Morning's still an artist's impression that's been sketched from previous accounts. A reconstruction of a morning, such is the early hour at which I wake. I'm certain the sun will rise. I believe in the testimony. I believe in the artist's ability.
Hope they catch its good side
When I see a passing plane I wonder where it's going
It might be off to sun kissed shores I have no way of knowing
I wonder if the plane is off on long or just short haul?
I wonder if they think of us as much or not at all?
In a half-realised, early morning, my garden is still being drawn. My bush is mostly a giant hedgehog, the holly tree a fearsomely armoured knight. My lawn, a misty sea of shifting sand. Light rubs out my fantasy world. It disappears into my imagination, where it rests a while.
Cemetery stories : The plot within the plot. We all hope for a multigenerational epic saga and not the flash fiction of some. But I suppose if a story touches your heart, one that we can relate to, then it matters not the length of the tale but the fact it got to be told at all.
The man's clothes were shoddy and of poor material
But he sucked on a mint that made him feel imperial.
If only words formed like visible breath on cold mornings. We could carry them around like tiny language ballons.
"Good Morning", tied to a piece of string, would mean we could simply smile at people we meet. We'd knowingly nod and point to the words bobbing alongside us.
Pop!
How I love the weak pulses of starlight that throb from deep space. A connection to a time when even dinosaurs and the very land on which they walked were twinkles in Father Time's eyes. Infant time, heartbeat time, reaching us through the veil, remembrance of what is to come.
There once was a man who swept up some leaves
And the wind did its best to disrupt him
But he was a poet, he'd worked at his drafts
And would not let this breeze interrupt him.
It's easy to get lost within the maelstrom
It's hard to seek a way out from the storm
Though we find ourselves upon rough waters
Most of us will make it back to port
Not for us the waving wives to greet us
Not for us the flag-strewn harbour bay
That final time when silent drops the anchor
Dry land and tall tales is where we'll stay.
I dreamt I was a falling leaf
Floating to the ground
I woke naked in my garden
With no one else around.
Autumn smells like a day after a bonfire. Hints of wood smoke, a boring party guest refusing to leave. No noise is good noise as I read my paper. The morning assembles itself, one colour at a time. Orange takes a tester pot to the sky. It'd better be dawn and not another bonfire.
Carry chronic pain
Old Contemptible
Carry shrapnel wounds
No to roaring fires
No to whisky notes
No to talk of derring-do
Carry chronic pain
Old Town Gossip
Bearer of bad news
Now you find your mouth
Now it's stitched shut
Now you'll have to mime for clues
A leaf stayed on this tree one autumn. Just one. Every day I was willing it to fall. To catch up with the rest, do it's bit. As winter came I realised I was willing it to stay on, to beat the cold, to cling on. One day it'd gone. I knew it was with the others but it was unique.
we walk past we walk through so many things we grit our teeth to walk on from pavements sleeping sacks we're in a rush guilty we can't always stop we miss beauty in madness in the everyday sunrise we calibrate sadness to joy we balance on existence and hope we don't fall
Floating around in squid-ink dark
Feeling my way for the light
Slapping my hands on the walls & myself
Stumble-fumbling the night
Switches are found & finally slapped
Light covers ceiling to floor
1 small win for Age v Night
Now what did I get up for?
A man in shorts at 6am
Is a confident man indeed
To have such legs and display 'em
Here's a man who will surely succeed.
No jeans or trousers for this sport
It's legs alfresco today
If we accept 6am shorts
We too can live our life our way.
The ghosts of Yesterday
Lightkeepers whilst we snore
Shine trusted passage way
Past rocks unto safe shores.
Wrinkled ghosts are everywhere
Airbags in a car for spare
Crumpled packs of cigarettes
Discarded bills for household debts
Pillows that still hold the form
On beds that are no longer warm
We live with ghosts we cannot see
We sweep their leaves for potpourri.
I'm neither Midlands
North or South
I'm West of East
(by word of mouth)
I have no voice
I have no place
I like that choice
I like our space
I live at the top of a hill
My mate he lives at the bottom
We're finding most days
We're exchanging waves
I'll whistle some days when I spot him
We hardly ever speak
It's fine for me and my mate
Gestures are fine
As old as time
You'll find it's how most men relate
Out goes the yawning tide
Smoothing the sands of today
So the footprints that we leave
Are there upon display
In comes the yawning tide
Smoothing the sands of today
So the footprints that we leave
Will surely wash away
Art is how we relax
it makes us ponder
it makes us wonder
it makes us feel
it makes us free
it makes us care
it makes us cry
it makes us laugh
it makes us love
it makes us think
it makes us thankful
it makes us thoughtful
it makes us real
it makes us raw
it makes us, us.
I know the stars are here
I know they're hidden by the clouds
I know the clouds are here
I know they're hidden by the trees
I know the trees are here
I know they're hidden by the night
I know the night is here
I know it's hiding in plain sight
Who's hiding us from view?
Shove it up your nose
Keep going
Shove it in as far as it goes
Shove it 'round your tonsils too
I'll let you know when you are through
That's it
You're done
You'll know by text
That way out
Keep going
Next
We make trails as we meander through life
Not for us the silvery path of a snail
But in the smiles of loved ones and loves lost
In the joy of the new
The satisfaction of the old
In the homes we inhabit
In the hopes which we visit
One-way trails
Trials
Triumphs.
Woken by the sounds of rain that had sent me off to sleep, Nature's Syncopated Rhythm is playing softly on my roof. Only the toughest cats, the most shameful of revellers, will be out in this. Sunday is still wearing a little black number, smelling of Saturday's aftershave.
Minx.
Milk-bottle white
Full-up tonight
Waxing gibbous
Wanes within us
Pulling on tides
Pushing on tides
A farmer's marker
A scarred reminder
Battles to come
Battles once fought
Gravity-lite
A lonely sight
Loved from afar
Lunatics yarn
Heavens afar
Our own rock star.
There's a flag in our church that hangs tattered
Not really a whole flag at all
It was sent into battles
To hear the death rattles
Of those who had answered the call
Now it hangs here and no longer flutters
What purpose I can only muse
Is it there to inspire
The boys in the choir
Has it broken old men in the pews?
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