BBB Poem 19

I have not found you yet
But I have, believe me, been looking
No, I have not found you yet

I have surveyed the coasts and beaches
Where, believe me, I have been looking
Yes, I have surveyed the coasts and beaches

I have climbed towers and breakwaters
Where, believe me, I searched and searched
Yes, I have climbed towers and breakwaters

I have driven; north, south, east, and west
Where, believe me, I kept a keen lookout
Yes, I have driven; north, south, east, and west

I dined in beach cafes, and fine restaurants
Where, believe me, I may taste your presence
Yes, I dined in beach cafes, and fine restaurants

I shopped, in high streets, and market halls
Where, believe me, clothes you wore still hang
Yes, I shopped, in high streets, and market halls

I have set myself, to the sun, the wind, the rain
Where, believe me, I sensed skin, as  your skin
Yes, I set myself, into the sun, the wind, the rain

I have not given up on you yet
Believe me, I have kept on saying that
No, I have not given up on you yet

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BBB Poem 18

It is easier for me to write
Than it is for me to sketch or paint
For one thing I am less certain
Of my mistakes, with the written word

Also I am able to go back in time
To many places; all at a once almost
And I can root around, to find my feelings
To gather in; my past, my present emotions

And as I attempt to convey what I feel
Of love, lust, longing, and loss
I myself share in, and enrich my imagination
With feelings, of love, lust, longing, and loss

The writer's world is left, right, back, and front
Above, and below
To the very extremes of perception
Writings of witnessing the vanishing horizon

Between land, and sky, and sea
Listening intently, and seriously engaged
By David Hockney, talking on the radio
About art, as I soaked in my moonlit bath

The certainty, that one word will follow another
A couple of words will be offered up to me
By a view, by music, by dance-steps, by a film
Of the seasons; meditations, an island in a lake

And, in contrast
By the doubt that the words will not be read
Or will not be understood
By the person, or by the audience

For whom they were aimed at
For whom, and without whom
They have no purpose
Neither in this life, nor in the next life

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BBB Poem 17

Today it is Plemont
Last night was the Oyster Box
I tell you this for no reason
Other than for love, or is it for the paradox

Today it is rocks and cliffs
Last night; oysters in champagne butter sauce
I tell you this with naught held back
Other than for love, or is it for the vibrant rose

Today it is clouds and sands
Last night was lights along the promenade
I tell you this as if for anything
Other than for love, or for the Marquis de Sade

Today the rib is cancelled
Last night was the opera house
I tell you this with a care to record
Other than for love, or is it for the lousy louse

Today it is wind, and rain
Last night was Newton Faulkner’s songs
I tell you this in case you see me
Other than for love, or the rights and wrongs

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BBB Poem 16

Where love was lost
Where lust was found
To touch-tone evenings
Is where we were bound

From Gorey to St Aubin
From restaurant to bar
To you being propositioned
Beneath the moonlit star

Where aches were shared
Where pains were hidden
To touch-tone evenings
Is where we were bidden

From airport to airport
From car to car
To our becoming lovers
Plans offered from afar

Where smiles were ours
Where frowns were left behind
To touch-tone evenings
Is where we were ultra-kind

From house to flat
From together to apart
To becoming parents
New dreams to start

Where tiredness did enter
Where impatience arose
Those touch-tone evenings
Brought silent, to a close

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BBB Poem 15

Granite houses
Granite walls
Granite quarries
Granite souls

Soft sand beaches
Slowly turning surf
Hold on to your reaches
For what it is that I am worth

Granite towers
Granite stepped
Granite defences
Granite swept

Silver screen horizons
Fishermen's old boats
Prayers to far off Zion
Gathered in with all my hopes

Granite outcrop
Granite coastline
Granite harbours
Granite moonshine

Waves turning, also lapping
Before the singular shingle boar
Sea breeze on faces mapping
Quiet now, the departing roar

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BBB Poem 14

I didn't take breakfast at the breakwater
I came here
Because you may have wanted me to
Though I have no memory
Of St Catherine, or of being here with you

