Tuesday, 31 March 2015


It matters not that in that moment I was in that moment
All that matters now is that that moment is passed
And that that moment will never return

He talks of being rebuffed by the actress
Truth is he never really made his move
He did no more than smile at her on stage
And write a few words of introduction

It matters not that in the future there is no future, no future moment
All that matters is that that future which we talked about
Was bypassed in sort of a days-of-future-past moment

Monday, 30 March 2015


I am on that easy street
Warm wool socks
On my fresh bathed feet

Feeling good, feeling neat
Softer rock
With a rich, irregular beat

I have this time
To sit half still
I have a dime
With desire to fill

I think on back, to that seat
No more clocks
Nor ledgers to complete

Looking out, as if on retreat
Swirling frocks
With feelings running deep

I have this line
As if by that rill
I have my mind
With hope instilled

Sunday, 29 March 2015


This is one warm feeling
I don't give a fig to what others say
To have the beautiful pleasure
A calm, energised, peaceful mind
As the snow falls
And the logs on the wood-burner
And the music, on the stereo
Is as liquor on curvaceous glass
Is as footprints in soft warm-wet sand

No remorse, neither escape from nostalgia
To go just wherever that last thought takes me
As if to candy floss at the fairground
As if to that kiss, along the Golden Mile
There is no need to go deeper
All of depth is already in our memory
Or in our projections for the future

Remember Findhorn Foundation
The beach through the forest
Yachts in the bay
Walks to the pub and store
Then the road out to Ullapool
With moorland, mountains
Ponds at the roadside
With deep reflections
Of sun and moon

Saturday, 28 March 2015


He threw the signed copy of his book into the desert
The last place where he knew of her whereabouts

I do want to, I don't want to
I will want to, I won't want to
We did want to
Didn't we want to
I may walk, I may not walk
Did we want to walk
Where the last of the waves
Scored the descended flatness of sand

He did want to, he didn't want to
He will want to, he won't want to
They did want to
Didn't they want to
He may walk, he may not walk
Did they want to walk
Where the last of the ridges
Scanned the intended emptiness of land

It is cold, it isn't cold
Snow came, snow didn't come
He wanted to
She wanted to
It was dark, it wasn't dark
Driving in the blizzard
Where the last of the drifts
Shaded the rendered Rio Grande

With the headlights, without the headlights
Into the blizzard, out of the blizzard
Follow the red lights, don't follow the red lights
We did want to
Didn't we want to
I may drive on, I may not drive on
Where the last of the snowstorms
Waved goodbye to the tendered demand

Friday, 27 March 2015


It isn't that I don't want to write
And it isn't that I don't have time to write
I have all the time in the world
Sat in this lay-by, watching the traffic stream by

I could always say that I had a breakdown
Car breakdown that is, nothing too dramatic
Or I could say that there had been a bad accident
Not that I was involved, but the road was closed

It isn't that I mind telling fibs
And it isn't that I spend my whole life telling fibs
Yes I know I do have whole pockets of deceit
Sat here, under the blue sky, in the warm morning sun

Always a friend of the silver birch
And the maroon aubergine tint to the tops of the hedgerow
Always a friend to the silhouettes of the wizened old trees
Set off by the silver sky, sunlit from the heavens

Yesterday evening, after bathing whilst reading Fante
I thought about brinksmanship
He uses that trick time after time
This time you think, make her this time, but no, he doesn't make her

He backs off, and you back off with him
Leave me alone he cries, just back off won't you
And that's exactly what you do do
Time after time

You could tell them that you don't feel like it anymore
That you have done your stint
It's time for new blood
Time to let the youngsters have a go, let them have a right go

Thursday, 26 March 2015


Light turns
My room becomes dark
The fire glows
I am bathed in music
And warmth

Dusk arrives
A little more slowly
As the years change over
I am easy with love
And care

Wednesday, 25 March 2015


I am alone for a while
I smile into the log fire
Pleased, that folks somewhere
Care for the photos I have posted

If I could play the piano
I would play Ben Fold's The Luckiest
Not that I could sing along
For singing is not my strong suit either

I am not alone anymore
Joined by someone moving boxes
Beginning the tidying, on a Sunday
For visitors arriving, on Thursday

