Insight et al

I walk across my home town
Between two drawing offices
There isn't a real desk space for me in either
My old boss Roger wants me to design
An aircraft refuelling system

I tell him it's all about
Finding the right operational staff
The second office is really busy
A meeting of everyone is called
I see this as an opportunity to slip out

A fox approaches me on the petrol station car park
It bears its teeth and harasses me
I shout and wave a stick but I am frightened
A big dog grabs the fox
Eventually it works the foxes head between its jaws

Before determinedly and manically crushing
All life out of the bereft wild animal
It was a dream that I couldn't leave
In the same way I couldn't leave
Another work dream earlier in the week

In another of tonight's dreams I was explaining
The solution to a control system problem, & even
Though I knew the fix was to move the measuring
Device nearer to the process being measured
I had doubts that it would be correctly implemented

It seems to me the dreams are about a lack of control
Doubts about the resolution of issues
I am neither able to complete a task, or walk away
In the morning I find that a Fox in ones dreams means:
Insight, cleverness, cunningness and resourcefulness

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One Or The Other

It is with the knowing

That in the coming hours and days, months and years, there are tasks that I have to accomplish, conversations that I have to join, that are not of my own choosing, not of my wish to be doing

And with such knowing

Comes my disturbance; a feeling of being unsettled, of being always behind the clock, of being left with no time just to be, of being unable to make any sort of decision, or commitment

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Wasn't, Isn't

I wasn't the one for your symphony
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

I wasn't the one to think of me
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

Your persona, it led me along
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

You took me to places I didn't belong
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

I stood on the sands
While you swam topless in the sea
I wasn't the one
She isn't for me

You said lovers no more
I went down on my knees
I wasn't the one
She isn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me

I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me

The more I doubted
The less I breathed
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

She danced in the clouds
I strolled by the lea
I wasn't the one
She isn't for me

She was painted to tease
Where my eyes couldn't see
I wasn't the one
She isn't for me

I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me

I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me

So you laugh at my song
And you laugh at my singing
And you don't really know
When next I'll be ringing

She wasn't the one
If it wasn't for me
She wasn't the one
If it wasn't for me

I wasn't the one
Then this song set me free
I wasn't the one
Then this song set me free

I wasn't the one
Then this song set me free
I wasn't the one
Then this song set me free

Pretext

Out of one shadow
And on into the next
Tree lights and stand pipes
And whatever you least expect

Hedgerows that sparkle
Time here then to detect
Travelling these roads
On a one-way connect

There is happiness
To dust off the regret
Then there is a solace
With the joy to inspect

I am only working
I amn't trying to be correct
These last ten years now
I sure won't forget

That first time you rang
Yo paid call-collect
Your songs soon arrived
Our souls to protect

You wish it made sense
For your rebel school-prefect
Out of the limelight
Into his silence, so often flexed

Compartmento

Cellular accommodation
A view of the mountain
A view of the lake
Stillness of the chapel
Before the wedding celebration
Joy, in the community
Who are joined together for dining

So to retire, as one
To the singular peace
Of the single-bedded room
With the solitary window

There with still air
Just one book
With plain paper for the writing
Contemplation
For all those pilgrims
Who aspire to be closer to heaven

Also the divers
Diving for lost treasures
Breathing deeply
For the plunge into ice-cold water
Before the heartbeat quickens
And the bare chest rises and falls
With the, female Adonis', breast of beauty

Wholesome

I sat and watched the sun go down
I sat and watched the dusk arrive
I waited, to see the North Star glow
I slept as well as many a night

I woke with recurring dreams
Each line so bright with illumination
I am at one at these times, but
Should I let these words ever speak louder

Time Out

Take a seat, you say to yourself
Take a seat by the fishpond
Explain, you say to yourself
Explain the purpose
Of the bright and shiny
Spinning disks, spinning
On each bank of the water
Listen, you say to yourself
Listen to the buzzing flies
The harmonious birdsong
And the sound of pigeons in flight
Look again, you say to yourself
Look again at the goldfish
Look again at the swarms of midges
No one knows you're here
You say to yourself
As you feel the sun on your shoulder

Woken By Broken

I am awake
I should be sleeping
I am sat here writing
I should be dreaming

I am alone here
It is in keeping
I have been working
But mostly daydreaming

There is a spider
There on the ceiling
It does no harm now
That is my feeling

It is after midnight
This April evening
All is in darkness
A time for thieving

Doors are bolted
Locked from levering
Who prowls out there
Is it the Badgers breathing

I Looked Behind Me

Tom Carney
Where did you go to

After that great big build up
After you said in the pub
Christopher, you should call that
'The perfect poem'
For it has all of the elements
Nostalgia, loss, lament, longing
(my words not yours)
For myself I was entranced
What with your well told stories
Your intention to write a famous novel
Your already begun work; to be a benefactor
For Ireland's impoverished returning community

So I wonder Tom Carney
Where did we go to

Centre Line

There is a wide path, with trees and sunlight, it goes direct in line, to the spire of the town hall

There is a breeze, that turns to a wind through the park, it goes direct in line, to the core of the average man

In the daydreams, and in the daytime, he heard the library calling, he reads the poems, of the master poets passed.

