Had my portrait painted
By a clever man indeed
We're so well acquainted
He bowed to every need
He kept out all my blemishes
He kept out all my spots
He kept out all my crevices
He kept out lots and lots
The finished work is on my wall
A blank canvas called My Downfall
I could dream the dream of Manderley, again,
I could sail the heavens and the oceans blue
I could stop all flowing time
I could change the paradigm
Yet I dream to dream the dreams of me and you.
My neighbour's white and red roses fight old battles on the breeze for dominion over a picture perfect garden. I'm rarely envious of others. We are where we are because it's where we're supposed to be. Briefly, I want to be in his fragrant garden, winning his war of the roses.
I must say
I start each day
Hoping for a Fabergé
But I see
My days to me
Turn out more like Cadbury
Still a treat
Though bittersweet
But who wants fancy jewels to eat?
Night briefly meets Day. Night boasts of its stars and Day agrees they're rather impressive. Night brags of the blackest black. Day nods along in silence. Day simply looks to the first thrush who is heralding the gift of new light through song.
Night departs, mumbling to itself.
Between the Then and the Soon
Lays Now, quite quietly strewn
For this is the bit
Where we all sit
From the rise of the Sun to the Moon
To be, or not to be: this is the morning
Whether 'tis nobler of our day to suffer
The songs of sparrows in outrageous portions,
Or to set alarms against a sea of struggles
And by snoozing end them? To try; to sleep;
One more.
Language is so fluid
Like water in the streams
What once we called The Druids
Now 'Blokes in Cloaks', it seems.
A colander relies on all its holes
Without them you get pans or you get bowls
But humans are not made from what's not there
They store that stuff in memory and declare,
"I think therefore I am,
Not a colander or pan"
Unspoken street etiquette. The single, tiny, glove waits on a wall for a new, frazzled, mother to gratefully reclaim it. 2 roadside, recycling bins are a passive-aggressive NO PARKING sign. 1 green beer bottle, magically half-full/half-empty, might accidentally fall/be pushed.
we used to kick our football 'til it burst
its leather panels scuffed or worse
attempts at Kevin Keegan headers
bled us
leaving us with cuts above the eyes
wounded tales of playground pride
swelling to impress and frighten girls
walking home
picking up our throwing stones.
The stumps from childhood cricket games have worn away from the end of the house. The paint stripped, the crease folded. Those bricks know our secrets, casting their masonic silence over a tiny patch of overgrown grass. We're not out. Time stops play as Memory readies the covers.
An old car gives a throaty, smokers cough, reminiscent of many people in the 1970's. Even my nan's dog wheezed non-filtered snores as it lay beneath clouds of Capstan. Now everyone vapes, cars are rapidly turning battery-powered and I think, do my dogs dream of electric sleep?
My doctor says it is bad for my heart
I tell her it's good for my soul
I tried to tell her the good it imparts
She said find a new watering hole.
I though for a bit
What I said shocked her
I'm now fighting fit
I've got a new doctor!
This way passed the oldy-weds
Hand in hand as blossom sheds
Wistful faces, rueful smile
Knows the fruit borne down this aisle.
I can see the morning's edge developing around thick bedroom curtains. A rectangular corona for a nightly eclipse, a door to a silent nightclub. The light's been in Lockdown and is held back by the flimsy material. Very soon it'll burst through and claim every seat in the house.
I let the dog out at 4am, the strangest hour. The rooftops of our neighbours were negatives in the developing light. The grass of my lawn was leached of colour. The morning smudged the areas it couldn't quite draw. I'm the same with hands. I heard one bird message the rest.
I can't recall when last we blew on dandelion puff for the time, but it's a memory; or the last time we held sunny buttercups under chins, or searched for dock leaves to take away the stinging-nettles bite, or dropped rotor-blade seeds from the maple tree on high.
But we did.
Wouldn't say my youth has gone
I think it's just well hid
Under rolls of belly fat
Don't do the things I did!
We've more cracks than pavement on our hilly street. Maybe they all flow down to one huge crack like rivers to the sea. Maybe they're waiting until they all join together to form the picture they were drawing for the birds.
Tarmac repairs sit like rotten teeth in a wonky mouth.