Tuesday, 24 March 2015


He, the she part of him
Held the strawberries
In the palm of his hand

She, the he part of her
Washed blueberries
In the sparkling stream

He and she
The she and he part of them
Knelt on the spring grass

She and he
The he and she part of them
Stepped on stepping stones

In the palm of their hands
In the sparkling stream
Eating blueberries and strawberries

They stepped on stepping stones
Knelt on meadow grass
Eating strawberries and blueberries

Monday, 23 March 2015


To do no more than sit and write
Let my mind fight what it feels it needs to fight
Always knowing, not what's right
But that nothing need be kept from sight
That whenever I wish to shine the light
The tightness will try to keep it tight
As nighttime falls into blue-black night
That bright day no longer bright
With such decay that I just might
Distill the darkness with sheer insight
Show my mettle, fight my fight
As with my mother I'll fly my kite
Share our love, forego our plight

Sunday, 22 March 2015


I drive into the mist
The trees, bare of leaf, float trunkless
Lyle Lovett's music bares my lustful mind
I have, I feel, the touch of thigh on thigh
All of that time of life saddled in one momentous rush
That I shouldn't have wanted to say anything more
All of the lusciousness already self-fulfilling the score
But believe me he says, slowly opening the ever open door
Out there, laid out in nature, the true lovers are sharing the floor
I have, I feel, the touch of skin on skin
All of that time of life, grappled in one momentous crush
Hands under warm armpits, hands over warm breasts
If ever you would wonder you would wonder the rest
Clothes straddled on the floor, beauty banging my chest
Lost lovers loving in the afternoon, whatever's next

I drive into the light
The sky, scare of clouds, float weightless
Eva Cassidy's music scares you and your less trustful kind

Saturday, 21 March 2015


Contemplation time
As time called by to ask me
Why not walk out
Why not watch the sunrise
Why not sit in the garden
The why not and the why
All a matter of calculation
All a matter of pounds shillings and pence
All a matter of listening to the music
Then to walk the street as Arturo Bandini
Shuffle feet in the dust
Ruffle feathers as you must
Muffled against the upper crust
Daring to be just as unjust
He opened the door
Waved to his dear lady arriving
Together they popped the corks
Of quite ordinary champagne
Why not the way
As time called by
Along contemplation line

Friday, 20 March 2015


Who's stole the melancholy, who's spilt the joi de vivre
Who's listening to Leadbelly, who's shaping up to leave

The seal of her lips is broken
Words not spoken for many years
Lay festooned in the vale of tears

Who's frozen the happy holly, who's undone the fabric weave
Who's christening the wobbly jelly, who's rolling up their sleeve

The smile in her eyes is woken
Joyful token to return the fears
As waylaid by thoughtless peers

Thursday, 19 March 2015


What I didn't make up I didn't make up, what brought the tears was that I didn't know how
What I hadn't said I hadn't said, what brought the arrears was that that I didn't know how
Into the light and into the shadow, both so strong you wouldn't know how
Into the air and into the meadow, both so desirous you wouldn't know how
If you could feel the stillness, say it, all without words, would that you, wouldn't know how
If you could bask without ever feeling the needing, if you could but you, wouldn't know how

Wednesday, 18 March 2015


I wake, from the sight and sound of stripping wallpaper, I know where the bedroom is but I won't bore you with the detail, suffice to say that in my half-sense stupor I feel to be in that place as I get out of bed.

I recognise that I am doing something which makes the maximum impact for the minimum effort, my heart isn't in the task and I leave it, as most things, half-completed.