In the future, as in the past-times, he will observe his inner vibrations, he will bless his soul, for being so full-on alive

Stretch

The infinite is finite
So strip away the debris
Find the salient sentient self
Bathe in shallow waters
Float on settled seas
The finite is infinite
So strip away the debris

From the salient sentient self
Tear those last few leaves
Scatter to find a path
Shuffle to make a journey
The finite infinite
Is finite, so
Strip away the debris

Early Viewing

Already; bright greens, soft pinks; light breezes, strong winds
Over and away, where there is no one already knowing
One to one and one to many, all for doubt and all for show

I engage in the anti-calm of memory
While listening to the mindfulness of breathing
What is the sense of the tree branches
Vibrantly and frantically waving
What is the sense of the wild, stirring whistle
Through the ill-fitting doors and windows

Already; lilacs, photographs; daffodils, enamel jugs
Under and near, where there is no one already deceiving
One to one and one many times over, all for love and all for show

Break

We had spelt bread
Sandwiches
With cheddar, cucumber and rocket

We sat outside of what is to become
Our creative and meditative salon
A hundred years of dust on our faces

One more morning's, hard and dirty
Labouring work in there behind us
Many days of future joy ahead

How will we hang the pictures
How will we lay the chairs
How will we choose the music

The flags are to be pressure cleaned
A border of Cotswolds cobbles
To act as our French drain

Richard is due to return
To complete the glazing's
Red cedar cladding

In the chiaroscuro
Glasses of pink champagne
Printed invitations and Bon homie

A hundred years
Of civilisation in our hearts
On the day we ate spelt bread

Retreat

I have to smile, even when
The feeling was, way back then

I can't explain, what blue skies do
I am peaceful now, my love is true

Holiday time, on open roads
Time to be, time to see the broads

I have to smile, as if in zen
I had worked it out, with my friend

Reclaimed Land

The legs of the wicker chair
Sink into the turned over ground
The breeze blows over my face
Bringing with it the birdsong

Andrew chops logs
With the splitting maul
He wears yellow safety glasses

Ruth and Kate turn soil
As if turning soil and talking
Comes naturally-ordained
To womankind's evolution

Springtime in England
For simple folks
With pastures to cherish

Graft

I chopped a few logs
Enough for this week
On Andrew's wood-burner
But before the heavy, physical work
I had sketched the orchard garden
With most dry and powdery pastels
It is a two hundred and seventy
Degree horizon, which plays havoc
With my limited sense of perspective

I am then told that Malham Cove
Is in the distance, and that
On a good day the sunshine
Reflects clearly off the limestone
Nearer to hand I hear the partridge
And next door's children playing
Such as they do, when
Searching for chocolate eggs
On this happy sunny Easter Sunday

Boy To Man

Feels like I'm eighteen again
Walking down the gravel drive
Wide Oxford bags
Flapping in the breeze
Tall and erect
A good days work behind me
I might talk about that one day
But right now
It feels like I'm eighteen again

I Or Almost Or I

I make this mark as a way to begin

A doorway through which to enter

The music is vaguely religious

With deep folk root overtones

The heavy curtains are drawn

Spotlights cast long shadows

I have read from Edgelands; learnt of an artist by the name of Chell who might well have captured the verges that I hoped to draw, or at least to write of

I have read from Falling Upward; of the two halves of life, reflected on my strong similarities to the failings of others on the road to immaturity

Before the fever takes hold

As I fear the fever no doubt will

I stretch full to say then take me

To write as would a man possessed

I make this mark as a way to end

A doorway through which to depart

Fury Poems - A short collection
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At The End Of Night

Daylight creeps into the valley
In search of the crowing voices
Beat of the pheasants wings
Brings vibrations physicality to glass
It is all that stands between human warmth
And the strut of winged courtship

The clocks tick-tock
Yet the alarm is silent
Once again I have woken
Before the time to wake
To peer across the flat frosted grass
Over the stream to the woodlands

Banks of trees that rise in an instant
A vast array of intense greens
And golds, and browns, and yellows and cherry reds
Yes, also the girlish wisp of the eastern silver birch
We all, so it seems, stand erect
In search of the photosynthetic energy of light

Fury Poems - A short collection
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First Word (Definitive Article)

