Twenty

I am in the main meditation room
I open the window shutters a little
To let in the morning light

I wonder at the artistry
Where did the artists come from
To paint the walls, to paint the ceilings

Was there always a golden age
Is there always a golden age
Is it the age in which we live

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Nineteen

I am in the main meditation room
I open the window shutters a little
To let in the morning light

The corridor, outside the door
Is a favourite place it seems
For conversationalists to congregate

I passed them by, on my way in
I said I will not let them disturb me now
But of course, they did

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Eighteen

This is the glory of the Bow room
Bathed in sublime morning sunlight
Cascading, through Georgian windows
Reflecting, from the chrome on my pencil

Yet no sooner said than gone
Replaced by cloud-covered grey light
As if in readiness, or preparation
For the first guided meditation of the day

A body-scan meditation
With a quietly spoken teacher
Who said thanks for the beautiful morning
Who asked all to think well of themselves

I struggled a little bit
With the intake of white smoke
With the expulsion of black smoke
Though I was ok with breathing

I am ok with breathing
I breathe in
I breathe out
With eyes closed, or with eyes open

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Seventeen

Sat at the six-thirty table
Eating muesli with rye
Thinking of where to go next
Dreaming of bye and bye

Sat at the six-thirty table
Instant coffee by my side
Thinking of where to go next
Dreaming of bye and bye

Eyes look out into the distance
On their own bareback ride
Searching for some for instance
Some way to gather their pride

Eyes look out into the distance
Wondering of wind, of tide
Searching for some for instance
Some way to gather their pride

Hesitant steps are taken
Unsure in their self of making
Asking then where to go now
On their way to be forsaken

Hesitant steps are taken
Less certain now in the making
Asking then where to go now
On their way to be forsaken

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Sixteen

Thus we savour
Thus we reflect
Thus we communicate
Thus we say thanks

All around the world
We wish each other well
All around the world
We ask each other how we are

To be totally honest
I really am no different
To be even more honest
I truly have no desire to be

I am up for love
I am open for love
Yes, I am most thankful
For those who love me

For those who carry love
In their hearts, in their souls
In their bodies, in their minds
In their very essences of being

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Fifteen

A room
A bed
A light
A paper flower

A chair
A cushion
A carpet
A painting on the wall

A towel
A heater
A mirror
A set of deep drawers

A door
A lock
A hook
A bedside table

A mint chocolate, with compliments

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Fourteen

In this world of smoke and mirrors
In this mind of self-deceit
Let me receive my comeuppance
Lend me tuppence for the cheek

In this room of light, of shadow
In this mind of grateful conceit
Let me suffer for compassion
Send my rations to the street

In this remnant of a calmness
In this mind of the minuscule feat
Let me transform by forgiveness
Blend the richness with the neat

In this collective of unconscious
In this mind of future distant beat
Let me anchor with my mantra
Mend the tantric, astride the leaf

In this struggle of no ending
In this mind of pre-cast concrete
Let me disturb me from my seat
Fend off to meet the however weak

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Thirteen

The Bow room is quiet
With only one door
To keep an eye on
Yet
With four windows
To escape through

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Twelve

Breakfast was Muesli
Or Toast
Positively no bacon

Tea, or dinner if you prefer
Was Macaroni Cheese
Or Wheat-Free Vegetable Risotto

If you ever did wonder
Why I don’t want to reside here
There you have it; breakfast, dinner or tea

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Eleven

The sound of the vacuum cleaner
Masks the sound of the footsteps

The sound of the footsteps
Masks the sound of the voice

The sound of the voice
Masks the sound of the busy mind

The sound of the busy mind
Masks the sound of silence

The sound of silence
Masks my own lack of awareness

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Ten

During prayers
I thought of my grandmother Elsie
I thought of my mother Eva

I thought of how
They might well have been Buddhists
If not for the Methodists of their time

Yes, they would be happy to help
They would be so so good house-mothers
Supportive, kind, offering love with guidance

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Nine

A lady enters the room
To make preparations for prayers
To be chanted in about half an hours time
I am invited to stay, I will stay for some

Although I might have to take a side seat
Not to be centre stage you understand
For I have neither the knowledge nor the voice
To create a pleasant experience for others

As I meditated I felt:
First a twinge in my shoulder
Then a twitch in my calf
Then a dull ache in my lower back

Let no one accuse me of being unaware
My awareness is firmly held
Yet it is arguably well assisted
By the silence behind closed eyes