Move on

To Rozel Bay
Where Beau Couperon hotel as was
Is now a ten million pounds private dwelling
With its own steps onto the beach
From the door in the battlement wall

I came here
Because we stayed in the one-time hotel
Which is now someone’s house
I remember a balcony, a shingle beach
I remember rock-pools, a meal in the restaurant

Wasn't it the year we went to St Malo
Also to Samares Manor
I know these facts
Because of the photographs, stored digitally
On many computers, since those very days

Move on

To Archirondel, and the Driftwood Cafe
Where I have ordered breakfast
Taken snaps of sea, and rocks, and the tower
I don't recall sitting here with you
Yet I feel I must have

I imagine, that in ten years time, or so
This place
Will also have gone upmarket
In the style of El Tico, and La Braye at St Ouens
Altogether more gentrified than I remember

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BBB Poem 13

It is a blue sky Saturday morning
I could wear a white shirt, and denim jeans
I ought to walk alongside the harbour
And take a coffee, at the top of the slip

I should sit, and wait
I should sit, and be
And in between the waiting, and the being
I remember, that I am no longer with you

It is a sun filled Saturday morning
I could take a bath, have a shave
I ought to soak, perspire even
And make myself thoroughly pleasant

I should stroll, and sojourn
I should be the flaneur
And in between the bathing, and the strolling
I remember, that I am no longer with you

It is a bright light Saturday morning
I could lay your clothes out
I ought to layer your silks
And use the mirror to choose the colours

I should skip, and laugh
I should smile with joy
And in between the joy, and the laughter
I remember, that I am no longer with you

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BBB Poem 12

In that distance, which you talked about
Do you ever hope to find me
Yes I am there, I do wait, I often wait
Yet it tires me, the wait wears me out

In that nearness, when you touch me
Do you know how good I feel
Yes I am there, to love you, I often love you
Yet it needs me, love calls me out

That the distance, and the nearness
Conspire to keep you from me
Yes I am here, to wonder, I often wonder
Yet it feels me, wonder finds me out

In that time, which I dwell in
Do you care for where I am
Yes, I want to be, I do doubt, often I doubt
Yet it leaves me, care wears me out

In that space, which I frequent
Do you hear me ticking over
Yes I have to do so, I shake, often I shake
Yet it catches me, space calls me out

Thus the times, and the spaces
Are arranged to keep you from me
Yes I want to be, I often have to do so
Yet they wrangle, they do so find me out

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BBB Poem 11

You cannot be with me today
And that is unfortunate
For the scented notes in the garden
I feel would be rather to your liking
As might the still water
In the restaurant, where I wait for lunch

The glass bottle
Has a fancy stopper contraption
Which, by my age, I ought to understand
How to operate; of course I do manage
Though you would not say
That mine was a dignified manoeuvre

You will not be with me tomorrow
Which vexes me
For we could have many opportunities
To take pleasure, and share enjoyment
Perhaps at the seaside
To take in the salt water’s air

Or to find a burbling stream
Out on the moors
Where we could take off our shoes
And paddle, before we sated ourselves
With love making, followed
By lashings of strawberries and cream

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BBB Poem 10

Sat, in the Garden of Mindfulness
At Doddington Hall
There are fountains
But also people talking loudly
As though they are mindful
Of their need to be heard
The gardener meanwhile
Respects the peace, he works
The soil relatively quietly
With his hoe, with his rake

One noisy woman
Is replaced by another, this time
A specie with gesticulation
And loosely flailing arms
The fountain, god bless the fountain
Masks the worst of her utterances
At last I am alone, with only the feint sound
Of children at play in the distance for company

If I knew the names of flowers I would tell you
The reds, the pinks, the whites
There are crimsons, yellows, and blues
And of course all nestled
In green foliage; green grass, green leaves
Green stalks, and green shoots
There is also a poppy, or two
Behind the big house and the rose garden

At ten-past-twelve or so, in the corner, a tree
At ten-to-twelve or so, a house, and a gate
The sky is grey, filled with cloud, yet I believe
Little threat of rain; it is warm, comfortable
With only the merest hint of birdsong

