Breathing

In extremis
Lust after your voice
Urge, for your written word
Sunk by the thought of a smile
Sallied forth into that nightmare
Of the breath from nowhere at all

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North West of East Hewish

Leave behind the blue sky
Leave behind the distant flame
Leave behind the rose-tinted spectacles
Strike out for the open road
Let the rarefied country air
Flow through your nostrils

By way of escape
Give time to the imagination
Do not berate the Italian man
Who sold you half-cooked chips
See all nutrition as of some value
Treat all people as with love

Look out towards that distant land
Look out across the bridge slung water
Look out, for tomorrow is a Friday
Blue skies will return
With an impressionist's accomplice
Rolled up, flame-red, magnificent setting sun

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Address

Mist hides the field head road
It lies in wait
For spring sunshine to burn it away

Freudian slip, as sixty-four degrees beckon
Freudian, Jungian; all the friends
Who have relationships with the psyche

The partridge picks away at the rape-seed
Oblivious to psychology and its drivers
Prone only to the trigger of instinct

Yet, what seems to be his best friend
(I always see them together)
Is a bird of such fine and loud plumage

Much as I, as a teenager
Wearing lime-green pantaloons
Backcombed auburn hair

Under a mauve fedora
Left the family home
At forty-one Field Head Road

I hitch-hiked
To my first ever music festival
On an island of music, and intimate love

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Morse Code

Numbers
Read out slowly
Nine, zero
Seven, four
Six, six

Then slower still
Nine
Zero
Seven
Four
Six
Six

Here begins musicality
Nine, zero, seven
Four, six
Six

Wrong number
Caller to collect

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Gentleness Of Warfare

Take these times
Take them with you
Let them travel
Travel in your carriage

The time
Of overheard overseas voices
The time
Of flags and fireworks and long walls falling

Remember the square in Belgrade
You, a younger man
Way out of your depth
Buying your first Tom Waits record

You sought out
And visited Nikola Tesla's Museum
Stroked his Van der Graf generator
Thought yourself too, someone special

It was a time of many misunderstandings
Yet tonight as you retrace the mourner's story
Think of the flowers placed at the roadside
Think of the flowers placed at the perimeter fence

Remember forever the flowers
For whenever
You are, as a traveller
Way out of your depth

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On Being Desirous Of Subtlety

Cloud covers sun
Sun breaks through

Darkness
Takes the mood with you

Lightness
Opens o so many doors

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Half Remembered

Love is in each skip
I take that
From the Maypole Dance

A time, a place
A part of junior-school memorabilia
Which occasionally surfaces

Smiles
That mean more than smiles
Take off runways
To the excitement
That love holds as a blossom

Ambivalent touch
The necessity of inclination
Held in suspension
As if once droplets
Of loves fair fragrance

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Departure Point

Cream
Or cheese
On white
Or brown
With honey
Or almonds

Indulge yourself
Sit quietly
Think on this time
Your time
No intrusions
If...

Imagine anything you wish
For myself
I walk along a deserted beach
Luxuriate
In the clear and sparkling waters
Think of all those plans
That may one day come to fruition

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Match

Would we dare
Could we fare together
To stop and stare
Share our hopes
As if to the post
We should fold
And fix and tether

Aim to be less clever
Shore as a pair
To climb the stair
Bind our ropes
As with the most
We may hold
And mix and treasure

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The Frequencies Of Noise

Turbulence
In a stationary mind
Caught up
In yesterday's reflections

Caught up in the buzz
Of disappearing
Up ones own
Self centered satisfaction

Always thus
Those past years
Those past sunbeams
Those past stationary glances

Of a thing taken for beauty
Of a person, or an object
Or best of all, of the one idea
That touched some sensitivity

As if to be the butterfly
In an everlasting dream

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Joy Division

Months ago
Or even thirty years
Something to do with control
In the fields of walking

