

Rulers.

A smile on the street.
A laugh and a meal.
The warmth in my heart.
Random kindness.

Inside us all.

Moonscript

The dark and the light. Stories written of land made of cheese, of a man in solitude, of scars and holes.

The full moon just gone, see you again soon, cloud permitting.

The new stars are primed on their rockets. Set to be speeding across the sky. An awful musk lingers.

The moon will always be the moon. Until it becomes the property of few. They might one day own the moon but they will never have what we have. Tales and song. Food in our bellies and drinks flowing free. A cheer and a smile.

To the moon. To the moon. To the moon and back.

Cat

Pounce, cat, pounce
Catch a beam of light
Through fields and trees
You will win every fight

The smells you encounter
Wrap round your memories
You are loved completely
So do anything you please

The warmth of your coat
Will keep you feeling cozy
So I accept that mouse
In place of a posey

Dreams vs reality

Every night I close my eyes and flirt with death.
I lose my choice, my identity, my name.
I see things that do not exist.
And occasionally scream in pain.

Every night I close my eyes and flirt with death.
But I’m loyal to life in the morning.
I look, I feel, I taste my food.
And smile at the day that is dawning.

Avangard

We will all die.

Money will become meaningless.

We will regret not doing nice things more often.

Nothing is more valuable than a smile on a loved one’s face.

Prioritise.

Underpants

Sliding down a valley.
Falling through a hole.
Tumbling over and over.
Dropping further.
Lower and lower.
Next to my broken ankles.

Underpants.

The Greatest Slumber

Sleeping on green sheets, under two warm duvets, and a thick woollen blanket.
Me and my cat are mutual hot water bottles.
Serenity is in my body but my mind is distracted by the muffled radio sounds through the wall.
A double is fine but a bigger bed is an aspiration; indeed.

Heat trapped radiating in and around us.
The day’s gone contents being chewed up gently in my head.
Fleeced of a rest by some fool shouting next door.
He turns up the radio to drown himself out.

There’s always someone else but you can be settled where you are.
Until the next trawler dredges up old bedded muck.
I’ve never been as certain although at a distance is it both easy and hard.
Letting myself drift into fantasy I notice a change.

Voices cease; a radio off.

The greatest slumber will be here soon.

Framing the picture

Trying to assess how I am
I frame a snapshot of my mind
Cropping out bits to make a good scene
This is how my sanity will unwind

An overreaching attempt to grasp a hot mug
Spillage and pain
A needed drink wasted
I put my head above a burst water main

A sea of movement
An elaborate dance
Feeling between us
Keep us entranced

Monotonous duty
I work to some trance
In vogue so I vogue
I take my chance

This Morning ITV1

Next to a holly tree
The silver fox sat on the forest floor
Hungrily thinking about visiting the chicken farm nearby
For there worked the raven haired girl

The woods were on a hillside
So the fox skulked down to the low field where the farm belonged
Roosting crows flew from the canopy branches as he rustled past below
He made his way to the field verge

It was winter and all the girls were glowing in the biting cold
By the damp wooden shelter he saw the Little Soph with the midnight hair
Soph of the field would smuggle eggs for her silver furred friend
Just as he came to collect his treat there was a colossal bang!

Down by the small piers at the side of the river
There was a pompous buffoon shooting at the birds in the sky
He wanted their shiny things hidden away in their nests
Neither he nor they had the generosity of Little Soph

At the sound of the calamity Soph and the fox made their way down
The blustering fool by the piers was so involved in himself he didn’t hear them
The silver fox barked and growled and so shook was the man
That his feet fell before him into the air above the slippy water’s edge

Splash! He had blundered in a massive way
Wet and cold from head to toe in icy mire
Soph laughed and fed the silver fox some eggs
So the fox went back to the holly tree where he spent the morning content and well fed

A quick decline

My hyper sensitivity and extreme resilience are two sides of the same coin.

I have a lot of those coins.

I should learn to flip on demand.

Instead I want to spend them all on you.

As all my constituent parts condense into one.

As all memories of myself are gone and forgotten.

I learn the best days were the worst days

And the hardest days were the easiest.

Everything speeds up

Spinning slowly

Then faster

And faster.

Stillness.

The end

Concentration

For times longer than I have known.

They predate on our emotions.

Feeding, gorging upon our fear.

Confusion they spread.

Misinformation is read.

They want us to believe in them.

We cannot. We have our sense, logic, and hope.

With that we fight back against it all.

We’re left alone with our books

Alone with our music

Our art. Our reality.

Alone with ourselves

Alone with the truth

Of all we can do.

So we listen and we listen.

Putting mind over mood.

Living every second.

Helping as many as we can.

Stably crazy

I listen to the whispers from the rocks. “Don’t step on me. Step on the soil; it is silent.” The soil cannot speak but would it complain if it could?

The grass here grows long. Thick and dense. Stems snap and screams; more screams fill my head.

Should your voice be different? Of course, but it isn’t, at least, not always. You say “hi”. I can’t hear myself think which is just as well. I’m scared of what I might be saying.