Tuesday, 17 March 2015


I have given something up, or rather had it taken from me
I haven't found a replacement and know not what I am looking for
My own gentleness is fading amongst all the gentleness that surrounds me
Belligerent and bombastic are two words to describe my current way of going on

It's not what anyone wants, not that I know what anyone wants
Other than I have the idea of a straight line, a clear sky
A dream of a quieter place with time for deeper reflection
Somewhere to be myself, to find something there to be true

Monday, 16 March 2015


Pitch black
Out of the windows
Turning slow to light
Tree branches wave
Wild in the wind
I felt excluded
Set out to be set alone
Unable to soften
Unable to reach you

Intolerably awkward
How to salvage compassion
Or best to pass on the baton
All of this before
The rains came
And the music played

All of this before
The tea and the toast
And a warm bath

Sunday, 15 March 2015


What then
With a new beginning
What then
With no end in sight

What then
With no purpose given 
What then
For fight or flight

Pages and pages
Books of blank paper
Thoughts and thoughts
Finding hopes of continuity

Ages and ages
Searching is a right caper
Noughts and noughts
Climbing ropes for security

What then
With a new halfway
What then
It's moving on, right

What then
If still squandering
What then
Of that second sight

Saturday, 14 March 2015


Some people are steady, as those beautiful waves, that lap gently to and fro, on the vast expanse of golden sands

There are also those, less steady, who like their music played loud, and thrive on explosions in the sky

Then there are the lucky ones, those free spirited souls who step easily from one path to the other; one day rich with laughter playing hopscotch or marbles, one day reflecting quietly reading their latest book; or else they are to be found, drunk as lords, with friends in the pub, or asleep on the grass verge

Friday, 13 March 2015

26 & 27

There is a church
With a small spire
It shows a precision
Which its diminutive
Clock face signs off


One hundred Monday mornings
One hundred photographs along the way
Glimpses of the mood
Captured in that wellspring of emotion
Notes made on the road
More of the Christopher & less of the Kerouac

Thursday, 12 March 2015


I have been heavy handed, but
Not in a heavy-handed sort of way
More of having the will to impose my will
On those I thought in need of guidance

Some might say that I was stubborn, yes
In that stubborn-as-hell kind of way
But more I feel as a demonstration
Of my own damned and wretched inflexibility

Wednesday, 11 March 2015


In this air, which we call our clear air
There floats at least a million dust mites
Yet only for those few moments, with the earth set on its axis
Does the light sparkle through tree and window, there
To show off the fine particles, both levitating and travelling
No worry for the coldness, it seems they are knowing full well
That when the brightness disappears then they too will disappear

Tuesday, 10 March 2015


What is it that troubles me
No I know I haven't told you
And though I take the time to hold you
We haven't yet managed to second guess

To prevent distress I don't ask that you unfold me
No I know you are happy that I hold you
And rather pleased that no, I do not scold you
Yet perhaps it's time to probe and not just impress

Don't let them fuck you about, it is not compassionate
To be brutal, it is not clever to tear that frail
Paper when what it needs is a firm frame to wrap around

It is a tree which speaks well to me of frailty and indecision
With the precision of bonsai the branches point neither
In the way of the road less travelled, or any other road

It is a different tree, more wilful and wild of nature
With the precociousness of a night-after hairdo, which says
More about a night on then town rather than a night on the tiles

They are the real deal (and I know some people their equal)
I am the faithless pretender (and you know some people my equal)

If you don't want to be alone with me should I be on my own
If you don't want to share thatch and stone with me should I moan
Or just get on and do something about it; my purpose, to roam

I find people, I lose people, I hope one day that it may slow down

Monday, 9 March 2015


We are doing all of those things that we didn't have time to do
We are fulfilling all of those promises that we didn't have time to fulfil

Yet still I retreat
Into that silent solace shell
That quiet place where I love to dwell
Yet knowing that for others it is their living hell

I am escaping from those who are close to those who are close to me
I am indicating my displeasure yet achieving less than nought you'll see

Yet still I repeat
Once again the same mistake
My inherent stubbornness it is no fake
Jealousy is always the fiend I choose to rake

We are all having fun, we are all going places, days on the beach, days at the races
We did have fun, we did follow our traces, days on the beach, those old familiar chases

Yet still in deceit
I hide deep behind the word
Driving along nudging the highway kerb
Always doing what I do, intending to disturb

We are building rooms, fireplaces and floors, we are replacing windows; drawing plans, buying wooden doors
We did construct; wardrobes, bathrooms, kitchen shelves; only then to destruct; gardens, pathways, your living hell

Yet still my mind is fleet
Always unfulfilled, inside out
Hard to whisper, harder to shout
Never committing, fearing the doubt

