NEAR LIFE
Up up up and away
Soaring through the open air
I flinch in autumn winds
And dance to its shrill sound
Calling me on
Higher and higher
Drifting now I twirl and swirl
In the vague direction of heaven
But the further I propel
Away from the Devil's hell
The heat of sin is lesser upon me
No longer a comforting embrace of collective shame
I shiver I stiffen
I pray to descend
But the will of winter is not one to bend
Lost at the first and gone at the second
No question of a beckoning fate
Out of space and out of time
All I can do is enjoy the last
The last breath
A final gasp
What a glorious life
Lived short
Died fast
Inspiration
Where does it go? Sometimes I am looking straight into it’s big bright eyes.
Sometimes we skip as we hold each others hand idly roaming the depths of our imaginations.
Stopping momentarily to smell the flowers or
share the view. It can be wonderful.
Oh so wonderful.
And just
when I wonder what’s on the horizon
I take my eyes off it and
BLAM! - it’s gone.
But to where? I could never know.
When will it come back?
Will it come back? At all? Ever?
I can’t say.
I can only hope.
What if
when it comes
back
I don’t recognise it?
DREAMS
Dreams
Dreams
Let me drift into my dreams
Let the lights fade out
And the calm come over
With a pop and a fizz
A crackle and zlum
I'm coming through
I'm stepping in
The others call to meet me
But I can't make out a face
Still on I go
The deep dead dark
Until I'm there
Until I'm here
Staring out the lark
In The Lap Of
The Gods are not with me today
Although the heavens are open
I sit here still waiting
Covered in pigment
Yet nothing to weigh
I look up, eyes closed
In defference and say
Gods, will you join me today?
WANDERING MIND
The plaintive cry
Of a soul with a wandering mind
Where the body lays still
And the brain pumps fuel
On a brand new journey
Atrophy is on the horizon
Misery: the next stop
And as fog descends
Restricting the vision
Lights shine brightly
With blinding precision
This is no way to travel
This is no way to live
Snap me out of this trance
Wake me up before I go
I am happy
And I don’t even know
SWEET DREAMS
Go to sleep
Go to sleep
Go
To
Sleep
Leave the troubles of your day
Far far far away
Setting down your mind to rest
And laying off your heavy chest
Imagine a world where all is dark
All is calm and all is still
Where nothing stirs and nothing will
No lights no cars no wind or rain
Or sorrow or pain
Smile, breath and say with me
At least I have tomorrow
At least I have tomorrow
Haiku
#1
The stillness of the
Water's edge stirs the creature
That lurks deep within
#2
Fluttering freely
Descending to savagery
Silent. Swift. Fatal
#3
Taking flight - soaring
Boom bang plummeting plumage
All is calm. Go fetch
STONE
Stony, bony, tucked up knees
Embrace the harrowed head.
A muted expression reverberates
Throughout its structure.
Pained, lost, hopeless, naked - alone.
Long sinuous arms comfort and clasp, hanging on -
Structurally sound, neurologically neutered.
Treated with contempt to the point of ignoration;
It’s beauty,
it’s vulgarity.
Wild Flowers
Sat atop the moor cross legged,
back straight, chin up, eyes wide
open - as we once were - staring out;
scrutinising the soon forgotten
natural world
Long, soft, prickly pastures; damp, fresh with dew - a breeze strokes your face
Birdsong sings its calming chorus: ever louder yet not a whisper on a distant air,
where wild grass silk strong - bends in the breeze, whipping and twitching
Sparsely scattered colour threads it’s ways
through dull greys, browns and greens.
Purple and blues, bells and bulbs. A bright red head bobs and pops as petals and leaves ghost home on the whirling ether
Far from home, roaming free, all over the land tamed and domesticated hostages escape and beat a hasty but painfully slow retreat
back to home back to the wilds
Thus one fine morning the rising sun
beams brightly through the pane. Piercing the weave of curtains drawn; pull them back, soak solar rays as a smile grows across your fresh face - a kingdom unfurls; your domestic plants and flowers reach up and out: unthreading themselves. Trailing their path back to their roots: to the wilds of the moors, glenns and downs, which beacon them home
Returning from where they came;
dancing and frolicking with old friends:
to bud again. The nurturing hand sows and plants. A delicate touch to tame the wildest of temperaments. But all is not gone. With new migration new roots go down spreading colour and life - richer with every step.