The cars go past my window far too fast. “Honk honk honk” someone toots. I cannot see out but it has been raining. I can hear the tyres slice up the water with a harsh crescendo that diminishes into the distance.

Leaves are falling. That’s nice.

I am writing nonsense again. Good. What to say? What to do?

Why I am breathing so loud? I sleep still. All but for the bellows squeezing back and forth. Until I turn and turn and turn.

A postcard to a beloved

She dances like dust in a beam of light.
Entranced, I’m a rabbit in the headlights.

I want to sing to her but I have the smallest voice. No one can hear me whether I whisper or scream. So I delight in my silence.

So today I wrote, quietly and alone, a message within a message, for once, without my phone.

Autumnal Peacetime

The air is cool. No wind to speak of. Feeling my heart beating away in my chest.

Bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds. Every tree, every leaf, perfectly still.

My mind is buzzing with everything I’ve ever learnt. Not all at once but it’s all in there somewhere.

My cat is mellow today. Affection is going a long way. Thinking about last week’s confusion seems a long way off.

My flat is a mess but the speakers are singing to me and I have a cup of tea in my hand.

Paper skin

He’s got paper skin; peeling away, red ink and all.
The words don’t matter; he is what he feels.
He lashes out at those around him; so fragile.
Full of yesterdays news but he hasn’t read anything.

His paper skin doesn’t inform.
He won’t let you close; he’s so ashamed.
Not of himself because he’s always right.
Just ashamed of his words; it doesn’t add up in his head.

There’s a patch on his arse that once was page 3.
It’s the only bit he likes.
‘Not vulgar, this is moral instruction.’ Is it’s message.
Flesh on flesh and it just stinks.

In fact, all of his paper skin smells rather bad. Unelected and unwanted. A buffoon at 10. He’s a buffoon all day.

Cliché? Touché

Life. Never to be the same again.

The last day of the week didn’t get off to a good start.

My alarm went off. I showed you my painting I thought it was red and you told me it was green.

You took me for a walk to your hills where I planted my flag. The wind was lacking but I could still feel a bite on my face. A tear. Your footsteps in the snow will be gone tomorrow.

Back home you sat by the crackling fire and sang the saddest song. I cried; became afraid of my actions and words or lack thereof.

Would it even matter if I disappeared into thin air? A faint trace of your smell left on my hands from the night before. You have gone now.

Emptiness. A new hole. The pain is back. Does it never cease? In my dreams I walked to your hills but they looked like different hills and my flag was gone. There sky was clear but there was no moon. The ground was wet. My face was dry. Something forgotten returned from the mist like a wisp in a woods. An old ghost drifting through the trees; weaving a path through the thickets. It was my worst enemy. A mirror. A chasm. Just darkness. My safe place.

Being a bee

Honey in my throat. A buzz in my brain. A hive in my stomach. A queen in my heart.

Every thought a flower. Each memory a breath of wind. The distant hills are not our home. This brick has everything we need.

You didn’t give me my wings but you taught me to fly.

What you give to me

The sweetest taste on my tongue; a feeling my brain adores. A safe warmth in my feet spreading up to my head. A glow brighter than the sun in a land of perpetual sunny intervals. A shine from my heart that lasts longer than a lifetime.

You give colour to the trees; your leaves each more varied than the last. Your swirls and strokes have more life than the seas. Your smile feeds on pain and gives out love. Your words calm those nearby and promote harmony.

Those out there somewhere might sneer at our joy; their deficient empathy can’t slow us down. Their lack of patience can’t force our movement. Their blue and gold dresses can’t tempt us to fruitless avenues. Their misunderstanding can’t teach us otherwise.

Inner feelings. Beautiful senses. Outward protection.

Thank you.

I’m a dummy

I’m not sure you will like me once you have met me.
You will see I am a featureless dummy holding up a mirror to the world.
I hope you realise you are not so bad after all when you look at me.
You might forgive me for having little substance of my own.

The Roughest Stone

I am the roughest stone on the beach.

Abrasion scrapes grooves in my voice.

Uneven wire towelling scrapes at your heart.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. I’m sure.

It’ll heal because it feels good.

Keep me and polish me smooth.

2003

There was a man in PICU who didn’t say a word.
He paced around in his underwear flinching at all he heard.
He went out for a smoke with a coffee in his hand,
then marched back inside for medication on demand.

* * *

(This was about a month I spent living with a mute patient amongst others at a Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit when I was 16. He had a tattoo of a small cross on his leg and I tried to shoehorn the blaspheme ‘Jesus!’ into something I said within his earshot. He was in his own world until I did. He got up from the chair and marched around for a bit. I felt bad for deliberately offending him but I’d never seen him react to anything other than smokes and coffee. I guess I was just trying to get him to say something… It didn’t work.)

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You climbed a tree and looked down at me.

You spoke with your face.

I could see. You weren’t happy at all.

I had risen my voice. It didn’t feel like my choice.

I walked away. Like this was a play.

But this was no act.

You didn’t want to know. What you already knew.

My temper had torn our bond apart. Left holes in our hearts.

