Saturday, 30 September 2017


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 you know how
If you could bask without ever feeling the needing, if you could but you, wouldn't you know how

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Friday, 29 September 2017


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 with most things, left half-completed.

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Thursday, 28 September 2017


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

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Wednesday, 27 September 2017


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

To reach you

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

Played for you

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

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Tuesday, 26 September 2017


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
If it's moving on, right
What then
If still squandering
What then
Of that second sight

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Monday, 25 September 2017


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

There are those, less steady, who like their music played loud, who 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

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Sunday, 24 September 2017


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, and less of the Kerouac

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Saturday, 23 September 2017


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

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Friday, 22 September 2017


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

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Thursday, 21 September 2017


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

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Wednesday, 20 September 2017


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 is time to probe, not just to 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 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 thus to roam

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

Tuesday, 19 September 2017


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, it was your living hell

Yet still my mind is fleet
Always unfulfilled, inside out
Hard to whisper, harder still 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

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Monday, 18 September 2017


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 o so tender embraces, what might I have implied from those passionate looks, and the nooks and crannies of 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.

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Sunday, 17 September 2017


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

With my head in my 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 in 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 I 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

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Saturday, 16 September 2017


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 are 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 snow 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 are the defender

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Friday, 15 September 2017


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

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Thursday, 14 September 2017


I am listening to Christmas songs
Sat alone in the empty coffee bar
I sort of wonder
How will cleaning the windows increase trade

I am outnumbered by the staff
To a ratio of at least five to one
And, as they are all wearing headsets
You could say they are well connected

The hotel and airport are across the way
In another week or so
The holiday traffic will reach its peak
And I might write about another vacation

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Wednesday, 13 September 2017


What does it matter what I write
That I write yes I said I love you
That I write yes you said you loved me
That I write, yes once
We loved each other, now didn't we

I could write of meadow and machair
Of azure blue sea and golden sand
Of drinking cocktails under skies vermillion
I could write also, of that sultry night
When you asked me to shave you Brazilian

Of course in the search for truth and beauty
There is an opportunity to be more expansive
To write of skiing on a snow capped mountain
To write of white water rafting, and
Of dancing late, in the Trevi fountain

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Tuesday, 12 September 2017


Tree of daylight moon, with sky of pink stripe blue
The faraway soul sings, yes my friend it's true
Ever so calm now, you know you can't accrue

Ground of effortless frost, with North light new
Your deeper call sways, yes my friend it's true
With this peace now, you know you can't go through

Water of wave lapped shore, with hopeful sunrise hue
The lighter drawl stays, yes my friend it's true
Among this love now, you know you can't undo

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Monday, 11 September 2017


There is the ache, I don't need to fake it
Why try to escape, there is no way you'd make it
Remember the darkness, remember the lights in the tree
Remember the wood-burner, remember just what you see

Feel for its silent entrance, is that any more than chance
Through the hearts gape, surges the heartaches lance
Remember the warmth, remember the lasting view
Remember the arms around, remember casting you

How swift it departs, how often it strays
No more need to chart, these are forever days
Remember the solitude, remember the sin of debt
Remember the breakout, remember the winter let

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Sunday, 10 September 2017


I could write as if I was a tree, but I am not, nor ever have been a tree of any kind

I could write as if I was the sea, but if you inspect closely that is not true I think you will find

I could write of seas, and trees, and wannabes, but how could I write about me

I could write of those eighteen-thousand nights of laying by, or making love, and wonder at how the body is so efficacious in recovery

I could write of those fifteen-thousand mornings of waking up, together or alone, embraced by joy or pain, and wonder at the minds ability for reinvention

I could write of sleep and sex, yet still I expect, I could not write, I could not write about me

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Saturday, 9 September 2017


A poet, a writer, a parent
An engineer
A mind, a body, a man
An engineer
A pupil, a failure
An apprentice
An engineer
On a fault line, to a fault line
To becoming an engineer
Without purpose
For a purpose
As an engineer
A person, a parent
A successful businessman
Only money
Only income
A lost soul
Of an engineer
A wanderer
A waster
Off the fault line
Of the engineer
A pauper
A reader
No longer an engineer
A poet, a writer, a parent
A lover, yes a lover then
Anything, but to be an engineer

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Friday, 8 September 2017

Touch, Feel, Wonder

So soft, and so damned gentle
So wonderful
And yes, so vaguely existential

So precious, and so damned parental
So magical
And yes, so slightly elemental

So roving, and so damned referential
So particular
And yes, so faintly over-intentional

So cute, and so damned city central
So absolute
And yes, so mildly deferential

So fierce, and so damned mental
So infinite
And yes, so sure of her credential

So soft, and so damned gentle
So steadfast
And yes, so filled with immense potential

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Thursday, 7 September 2017

And Houses

I was going to build something, using words; I had already rearranged two long phrases, to be used as embankments.

I went to an old friends house, he was making breakfast, his small children played on the floor, one of them weed, and a pool of pee coloured water, began to cover the floor.

I said it was the child, but my friend thought it was the washing machine leaking, in the room next door.

I drove the builder's lorry down the cut de sac then along the avenue (I used to live in both places). I had to be really careful, because there were children playing in the road.

Outside my old house there was a very tall pile of builder's rubble, as though an extension was being constructed. I was scared, I thought the pile was going to tumble over.

