Pilchard Paul washes his wellies in the rushing river.
The skies sadden as the wintery wind keeps coming.
The sodden soil is certainly saturated this stormy stroll.
The loud lion roars raucously as the gloomy grey clouds close in.
A clap and a crack as frightening fracturous light lands on the loam.
Lion licks his colossal coat, wringing wet from the ridiculous rain.
Suclulent scent sniffed by the Lion’s lust for fantastic food.
Pilchard Paul runs and rushes toward the car on the corner.
Crafty clever cogs Lion lives not far the pride in from the periphery.
Low lionesses spring sporadically seemingly out of nowhere now.
RIP Pilchard Paul. Fishermen. Father of 2 bonny boys. Tim and Todd.
Things aren’t all bad.
Things are mostly bad with some good.
Nothing is absolute.
Everything can change.
Relativity and uncertainty.
Are how I understand.
Focusing on the process.
Not the result.
I remember things I do.
I forget things I’ve done.
Improving without knowing.
Happening by it’s own accord.
Seeing with my eyes open.
Doesn’t halt my dreams.
Holding you with warm regard.
I am living with my cat.
It was raining in Fishguard for what seemed like an age.
She lived in an old wooden hut that had been built in days.
From a distant land, she was a raider from afar.
Settled down with a lobsterman she met at the bar.
In an outpost quite ancient – it had it’s own ways.
Their calender would deal celebrations on different days.
Blue rocks lined the valley – significant this stone.
Used to build henges and circles unknown.
She knew of this tradition but was a warrior by trade.
Settled dispute without force, with the wit that she made.
The lobsterman was abusive – he took her by force.
So one day she killed him – self defence of course.
The next day the sun shined and flowers did bloom.
Yet she was put in a prison to face her ultimate doom.
The shadows of the leaves
as my face feels the breeze
The sky is as blue as it gets
My face is flush and warm
Momentum carries me along
Breath feeds my lungs
The rustle of the trees
as the birds do what they please
One foot then the other
I’m feeling light and free
Bounding across a stream
Happiness heals the past
Dreamlike imagination stems not from a wilderness, but the void. All ideas come from this same source. Ideas may arise from each other yet can remain separate concepts.
Memories exist like lucid footprints in the snow. The fall of expectations meets the pressure of a successful
outcome, covering past happiness in a lack of nowness.*
In the present I’m a star seer looking out through the window at the night sky. Enjoying the moment for what it gives. Sadly, this will change, but I must accept it. Acceptance is the root of all self improvement.
*I apologise for this monstrous sentence of pretentious twaddle in particular.
Sitting at my table drawing because I don’t want to pay my TV licence.
Everyone’s overdrawn. I’m lacking inspiration. I’m losing patience.
Draw the curtains because the night is closing in.
It’s too cold to go out. I’m sick of living in my own skin.
People are being encouraged to do it for themselves.
Where has the community gone? Where do I belong?
Not knowing what is going on in the age of information.
This is the new normal. Caring is becoming informal.
I like pencils and pens,
writing materials and paper.
Lions and tigers,
cheetahs and leopards.
I like jumping and puddles,
getting muddled and confused.
Plants and flowers,
flour and bread.
I like eyes and ears,
sensing life and feelings.
Thinking and reversing,
negative photos and drawings.
I saw a photo of someone and I want to smoke a cigarette with her,
just her, just because…
Well because… She looked lonely as me, she was a pea in a bowl trapped under cling film, I was a glimpse – an image, a moment in time, seemingly screaming alone in an unspent void!
I don’t even smoke anymore.
Take a seat, I’ll be your chair for this evening.
Tired, it won’t be long before you’re leaving.
Take some heat, I’m highly strung tonight.
Giving off warmth, you might, just might, just might pluck my branches until tomorrow afternoon. So let’s fight!
Tomorrow afternoon, we can play and have a sight of the sea, draw the rocks on the beach, weigh up options, how much balance does it take to say thanks for being a snapshot.
Lass, you move differently to how I guessed, but you leave me shaking, dissecting truth from my words, you are everything I need. Of course you might never know if the mirrors aren’t set up well. If the angles are wrong and the camera isn’t set.
The first time I saw you. Your face said bring down the monarchy. It said we could live in a world of equality where we need not worry about war. It said disarm all nuclear weapons and spread joy to the disadvantaged. It said meow. You were a cat.
A long drought in winter.
A fly trapped between two panes of glass.
An unlit fire.
A ghost of a forgotten person.
A sea lion.
A very vivid memory of a lampshade.
Every time I let out a sigh,
I begin to see little birds fly.
Yet, I can catch one if I move quick.
Or is it about choosing one to pick?
Too late! My chance has gone.
Now there is night where the sun shone.
If they were dozing by day and sleeping at nightfall…
I’d just pick one up and then I’d walk tall.
But no, awake, and with wings they fly.
Every time I let out a sigh.
What goes on behind a stare?
I don’t know but it’s hardly fair,
To blame me for your lousy mood.
I just can’t help looking at you.
What can I do to cheer you up?
Should I smile at you as I look?
It occurs to me that you are free.
So help me see what puzzles thee.
Once I knew a girl whose hair was curled.
Kind and smiled like she owned the world.
But she only made me bitter and twisted.
Like an ale mixed with lemons or something…
Write: wrong or left.
Wrong or left. I wrote.
The ramblings of a so called addled brain.
Controlled by medication not to go insane.
You have good looks and knowledge deep.
Counts for nothing when you’re asleep.
Certain that there’s no perfection. Things seem mundane.
In the absence of this, there’s a aroma so sweet. These things from the void light up his face. The light, the everlasting glow. The love, the fountain of original gifts.
So remember Miss, when he approaches the lamppost, he cannot decide which way to walk around. He’s stood, just waiting.