So I wrote to you. ‘We can see this through.’

There was nothing to see.

You built yourself a new home. A new start.

So in the heat I lay. Wishing for a new day. By the tree where you looked down at me.

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Time makes the highs low and the lows high.

The esteemed are just the flavour of the month. Change occupies all.

Ambition at an all time low but I feel bliss sat next to a cat.

Adapt to the situation don’t try to change it to fit you.

Water dips and flows into every crevice of the rocky sea shore but is slowly shaping the hard, strong cliff wall.

If you are like that, you are life sustaining, the lowest of low, making all those around you feel high.

Feed your friends and treat them well and they will return the favour. A painted glass teardrop can mean a thousand things. It can be treasure. It can be crap. The value is not in the pieces you hold; it is inside of you.

A tic is an sudden, repetitive, voluntary response to an unwanted urge. It is our way of measuring time.

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Sitting by the lake. You are by my side. Looking at the cotton sky mirrored in the fisherman’s playground; a thought enters my head. I turn to you to whisper my idea but you are not there.

I watch the grass grow at the side of my blanket. Bees and flies pass by; secure in the summer’s plentiful bounty. I can’t help but feel powerless. Possibilities number too many and decisions too far away.

A cold breeze blows so I pack up my things. Leaving all as it was. If I could get you here would you even share this pleasure that hits my chest. Short and sharp, painful like a spasm, yet warm and reassuring. I feel better.

I thought I heard your voice but it is just a bird alarmed that I am nearby. Walking on the way back I see a kaleidoscope of colour on the graffiti mural on the side of the shop. I am steps away from you and my heart begins to pound.

Key in the door and the room lights up. Cat greetings with a purr and demand for food. Although just a roof over my head; the place smells of comfort. This is your welcome and I am back inside you once more. I am home.

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Take me away from this night sky I’ve inhabited for so long.

Withstanding wind and all kinds of atmospheric tension.

A shout from my past scars seeping works of sap into being.

I will leave a bare branch but it is in my bark my legacy lies.

Textured hope and virtue exceeding a butterfly’s beat.

Leaving the deceptive darkness let me live through the pure spring breeze.

A two fold cycle we’ll ride until we are within each other.

Laying my roots down in your garden. I’m sorry if I’m irresponsible.

I feel like I’m dreaming. Stable and still. In silence I’ll think of you.

Trying not to upset your environment. I’ll breathe oxygen if you need it.

Will I get visiting wildlife? Maybe that will change my course. Certainty is distant.

Cold comes from the North and East in these parts. Memories will come and go.

The sun can heal your trauma. I don’t want to cause you to suffer.

Though trees bleed and leaves fall down life pushes us forward again and again.

Is it enough to share and appreciate the good things that happen?

Endings are inevitable. As the new day rolls in; I do not know what will be.

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I fear few know you. But what it is to be known? To hold faith that this dream is no dream at all. Possibly.

Your golden potential unravels day by day. An untouched block of wood being carved notch by notch. It is my melancholy pleasure to watch this process. It gives me life.

Such a gift is yours to give. But does it loosen our ties or make them stronger? That depends on my stubborn mind. My ongoing boredom and hypnotic drudge.

I want some motivation to continue my activity. You provide this. I am receptive in spurts. Like a bird flying high for a view I leave the shackles of this land momentarily. Wishing you were up here with me, you are, you are the sky.

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(I want you to tear this to shreds.)

* * *

I can be your nothing. The thing in your life that doesn’t really matter. A background feeling. An underlying thought pattern. A goose with orange striped eyelashes.

While your everything comes and goes I am there. Washing dishes on a cold day. A cooling breeze on a hot one. Repositioning things on the mantle. A horned lemon with a sweet sweet tangy syrup dressing.

With all the potential I stay still; rarely showing any form. A shadow flickering in candlelight. The feeling of ‘what shall I do now?’ An unexpected hand gesture. A silken scarf with an image of Delia Derbyshire riding a resplendent golden moose represented by colourful sequins.

My best friend

What is this chaos?
I didn’t choose to be born.
What is happening?
I see patterns that are destined to go awry.

My brain is not clear and calm.
Driven by a predetermined tick.
Pushing through the things I do and am going to do.
An addiction is holding on: Don’t stop me yet.

These stories start with a moment of intense change.
Curves flatten out and plateau.
You can be the catalyst for me to refresh.
A starting point in every moment lived.

To feel loved is to forgive yourself.
The guilt the blame the shame.
Start again and learn.
A wobbling cycle where the circles slowly get more unstable.

What is this chaos?
A dream. Nothing more.
What is happening?
Something worth experiencing.

A chicken cross hare across the road in the land of Americana have a sandwich and other mutterings

Gotta comb my opalescent goat hair budgerigar to get it to lay some eggs of pure wheat flour.

Then take the elevator to the goose sky hideout above the mountain top cave where I live for the summer.

Pick elderberries before the cuckoo spit rain wets my obligatory Whisk Day gingham check shirt and shorts combo.

Finally get sweet slumber in the cave with the cat bear violin player playing lullabies into the deep black.