Walking
By the reservoir
Walking
Along the country lane

Walking
With my daughter in a push-chair
Walking
With just a babe-in-arms

Today
By the leat
Or stream
Or brook

With sunlight
In place of control
And quiet enough
To hear the ticking clock

Quiet enough
To think
That in a while I could settle
To think about settling

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Easter Monday

I tried to read my friend Paul's poetry pamphlet
But to be honest
I am not really in the mood right now
Anyway my calves ache
And I am unable to concentrate for long
Probably too much champagne at Ann's eightieth yesterday

Life holds a few surprises
You reading this
Me being thankful for the white cotton sheets and a firm bed
Mind you I had to pass on ordering the breakfast
Eat as much as you can for £7.75  didn't appeal to me at the time
Though I may feel different come the morning

The dream was of a charabanc
With poets and writers
And my mum tugging at her crimplene skirt
Then the dream moved on
To a big cat in ours, and our neighbours garden
A cat as big as a puma, maybe the myth is true after all

I read Paul's pamphlet as I enjoyed a bacon and egg sandwich
And a cup of tea, a sort of half full-english
I was ready by then
I truly did feel to sit with him
In the old church I reached out to rub the patterned stone
I said goodbye to the old lady

Who had opened up specifically for Paul to enter
Paul talks of his love of the almighty
But I thought that his story of lost love
A real life encounter as told to him by the grief stricken girl
That spoke to me of lost love
Being far mightier than the almighty

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Wild West

Country Lady, in your country hat

You walk around the rapeseed field

Where do you walk to, where from

Do you carry a bucket, or is it a basket

That swings from your delicate arm

You go out of sight, behind the tree line

Return only a few moments later

Have you been to feed the livestock

Or to gather up magic mushrooms

Stereotypes prevail in this life

Thus I would care for the reader

To imagine your Barbour wax jacket

Your green wellington boots

And your scarf by Abercrombie

Thrown playful on your shoulder

I cannot imagine

That you fetched water from the brook

Though if the reader could imagine

The stream is translucently clear

It sparkles vividly in the morning sun

As it traverses onwards down the valley

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Rural And Cosmopolitan

Raindrops, grey skies
At least the crops grow
Though I understand that is as much down
To chemical spray management
As it is due to the vagaries of the weather

Science, is it all good
Is it wise to know too much about transformation
To be able to speed up growth, or to slow down death

A motor-cyclist parks by the side of my car
Two engines that originated on mainland Japan
Immense developments in technology and engineering
We are both able to travel at over one hundred miles an hour
Yet we still choose to take eggs for breakfast

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Soul Mates

We, we set ourselves up
As if we meant to carry on
Shared hotel room
Bottle of wine
A musical performance
And tickets for the theatre
In contrast, markedly
To earlier struggles
Nights of shadow boxing
Shallow explanations
Ruthless persuasions

If the foundation
Is a series of bombardments
Why to expect that the settlement
Will be any less circumspect
Whereas in this latest beginning
All edges are already smooth
Beauty of maturity is preferred
To the recklessness of youth
With seemingly all
And everything to lose

It seems undoubted
I now begin to realise
That this time we have the nouse
To hold off the conclusion

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Four AM

Visualisations are hidden
Behind a mesh
Of grasses
And fibrous gauze

That image
From the beach
Fourteen years ago tomorrow
It is no more than grains of sand

The book, the stainless steel wrist-watch
The ubiquitous mobile telephone
They are by my bedside
Beneath the glow of the table lamp

Out into the darkness, all to see is reflection
The night hides the banked up woodlands
The night silences the usually intrusive wildlife
The night holds the day's mind at bay

Surrounded, swathed
In cotton and quilt
Within touching-distance
Of leather and porcelain

These walls though
They do not carry my pictures
My past is not ingrained
Within their stone and timber

A realisation: it is what matters
Another kind of wake up call
A time to focus, rebuild past memories
At least, to try to hold on to the treasure

And so to practice
As if in a mindful meditation
Climb the mountainous steps
To the peace of the monastery

I will:
Polish the lens of the glasses
Set the wristwatch to one side
Unplug the sim-card from the mobile phone

In final preparation:
Turn down the light of the bedside lamp
And, being thankful of breath and breathing
I will pick up my pen and write