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BBB Poem 9

Wounds have little choice but to be transitory
Yet it takes a good half, of a dull wet morning
For me even to reach into the emptiness of
The nothingness which only existed fleetingly

Although a door was opening; the half silence
And the half-tired mindless daydreaming
Led me to that place of feeling, feeling though
Not of rational self, not of this conscious self

As if ones mind (brain) had been opened
By a tin opener, for it to breathe in the many
Airs; of irresponsibility, hope, and anguish
With the canopy lifted, my thoughts could fly

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BBB Poem 8

I know this place
Nearby is where I spent my formative years
I spot the base of Emley Moor Television mast
The remainder is shrouded in cloud, and mist
I remember the old mast
The winter of it being brought to ground
Due to the unbearable weight of ice, and snow

Those days, on the cusp of puberty
With girls just becoming a fascination
A few years though
Before my first broken heart
That is, a heart broken, by a girl
Not by my parents, or by my so called friends
Or by my Penistone Grammar school teachers

I left this place
But, like a bad penny, returned several times
Mostly in search of solace, or shelter
After further experiences
Of break-ups, and heartbreaks
Or after split-ups; moving-on proclamations
I am here today as a result of one such

Here today to go to an art gallery
Twenty five or more miles away
Salts Mill; the home of one David Hockney
Another Yorkshireman, yet such a soul
Who travelled way further than I did
And who picked up, quite rightly
Many more plaudits along the way

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BBB Poem 7

The overnight rains were wilful
Pouring, and pouring, and pouring
But now, in the clear light of morning
The grasses are washed, the trees are washed
The garden is infected with new life
A blue sky is in the offing
And I am making tracks
To be with family, to be with art

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BBB Poem 6

A slow, soul fulfilling Saturday morning
Listening to Patsy Cline and Willie Nelson
Looking at photographs
From downalong, and backalong
Daydreaming of lullabies, and sacred moments
Waiting for the rush
Which when it comes, will still be a surprise
Such that I find references, from my past

On the windowsill
Photographs, paintings, and portraits
On the wall
A Rothko, reclaimed from a previous life
On the bookshelves
All of the poems, which cover up all of the loss

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BBB Poem 5

I take my mind with me, everywhere I go
My mind is my favourite friend
A friend I feel that I've grown to know

Years and years of memories
Are kept there
Kept in several stores

Reminders of those, at first
Closed, but now
Fully opened doors

It is the randomness
Which most appeals to me
Thoughts which arise

For all manner of reasons
Yes, whether it be on the hillside
Or down there, beside the sea

It is the absolute
Uncertainty, which pervades
Through all of the seasons

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BBB Poem 4

And so, as you feel that warmth
Of peace, and love, and understanding
You feel that warmth, as you read your book
Whilst listening to your music

And so, as you feel that inner glow
Of care, of sharing, of being there
You feel that glow, in your imagination
Letting your thoughts wander as they wish

And so, as you remember to plan
For the future, with leanings from the past
As you feel for memories; the most recent
Also for the ones, from way further back in time

I know that the patience to draw is not here yet
Nor the desire, to take out the water colour set
Yet in the frame; I am not anywhere near ready
To trade a condemned artist’s contemplations

I know that the swirls, and the shapes
The lines, and the escapes all add up
Yes, to draw the cup would be a pleasure
And o, to learn the potter’s skill, what treasure

Yes, I know that I have built many barriers
And that breaking through is equally as tricky
As would be the heartbreak of letting go
And so I mow the lawn, trim trees, as best I can

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BBB Poem 3

In that space, for those few moments
First watching
And then taking a photograph
Of the wren, stood contemplating
In the middle of the River Calder
In point of fact
Stood at the foot of a short waterfall
As viewed from a window
In the Hepworth Museum

So that short time, amplified many fold
Through these words, also by time backwards
To teenage years and just beyond
To bier-kellars, theatre clubs
Rugby league teams
And that first tax disc
On the day you passed your driving test
Going so so slowly back home
In the pea-soup of a fog