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Wednesday, 6 September 2017

Songs, And Books, And Houses

I'm at the airport now
Really my life has been so so very easy
I'm in no rush in the mornings now
I'm happy to let the breeze make me feel so so easy

The young man rushes by
I couldn't even say your name
The young man fusses, wondering why
Was it something to do with life's endless game

I returned the book
What was that all about
Did you take a second look
Did you hear me shout out

I heard nothing
I hear no call out
I handed you the book
What was that all about

I handed back the book
What was that all about
I handed back the book
It was the first gift, when we started out

I handed back the book
What was that all about
I handed back the book
Bought in Santa Monica, without doubt

I handed back the book
What was that all about
I handed back the book
Five Memos For The Millennium

Within, without; I went by the airport
Without a single thought of Jersey
Yet here, only half a mile down the road
My thoughts are already at Mon Plaisir

I'm on the motorway now
The cruise control is set
I sort of second guessed
Mon Plaisir was beautiful for you too

Perhaps even more peaceful, and inspiring
Before I arrived on your doorstep
When you had created a homely space
For your friends, and your young family

To that end was I a disruption
Did I corrupt your innocence
To that end just what did I tip up
Did I not offer any more sound sense

I'm not always too good in the moment
Sometimes I struggle to concentrate
Take last Friday, when I saw you
I couldn't find the time, I was in such a state

Something to do with inappropriate preparation
Something to do with my own confused situation
My less than hopeless social skills;
Once more reaching for the out door, before fully entering the in door

I want to strip you back
I want to clear away the make up
I want to strip you, down to the barest tack
I want to make you, to raise your breasted cup

Why didn't we ever find such freedom
What was it always defence or attack
Why did we tie the knots of freedom
Why did we not find our way back

How fortunate am I
To have someone who cuts so deep into my psyche
How fortunate am I
To have someone speaking to me and my Reiki

Now it's a song
Which I don't really want to talk over
A song
Which very much makes me think of you

You are my Last Of The English Roses
What was I, before I ever thought of you
You are my Last Of The English Roses
What was I, before I ever thought of you

You are my Last Of The English Roses
What was I, before I ever thought of you
You are my Last Of The English Roses
What was I, before I ever thought of you

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Tuesday, 5 September 2017


I am awkward with my idiosyncratic anguish
Standing so unusually still, stubborn as a mule
I do not know which way to turn, which way to look
Always absent in a crowd, until the liquor kicked in
And the tongues, naturally, started wagging

I am mute with my indefinite article, or past participle
Brutal as the philanthropic benefactor
Who pulled the rug from under my feet
Always berating myself, instead of being fair
Friendly, and open minded

I am touched that you found my spoken
Word substantive; courageous as a lion
I clawed myself back with a shake of my mane
Always alone on the pedestal, that is until your breath
Of applause caught me blowing in the wind

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Monday, 4 September 2017


I drive beside the blossom
I drive aside the daffodils
I spoke so well, last Friday
Or so I thought
Yet I'm not so sure
That my partner thought it so
She said that I had to be clearer
With pronunciation
She said it was difficult
To hear the essence
The feeling, the truth
Of what I thought

I said that somehow it was easier
To speak to an audience
Than simply to talk into a microphone
I said that I thought
That it improved my intonation
With faces to keep engaged
Yet I know that it's all pretty useless
And I know
That it's not going to go so very far
And I know
That most of it is just nonsense anyway

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Sunday, 3 September 2017

Dreams, And Minutes

I got Cherry Cola
By a not unusual mistake
I listen to, soak into
Open Season for My Heart

I dreamt of you last night
Was it a fake dream
As we, half-intently, built
Our snow house in the park

The sky is blue
The road is clear
I'm on my way
Whatever else lies near

Minute by minute
I feel your spark
Minute by minute
I go further into that dark

Minute by minute
I lose your spark
Minute by minute
I move further from the park

This is the clarity of spring
This thing I bring
These songs I sing
They carry the clarity of spring

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Saturday, 2 September 2017


I was working at the time for a large, innovative, high technology firm, although I wasn't always sure that their inventions were all that new; they were something to do with energy and light.

We were on a works outing, to a large park, covered with snow; we were instructed to build snow houses. I was with you, ours was a major construction, more stone and ground rather than just snow.

At one point I was pushing an old wall down, and I had to ask you to move. We had dug a big hole, about twenty or more feet square; I wasn't sure what we were going to do for the roof.

At one point I pulled you towards me, but you pushed me away and said that no, we weren't on the same network, for she had bought a pay-as-you-go mobile phone.

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Friday, 1 September 2017

Ache, No Mistake

Just my words, pulled together, in the car
Just my way to feed into the ache
Just my way to stake a case
To rake up the past, with indelicate haste

Yet how many have been gifted such a life
How many have lifted themselves from the miasma
How many have been lifted by your lift
How many gifts so gifted by your smile

One more sip of Cherry Cola
One more line spoken into the microphone
One more sigh that says; yes, it is all over
One more time, for the missed call on the telephone

One right foot on the accelerator
One piece of mischief to tell her of later
I am my own, yes, I am my own propagator
I could tell you; that no, no I do not hate her

No way, for after all she was my first, new-self creator
And in between the doubt and the dust piles
Maybe the diamonds were the silent instigator
If I brush away the rust files, I might just ask to date her

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