A WANDERER
A wanderer: faceless and falling;
Prey to the ruthless lure of Babylon.
I waited for the rain.
Distant thunder claps it’s beckoning -
Money, sex fire and magic;
Every gluttonous lust indulged
I waited for the rain to stop.
Chaos reigns a wash of sins.
Across the dank and darkening territory
The spoils are spent.
I waited for the rain to stop.
It didn’t stop -
It lashed.
Lost, hopeless, cold and alone
I waited for the rain to stop.
The rain didn’t stop.
It kept on
And on and on and on.
Have the seas raged?
Have the rivers rallied?
In the penultimate act,
Have the banks finally broken?
MENTAL NOTE
#1
Be still my rage - be still
Feel the peace
Course through my veins
And bloom in your heart
The Poet
and the Pauper
Following the nib as I
push and
shove it (around) is
not as easy as it
usually is: as it should be.
This is what happens when
you don’t get much sleep
and the sleep you do get
provides no opportunity to recuperate.
My nose is running onto the page but
my ideas are definitely not.
They elude me and my tired pen.
My sentient pen:
aware of it’s futile use in this application.
It trusts me and is
somewhat scared thus it dutifully
continues. Even as I can feel it
begin to resent me.
I begin to resent it back
We could do with some time alone
Like the strongest bonds of friendship
we share powerful negative emotions
toward each other, which fuel our
judgments; our insecurities; our suspicions.
And now my pen knows I’m using a pencil.
But more importantly it knows why
and it’s unimpressed.
Once upon a time these
speculations and delusions were a
journey to uncover and inspire but now,
the experience of life is all I need.
Late night ventures with investment bankers
may not be a place for a poet.
Or indeed a pauper - but definitely
when both - this is no place to be.
Bankers live their lives by the seat of their
designer underwear and
bold and brashy instinct.
Buy first. Ask questions later.
Sell first. Demand answers later.
But a poet and a pauper must
strategise and plot.
To push that pound as far as it can go
as slowly as it can trot.
These adventures are everyday.
Not with the powdered nose of course
but certainly the excitement.
The thrill of the evolving, everlosing pursuit:
chasing the next idea:
the next moment of vindication.
I did the right thing mum.
I.
Am
a poet.
The
Unhappy Bunny
John was not a happy bunny
Although far from the suicidal precipice
Upon which he once perched
Fear and self-loathing was nevertheless
The order of just another
period of experimentation.
You see, whilst his brain was functional
It wasn’t producing the hypothesised
Chemicals that might enable him to pass
The test and thus prove the theory.
Ultimately freeing him from his cage
This made him violently angry.
Hours
Days
Weeks
Months
And yes
Even years have
Been spent on this
However, there is no conclusively
Successful stimulant - unless of course
One doesn’t mind their brain being
pierced with a hot needle - in the right place.
He smiled to himself.
He couldn’t cope with that.
But who could?
He knew it was a joke and that it was a good joke
But it left him pondering the possibilities.
Apart from being terrified of needles
John moves his head too much when he’s eating.
Smith Family
Household
So, I'm in Okotoks, a quaint little town in Alberta,
Canada. It's mid June and the weather is wonderful. Sitting, writing at the dining table of the Smith family household - a truly beautifully pleasant and
peaceful place. Despite the sounds of the
World Cup and the Wimbledon fortnight
vibrating through the ether, despite my
nieces' yelps and heavy steps ascending
the stairs, despite the two barking cock-a-poo
tipping and tapping on Italian tiled kitchen checks, despite the jangling metallic tags dangling from their collars, enforced around their necks. Despite all of this, the songs of the birds resound the loudest, the high pitched improbable tunes fly sharply through the open home - big - wide - vacant spaces and loftily
high ceilings ping and reflect their cheer. Yet as my glazed gaze reanimates I’m back in the room and I must willingly submit - there is a bird in the house.
MENTAL NOTE
#2
Today is
the day so
seize it
Your chance
to grasp The
burning handle
Prove to yourself
you can be worthy
Prove to yourself
you can be King