We are going away, to an isolated cottage in the dales, with friends, with family, with wine, with real ale
We went away, to an island hotel by the sail, taking the children, to a place where all they did was wail

Sunday, 8 March 2015


So many comparisons that pass me by
So many similar inferences where I am oblivious
Is this how the older sisters see their younger brother
Are his unfathomable abilities on the same plain

It is that time, at the end of the day, after an evening of reading, writing, eating and watching television; chasing opportunities for self-reflection, chasing ideas for onwards extrapolation, searching out what isn't there anymore, what most likely was neither there before. But it doesn't hurt to dream does it, and these are the thoughts that precede the dreams; these are the my self becoming aware of my most inner and intimate self. When I do go back to what might have happened, what might have been meant by those soft sensual words and tender embraces, what might I have implied from those passionate looks and the accompanying physical progressions.

So many illustrations that I can use for illusion
So many commentaries that one day I might replicate
Is this how the young boy overwhelmed his family
As his indeterminate talents exceeded all expectations

It is that time, in the clear light of day, after a morning of working and buying presents; losing, or leaving behind any detritus from the former, any joy from the latter. Such that now we one might think of oneself as a writer; not a Colm Toibin or anyone heavyweight, but as a lightweight who lets the words drop onto the page as snow might fall, without story or setting, without hook or strap line. Not even time for my self to to engage with my inner or my intimate self, for now all I do is to look forwards, towards the next virgin page, to the next empty notebook of a life yet to be lived, of actions yet to be determined, of loves and lusts yet to be chased, or reinforced or discarded.

Saturday, 7 March 2015


We all lose our way sometimes don't we
I know I've lost mine once or twice

With head in hands
Wondering what's gone wrong
Pray don't let anyone see me like this

She calls me in the sad times
In the bad times of the morning
She sways me as the dust might
As the devil in disguise, soaring

And with my head I my hands
Stone cold and wondering
Pray don't let anyone see me like this

If all I ever did was write
Record songs and make movies
If all I ever did was fight
Bang on relentless drinking smoothies

So few words one to the other
Call out into the silence
See what it shall freely uncover

Under the rainbow
Still feeling blue
Always in the search
Of that beauty what's true

It's all of a fashion
To trespass on the other self
To remember nights of passion
Sat here in fading health

Friday, 6 March 2015


The toys are the toys are the toys that we lose
A light goes out each time we choose
The loss is the loss is the loss that turns to bruise
Darkness is the shadow of the parting news

Some dreams don't matter anymore
Yet still the catkins emerge in December
Some thoughts forever surge and pour
Yet still the difficulty is to remember

The noise is the noise is the noise that we lose
A lamp flickers each time we choose
The eyes are the eyes are the eyes to see the bruise
Sorrow is the meadow of the parting news

Some pleasures don't hit the higher score
Yet still the snow settles in December
Some scents say bonjour mon amour
Yet harder dwell the words to send her

The boys are the boys are the boys that we lose
A candle quenched each time we choose
The sense is the sense is the sense to feel the bruise
Hurtful is the emotion of the parting news

Some hopes wait behind the closing door
Yet the dustbowl still blows in December
Some images fall beneath the boarded floor
Yet don't doubt yourself, you're the defender

Darkness is the shadow of the parting news
Yet still the catkins emerge in December
Sorrow is the meadow of the parting news
Yet still the show settles in December

Hurtful is the emotion of the parting news
Yet the dustbowl still blows in December
Some dreams don't matter anymore
Yet the difficulty is to remember

Some pleasures don't hit the score
Yet harder dwell the words to send her
Some hopes wait behind the closing door
Yet don't doubt yourself you're the defender

Thursday, 5 March 2015


Now we might put the flowers way behind us
The scents of freesias and lilies to lie behind us
Check out the flights of those early carnations
Even consider lavender to be more than herb

And in that time, however long
Of putting the flowers way behind us
And on that flight, however far
Of no longer being beside the carnations

Now we might put the flowers long behind us
The illness and confusion of love and recovery
Or we may stand silent, in the open doorway
Even consider stepping slowly down the hallway

And in that place, however untimely
Of being confused by flowers long behind us
And in that mood, however distant
Of no longer being still shadows in the doorway