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Spacious Subjectivity

All over the place
Wide-awake
In the middle of the night
Half asleep
In the middle of the day

Caught up
On a roller-coaster
Looking through kaleidoscopes
A whirling dervish of rampant
Uncontrolled minds activity

Lost in this midst
Any focus on passion
Any hold on the erotic
Any thoughts to draw one
Towards unconditional love

It is dark outside
Time to turn off the light
Silence the tick-tock sound
Of the alarm clock
Which holds back
The nuisance of the day

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Cut It

A riot of birdsong
Yesterday's mowing of the lawn
A resounding success

We all bat off of each other a bit
Always fearful, in danger
That we may fall out of the orbit
That is psychological equilibrium

The big birds are not always bravest
Though in full emigres flight
Canadian geese are a vision sublime

The cat stayed out all night
Unusual for this declared avoider
Of anxiety, caused by the tormentor
That is next doors vengeful minx

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Setting it up

Only
In what I stand
Strong boots
Thick breeches
Hardy shirt
Herringbone overcoat

An endless supply of:
Pens and paper
Nerve to kill
Ability to light fires
Lack of fear re sanitation
Books of sorts

In bed at dawn
Write a few verses
Drink ice-cold spring water
Warm up the stew pot
Hunt and fish
Stroll and play

Take time out
Draw plans
Study the cosmos
Think repeatedly
About organisation
Then prepare for bed

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Idyllic

I shall rise
Shall I rise
Time to think
It is the time
That I need to rise

A cycle
Cycle by day
Cycle by night
To cycle together
Birth to death

Listen
Listen out
Bleat of lamb
Bark of dog
Silence of wind

It is to be
Be one's own
One's own destiny
Destined to be
I am then only me

Drift
Drift in, drift out
Stones on walls
Gates in fences
Sheep fed to market

Hear me
Hear me clear
Hearts so lonely
Minds so pure
Souls never so disturbed

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Day in life

Cold as I rise
Always draughts
Through doorways
Or window frame

Stone dwelling
Away on the hill
Only livestock
For company

Start with fire
Drink tea
Slice of ham
Swill of face

Gather sheep
Help with birth
Of one or two
Straggling lambs

Field to field
Mend walls
Fix fences
Weigh up

Which animal's
Time as come
To leave the land
Headed for the table

First of light
Last of light
Warmed up stew
Busied reflections

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Four Seasons, Of The First Half-Hour

Restfulness
The winds are still
Trees, without leaves, are in stasis
Even the stream
Well, for sure, it is no longer in spate

Calmness
The sky is entirely grey
Mist, without drive, is ambient
Even the gulls
Apparently they too are in slow motion

Liveliness
The daffodils break through
Bright flushes of sunlight yellow
Even the partridge
Struts his stuff in the vicinity

Peacefulness
The energy to reflect
Space, in which to untangle
Even creative inspiration you see
Warms to the purity of the atmospherics

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More than half way

The window frame
Frames an entirety of trees
The early morning ejaculations
Are accompanied, or so I believe
By the sounds of old trees awakening
Along the side of the mist strewn valley

I take it in my mind
That to capture this view
At this same time
From this same place
With the camera on a tripod
Using remote-control
To dispel all nervous affects

Seven days between visits
Life and growth in my absence
I will not tell you the colours
But as the year surely turns
Much as you travel full circle
Up and down the metropolitan line
The trees give up their lifeblood also

I had it in mind
In the delirium of first light
That one could take nature as a lover
Share conjugal rights, bare ones soul
Shiver in each other's skin
And soak up tobacco together
Treading barefoot, naked
Armed with loud smiles

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Views And Memories (While Driving)

Up towards the horizon
Of thinly spaced winter trees
Freedom is proposed
By the wide and open foreground

Only then, in that instant
Or backalong, down the promenade
Transported to the Americas
To the boulevards and the prairies

O sausages! yes that is what she said
Already in a tither (strop)
But what help could I be
For already I had lost my mobile phone

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Another Time, Another Place

Long bushy eyebrows
Woolen bobble hat
Creased old face
With white eyes
Pierce all
That lie ahead