A silence undone by footsteps
A silence undone by voices
A silence I once so treasured
Unaware of the harm it caused

A silence undone by vacuum cleaners
A silence undone by a busy mind
A silence beyond my awareness
Oh silence, what trouble you’ve caused

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Eight

I am in the second meditation room
I think they call it the protector
Which I take to mean
That it keeps evil spirits from the main room

The flowers are silk
Which is a disappointment
Though the water is real
As are the offerings of Bergamot and Coffee

Actually, the protector is there
To ensure that I am not prevented
From reaching my spiritual realisations
Why, how I thank you for that

I take a few minutes out
For a breathing meditation
I breathe in, I breathe out
Exactly as the instruction card says

But I also think to myself
Of what photographs I could have taken
To accompany the words
To justify the words

The ploughed field
The partridge, or pheasant
The tree line on top of the hill
The orange-tint, on the distant tree

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Seven

I take a drive out to Millington
I assume it is on the Yorkshire Wolds
A pheasant struts across the road
From stubble field to ploughed field
He puffs out his chest
Shakes his feathers
Vainglorious, that is
Until the shooting season
He scuttles away
As the muck-shift lorry races by
Then settles, to turn his green head
This way, then that
The day began so bright
Indeed I think I said so
In my morning words
But now the raindrops fall
The wind picks up
Ruffles the many coloured feathers
It is time to move on
The orange-tinted distant tree
Has lost its sunlit sparkle
As a country boy
I ought to know its name
But I don’t, no, I don’t
This was a short excursion
A place to find no place at all
But a chance for the iPad
To recharge its battery
Such that later on
I might type up these spurious notes
Of the day's proceedings
Pheasant, partridge, or otherwise

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Six

The stairway place is now free
I sit right up to the Georgian window
A young woman wheels a wheelbarrow
Across the field, past the trees
It is not so silent as Bow
Doors bang, doors crash
I can hear conversations
But van Gogh’s blossom is still here

A young oriental woman
Climbs the stairs energetically
She smiles, says: Hi, hello
Before moving on to the door
This is the main thoroughfare
Between upstairs and downstairs
The wallpaper is rather grand
Exotic birds, with feathered tails

Outside in the field
There are masses of molehills
Each peppered by pigeons
Another woman wheels her barrow
Though this time she moves
In the opposite direction
Before stopping, in the middle
Maybe for a Karma break
I tell you this as a momentary record
Fifteen minutes of a life
Quite possibly never to be revisited
With, or without the wheelbarrow

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Five

The real writing, the screaming, then began
The writing did begin again
Yet first to tell of a significant oversight

The black dog took me at my word
I left my job, I sought other pleasures
I left my wife, my two beautiful children

For twelve months I lived in Devon
For twelve more months of heaven
I lived on the Channel Island of Jersey

I want to tell you this because this is where
The poetry of poetry came into existence
It is from where it still on occasion hails from

Fuelled by high-octane selfish obsession
Energised by compulsive desires; my needs
Confirmed in those peak-experience moments

The poems are endless, even now
Years after our time together crumbled
Crumbled, burned; in a harshly distasteful way

I could not reach her
I cannot reach her
I should not reach her
Yet once I had breached her

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Four

The poetry stuttered and stumbled
As did the relationship
Working away from home did not help
Yet I did find a four leaf clover

Dartmoor could have been a place to settle
But we did not settle as it happens
My seven-day work week was relentless
Poems on cabin steps, poems at the intake

Cards, letters, notes from my travels
Distanced further still from those at home
Train stations, trolley bus stops
Time to write, time to suck lollipops

My own office in the country
With a landlord who murdered his wife
I too talked of sadness, of forgiveness
Love itself mostly was returned

Yet the silence slowly took me
Immersed myself in Internet poetry
I lost sight of the light of love
I lost sight of the meaning of love

Until, after the end
I was gifted a poem
Which spoke eloquently
Of love, of dust, of cobwebs

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Three

I have come into the Bow room
Because someone is sat by the window
At the top of the turn of the stairs

This is, as you might expect, a quiet place
Four quite substantial Georgian windows
Two doors, on the opposite wall

One of the doors is blocked off
By the teacher's raised sitting platform
The other is both entrance and fire escape

I have this luxury of silence
Yet downstairs, in the lounge
A group of people work on a jigsaw puzzle

That, as you might expect, is not my thing
People milling about, noisily socialising
Even wanting to know where everyone is from

Better to be up here with the dry logs
In the old, for decoration only, fireplace
Silver Birch always was my favourite, wasn’t it

I am staying in Fir Three
Which is neither tall or spread out
Nor is it at all en-suite

Which is exactly what I would recommend
Though you might have to cross the road
To book in at Kilnwick Percy Resort!