A feather tree is funny to me
A tree that grows feathers is fun
Out in all weather
Without a strong tether
It flies off to find winter sun.
The poet carves his path through grass
A well worn path it seems
He walks his metered steps to last
And rhymes bits in between
He chops his way through greenery
A road less taken, maybe
We tread his tracks, his scenery
The way he shows us daily.
I dreamt I was dreaming,it made my heart sink
And I woke just the once with a jerk
Am I still dreaming that dream, I still think
I shouldn't be naked at work?
Pigeon takes pigeon
In a game of rooftop chess
Playing just like us
But they leave a bigger mess.
The sun is hidden behind the bruised flesh of a marbled sky. Could've-been-a-contender, street-fighting cloud rumbles and stumbles into morning. The sun will emerge, unscathed, at some point, but it's fixed to go down in the last round.
As it always will.
Crease the Afternoon in half, somehow
Twist and turn the Day so it looks right
All your Time is folded into Now.
I dress in the Lockdowned Style; T-Shirt, jogging bottoms and odd socks.
I recall my grandad would wear a shirt, tie and shiny shoes just to post a letter. I can't remember when I even last posted a letter, or if I still possess a tie that isn't black.
I do not see the lawn grow but it does
(Often cut as it is to stay the same)
I do not see my beard grow but it does
(Often cut as it is to stay the same)
I never see the birds grow but they do
Their nesting familiarity
Returning to change quite happily
Apparently.
The dandelion clocks we blew when we were young
Were carried on a carefree breeze
Their tufts of hope to lands far flung
And we followed with such eagerness and ease.
Icarus - the thickest of us
Flew too close to a sun so bright
With no fuss - and pure genius
I'll journey there during the night.
We all practice pointillism, whether we know it or not. Tiny dots of experience build memory. From this are built colour and shapes. It means little as a single point but stand back, take in your work. Every dot of memory is as connected as the rest. That's the point, really.
I hope that I'm not awake
I hope that I'm still asleep
For my room it seems to shake
To the sound of jumping sheep.
The world is a rough pencil sketch just before dawn. A gallery with the lights turned off. A hint of form, a mere suggestion of colour. The world won't sit still for its portrait. This is why there are slight alterations to yesterday's masterpiece. A work in constant progress.
We start as first submissions with ommissions
We then transit through the pages of the ages
We store library, first edition, and revisions
We write ever-changing words upon those pages.
We take mysterious puddles on trust. We enter at our peril. Mere inches deep, surprise awaits the unsuspecting foot. We used to splash about with abandon but we tend to sidestep puddles now. The price of maturity was abandoning abandon.
We feel dry but we feel short-changed.
I used to drink to be sociable
The most sociable guy around
Lunchtime was non-negotiable
At the bar was where I could be found.
I used to drink to relax myself
The most chilled and relaxed around
Evening top shelf, have one for yourself
I'd toast you if you were in town.
I used to drink when I watched TV
It mattered not I was alone
Crack open cans, make future plans
For things I knew I had postponed.
I used to drink to forget myself
I forget where I ended up most
The thing with forgetting, it's too much regretting
Chapters you couldn't quite close.
This is just me and I really do see
How most can enjoy the odd drink
But if truth be told, before you're too old
Has any of this made you think?
You had dementia
You lived with us all
Every morning you asked
Where is my Nora?
Every morning we said
Nora has died
Every morning you cried
Every day we cried
Only your tears dried
Come the afternoon.
I tripped upon the past
And fell into today
My time in here won't last
Tomorrow's trip's this way.
(upon reading an article - Where Memories Live)
Everything I see in here
is everything I've tasted,
loved and lost and seen and feared,
touched and gained and wasted.
Everything I see in here
is all of me and more,
I should make it very clear,
I'll forget it all, I'm sure.
time is key
and box
and morning
it's lock
and gift
and evening
the gift that keeps on taking
the gift that's there on waking
time sails on its own winds
time's tales from its own spin
time will call us like The Sirens
time will outlive all the diamonds.
The removal of creeping, green ivy on a garden brick wall has ceased. A discovery of a robin's nest within, containing 4 blue eggs, has turned us into broody, avian midwives. There's danger the bird will abandon it, even though we've covered it over.
Nature's harsh. We're soppy.
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