Black & white
Underlined in red ink
For me
That’s where the poem began

The denouement or duende
May have arrived later
But for me the poems
Always began at the beginning

Fury Poems - A short collection
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Between The Lines

You are
Better read than I
Your intellect
Positively on fire

Yet actively restrained
One day you will give me your take
Tell me who
The vulgar-upstarts represent

For my part
I will wallow in the Pastoral passages
Though I note a certain lack of flow
Unbecoming of such a refined writer

My guess – there will be a purpose
To the unfortunate juxtapositions
No doubt you will elaborate, elongate
Raise to the surface my submerged view

Fury Poems - A short collection
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Déjà Vu

I ride a stumbled path
Beside the broken glass
Through the deserts of blown grass
Without fence or hedgerow

A solitary walker waves me down
Do I know the way he asks
Certain that he has passed this way before
But where are the fields of folk
Where are the farmers workers

I tried to make a laugh
Without thought or purpose
Through the void of explanation
Without doubt, deliverance or benediction

Thanks he said
I’ll be on my way
I may be back again tomorrow
He did not say,
And I for certain did not follow

Fury Poems - A short collection
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F Words Saying Look

White board, wipe away, move on, gone
But you travelled through some deep synapses
Erase, erasure, lose, loss of sweet saviour
Or quarantine, quarantine before you delete
Loosening links and losing linkages
Opening wounds, bound, sealed, slowly wheeled
Turn to…
Make a sense
Find a purpose
Being: To Be Is Not Alone Enough
Buy some time, rebuild some memories
Work out the why

Fury Poems - A short collection
Read free on Issuu

To Be Is Not Alone Enough

White board, wipe away, move on, gone
But you travelled through some deep synapses
Erase, erasure, lose, loss of sweet saviour
Or quarantine, quarantine before you delete
Loosening links and losing linkages
Opening wounds, bound, sealed, slowly wheeled
Turn to…
Make a sense
Find a purpose
Being: To Be Is Not Alone Enough
Buy some time, rebuild some memories
Work out the why

Fury Poems - A short collection
Read free on Issuu

Basin

There was no one here
Yet quite suddenly
It is busy

There was nothing to fear
Even the past
Of dizzy Miss Lizzie

These are hill people
Hills and valleys
Grass to stream

Dry stone walls
Surround
Sheep farmers dream

Barns and bairns
At work and play
Tor-view-time
Time to redeem

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Someone Else’s Song

It's always somebody else's airport
That have low priced flights
It's always somebody else's parties
That party on through the nights

I wouldn't get married again she said
Not that anybody's asking
I'm still paying for the last one
He didn't leave me a goddamned thing

But I'd like a week away
Even have a bit of a fling
Have me a few glasses of sangria
Wearing loads of bling

It's always somebody else's airport
That have low priced flights
It's always somebody else's parties
That party on through the nights

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Lodge

Into the conservatory
I might spend all summer
Taking breakfast here

I watch the grass grow
Marvel at the swoop of swallows
While my compatriots take tea and toast

The orange juice chilled
The starter table filled
With champagne and cereal

Beware of golf balls says the token sign
Beneath my broken
Double glazed bedroom window

I was working for the BBC
In a sort of time and motion study role
I watched; it’s no use, I can't remember any specifics

I do recall that some things were measurable
Some stuff took just too long
So had to be bundled

I think it was all to do
With the move from London to Manchester
Although I might have worked that out later

I wish I could remember the specifics
Maybe it's something to do with me unsuccessfully
Trying to buy Freud's book on Dream Analysis!

At this time
Slower than before
Less audio interference

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Yes

Always

On days

When I didn't

Feel like doing

Good things 

I would do

Good things

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Humber; Almost

Mottled wall
Brand new car
Window with balcony railings
Sun roof & automatic

Old town; Cuba or Peru
Neapolitan auto promotion
Photographs of here and there
Shot on fine grain film

Wind blows intense
Couples stress their words
I sit in the corner seat
Tap the tiny keyboard

Go back to the past times
Think on the opposition
The support of melody
Sat way outside the cafe

Where sky and hedgerows meet

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Travel

She wears the flower print fine cotton scarf
Which almost matches the reddish pink, open-toe sandals
Is he her son, or is he her lover; the laughter suggests an intimacy
The demonstration to all around
Of a certain sort of quintessentially provocative relationship

The strawberry yoghurt is one strawberry strong
& the Americano coffee is steamed through one shot
Of freshly ground and roasted bean

Men, who speak in high voices, surprise me
With their male conversation; that they are father and son
Is my more observant observation.

The young man (with glasses) shows off his sky blue tee shirt
Although I doubt from his complexion
That he has ever been to Buenos Aires, or anywhere else
That the Argentina La Albiceleste logo might suggest

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