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Two

I elected to complete my OU degree
With a module in Cognitive Psychology
Don’t you dare ask me why

It was my first move away
From Technology and Mathematics
Something I simply had to try

She introduced herself
On the steps, outside a class
On Dichotic Listening

Can we sit beside you please
You seem to know what you are doing
Were her introductory words

I had taken a poetry book with me
The 1987 Eric Gregory Anthology
Don’t you care to ask me why

It was for my own protection
Among those more cultured types
Something I never did, or ever would deny

I coped, I managed, I did ok
Yet I changed
Poetry became me

Often after I simply had to cry
Yes, often afterwards
I simply had to cry

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One

I was with the black dog
Metaphorically speaking
I wanted to extend the house

There was no room out front
No room either at the back
Sure as hell no room at the sides

I was in the small back bedroom
Are all back bedrooms small
I looked out of the window

I wrote those first words
On a business contact index card
It was all I had to hand

The poem detail is all gone
Sadness, darkness, angst
For no good reason whatsoever

I write this only as a record
It was a beginning, of sorts
It is the only thing I’ve stuck at

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Back At My New Desk

I have found time
Found time again
Time again for you
For you at my new desk

My new desk, quietly waiting
Quietly wanting, for my return
My return, to the peace
The peace, of silently writing

Silently writing, to bring
To bring, to an end
An end, without end
Without end, I go on

I go on, in this found time
Found time, as never before
Never before, to happily close
Happily close, these last few words

Been There Done That
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Back In Our Own Bed

Warm skin
Your skin
Soft skin
Your skin
Smooth silky skin
Your skin
Morning skin
Your skin
Embrace
Your skin
Hug, nuzzle into
Your skin
Whisper, breathe onto
Your skin
Thankful, grateful for
Your skin

Been There Done That
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Flight

I sit
On the landing
As though getting ready
For a flight
Or a flying lesson
As the one
Thirty years ago
When I climbed
When I turned
When I looped the loop
When I had the descent
Under my solitary control
Tomorrow
We fly with TUI
To Ibiza
I will sit
In row 14 seat A

Been There Done That
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Thirty Minutes

One-and-a-half minutes past seven
Blue batik by my side
Still got the blues plays on the Bose
All of the connections I might ever wish for

Except the mountaineer poet is in the bathroom
Or rather his book
The order of the day resides there
Along with the caffeine hair restorer

I never did take hallucinogenic drugs
Yet I surely was a prime suspect
But maybe I lacked a deep adventurous spirit
Safer to tell the time, talk of books and records

Been There Done That
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TV Critique

Last night it was the Mersey Poets
Yes, I have seen Roger McGough
Yes, I have seen Brian Patten
But that was thirty years ago

And only last month
I cancelled my Labour Party membership
Though I have offered to help
With fund raising and projection

It is true, socialism is within me
With half a mind that communism could work
It is more true, my distaste for the tories
All my life their bile has been poured over me

Better to look at the limp leaves
On the, fading into autumn, cherry blossom tree
More satisfying then to remember the role love played
When seeing poets in performance

Been There Done That
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Dear Departed

The dead fly lays on its back
In this, the best of all summers
Could its death really be claimed
To be due to natural causes
Or was it more likely heat exhaustion
Having found himself at the window
Which does not open

Which cannot open
What is the lifespan of a bluebottle
Or a common or garden buzzing fly
What are the rites of passage
Should we celebrate, or grieve his demise
And is The Eagles New Kid in Town
Really funeral procession music

Been There Done That
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Stipple

The sound is muffled
The sound is made clear
The sliding door is shuffled
The volume becomes near

Brothers in Arms
My first compact disk
The hi-fi salesman’s charms
The Blue Nile, more of a risk

Here on the upstairs landing
Where the new white light
Questions the decorators standing
Was the paint he used quite right

Been There Done That
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Done That

I had nothing else to think
The images kept on loading
So so close to the brink
Lust with love exploding

I had nothing else to think
The scents are out of the bottle
So so carefully, so subtly distinct
Skin is on skin, ready to topple

I had nothing else to think
The soulful music sways
So so pure, so sure in shocking pink
Beside her now he lays

Been There Done That
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