The queue behind you that day
Now dispersed
That is what you might imagine
As you mirror
Your own adventures over these fifty years
Half a century then
Of memories to call upon
As you frame, and focus on the heron
In the slip of water, on the River Calder

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BBB Poem 2

I sweat, out of some frustration
The drawings don't make any sense
Yet I feel that scalp point sensation
Other woods, it seems they are less dense

The pencil is not driven, leastways
Not across the sketching paper plane
Instead I am distracted, same as ever was
The forms, the lines, the oddly triangular frame

My curves are corrupted, repetition
Cannot be repeated, seated here
By the windswept window, definition
Of lines now less well defined

And she who reads the tea-leaves, she says
All is well that is well, yet, yes yet
Not everything can be explained
The rain, though transitory, is near on to blame

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BBB Poem 1

Air lifted
Onto the pitch of global warming
We are gifted endless summer days
In springtime, in autumn
And no doubt, also in mid-winter

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75

The book I have in mind to write is to do with recovery, recovery from the dark lights of life, and recovery from the dark lights, of a several times broken heart.

The book will deal much with therapy, with many therapies, with many witch doctors magic methodologies, with many placebos, with the many failed, and the few successful cures.

Longing will remain, it is one truth of life; longing may subside, but it doesn't disappear, that is my belief, one reinforced through experience.

Firstly I will lay down a few facts, in some sort of chronological order; I will then group these facts into some sort of well thought out sets, placed on co-ordinates, in that x,y,z continuum which is the three dimensions of time, space and heartache.

From this cosmos, with multiple orbits, I will explore some of the perceived wisdom in the literature; you may expect a few quotations, from Jung to Nietzsche, from Dickinson to Plath, and from all spheres in between.

Unlike the poetry, which precedes this work, I will aim to distance myself from the particular, that is except where a detailed explanation of the particular might bring a smile to mine, and your eyes.

And who is to read this book? Why lovers of course; those falling into love, those falling out of love, and those beautiful souls found wandering on the precipice; somewhere between somehow being in love, and somehow being out of love.

Be ready to nudge me if I ramble, I won't intend to, but sometimes the streams of the sub-conscious might just take over.

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74

Is it that I have become indecisive
When mostly the only decision which I choose
To make, is to write a few more words

On this next question I have truly stumbled
Should I retire, from the day job
To live the life of a writer

Let's be very clear then
I very much enjoy writing, to say immensely
Would not be stretching the point

Yet I have had nothing published
And neither have I courted publishers, or agents
Save for that background noise of self-publication

I have hardly ever performed my work
Other than with a few local writing groups
And for my own internet recordings

I do care for my poetry
Some of it has stood the test of time
But it has never really got off the ground

I could carry on as a part-time writer
I have done so for twelve years, or twenty-seven
What would another two mean; more of the same

Or I could jump, start some explorations
There would be risks, failures and successes
There would be change, I always wanted to change

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73

The last page was the halfway point
And now, apart from that last short ditty
We could almost say it is a new beginning

And how many more times have I begun again
How well the strain of originality is kept at bay, both
Along the illuminated way, and within the sunken shadows

The madness isn't though now present quite so often
Time, that great healer, softened many of the blows
Although, will it ever truly be over, will I ever know

If it is that the fields, and the trees
In the morning frost are feeling the chill
The sky, and the breeze thus redeeming me still

The thrill of the chase
And the basket case I became
No blame, no reframe, no endless shame

Always the same, or all ways to change
Simply to write; sit with words to rearrange
Place this before that, in a lover's lost exchange

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72

There is a lot of tosh
Though I liked it back then
There is a lot of rhyme
O golly, o gosh

I will doff my cap, no slack
As and when
The love of lust stands in line
The lust of love hands it back

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71

Calf leather boots
Across the Humber Bridge
Smoking sweet cheroots
Up on Bluestone Ridge

A coffee, and a chocolate bar
O Monday how you tempt my bid
Riding in this sedan car
As a writer, lifting off the lid

In middle, or late age England
A long way from Inter-Milan
In designer outlet gear they stand
Looking neat; I have it in the can

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