In the last fling
Of what sort of life
Here, in this northern
East coast town
And not, beside
Horse chestnut trees
On the Champs-Élysées

Is it about ambition
Or the lack of it
Is it about birthright
The gifts of the gifted
Or is it contentment
A life always at ease

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Rights And Privileges

I want now to sit in last night's room
I want to soak up the atmosphere in the Roman cellars

But in these are places
Where I want to engage
In solitary confinement
Even to scare myself
By asking the personal
Dangerous questions
Lower the facade
Of the ubiquitous
Self-important
Self-made man

Afterwards it is true I might well stumble down the stairs
Of the, glass floored, cosmopolitan, drinking establishment

Take too much liquor
Than is good for my sobriety
Or my longevity
Then contemplate
That either way these are the games played out
Or not
Wearing the masks
And deceptions
Of our forefathers
Or our ravishing maidens

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Day Off

I am and have been loved
I am and have been cared for
I am and have been given
Thoughtful, mindful, presents

Today is not my birthday
But it could be (echoes of Damon)
The sky is blue, the air is clear
I am here, with a smile

The tide is out
Out beyond the gas exploration platform
Waifs and strays stray onto the pier
To tread gingerly on the old wooden boards

Even in March people sit outside
On the benches, to look easily at the sea
From the coffee bar
Where they sip cappuccino, and swig tea

Today is not my birthday
But it could be (more echoes of Damon)
The scones are warm, the strawberries are fresh
I am here, I am sated, and I am happy

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Ambient Wind

It would have been better had she not turned around
For until that time it could have been...

There are smiles
And how good an idea was that
Is it the same for golden eagles
Or hawks as they hover over their prey

There are frowns
Must life have a balance
Is it the same for the trees
For the skies filled with rain clouds

The book had a small map
To set out the Channel Islands
In relationship to England and Europe
At the time of the second world war

Just these last twenty-four hours then
To have returned there; purge all sense
Recollect fragmented memories broken up
By falling on bare and stony ground

Slip into sleep, eyes slowly close
Breathe quiet and steady
Artificial lights dimmed
Starlight through half-drawn curtains

Warm skin by my side
Humanity, love, relationship
The power of two, yet tonight no frolicking
Build up our energies for the weekend

Earlier a conversation
About the beauty of books
And a research paper analysis
On the benefits of methadone treatment

In a shared care environment
A thousand and one statistics
Followed by a drifting departure
Away from the publisher's stated aim

Years ago
Not many years ago
Actually
I would have been impatient, disinterested

Too many of my own thoughts
Filled my mind back then
I was caught by the power of frown
I had forgotten how to smile

Overloaded
Yet a walk on the moors
Or steps pensively taken
Into cold salt-water at the seashore

More sensations
Than our senses are able to absorb
Or make sense of
Is that true or is that false

Salted air
Purer air
Soft submissive sand
Rugged frigid rarefied rock

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Country Lane

Two brothers I suppose
One quiet, with a white beard
The other far more outgoing

He waves to me
Shouts out
“Hello, good morning, what a nice day”

They had swung a blue twine across the road
More to guide the cows back into the field
Than to act as a serious barrier to traffic

The cows are probably returning from milking
Which means that these two little old men
Have already been up quite some while

Two lives I suppose
One rumbustious, with a laugh
The other more introverted

I smile
Wind down the car window
Breathe in his agricultural grace

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Storm Subsidy

Wind noise
Amplified by the valley
Enriched as it writhes
Among the farm buildings

Rain is in the offing
And the farmers want it
But it may be a day or two
Before the downpour

There is a crystal ‘lace’
Just in front of my face
An optical functionality warning
It happened once before

I am thus reminded of my own frailty
Of the vast vulnerability of humankind
I listen harder to next door's voices
Best hang on to all I can

Spots of rain replace yesterdays frost
On the automobile windscreen
It is time to roll off the dust track
And slide onto the mud slick highway

In the same mysterious way
That the three quarters halo
Appeared before my eyes
It now disappears

Only to leave heaviness
A memory of lost treasures
Which I thrust onto the howls
Of the Katabatic flow

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