The Bends Are Smooth

The A-Road is straight
The tarmacadam is true
I feel ok to say these words
Holding on to some ideal of you

The bends are smooth
The morning sky is a perfect blue
I feel ok with these words
These words especially for you

The yews are spreading
In the old churchyard
I turned over the bedding
Not to be caught off guard

The rapeseed is growing
Each day more so by the yard
The North winds are blowing
Once more I've shown my cards

I declared my hand
Without saying a single thing
I wasn't making a stand
Nor even trying to be King

It was a cry from the soul
All torment finally accrued
It was a cry that after all
Was all I was left able to do

Yet I didn't leave spaces
For you to wander through
No I tied up the tired laces
Tinged with Yves-Klein-Blue

But I did leave out
Whatever it was I was not to do
Also I did not work out
What to leave behind for you

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Though Some Stayed Away

Like many before him, also many more after
He came to the area of low-cost housing
He came for the pace of low-cost life
Yet at what cost to him
At what cost
That his mind no longer rhymed

He took centre stage a star in their midst
They'd had no glory until their life he kissed
He kissed with his singing
He kissed with his songs
He might that have missed the climbing
He might have missed the throng

His words were of sadness
His words were of joy
His words showed off his madness
Of missing the last decoy
His friends and family visited
Though some stayed away

I don't expect that either you
Or he would be riveted
By this choice of words
That I instantly replay
But we all end up somewhere
And we all have to cry

For that place where we choose
To try to find our pot of gold
To go cold on the passion-filled
Passionate doubts of the past
To watch the waves again roll
Even to think that they won't last

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The What

While I live in the county
Of glorious big skies
I still search for the bounty
Heaven only knows the reasons why
Heaven only knows
The what, or the where, or the why

I drive on the smaller roads
With trees to either side
It's an odd life that I lead
For who on earth really knows
Who on earth actually decides
Who should give, or who provides

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I Don't Have The Peace

I am saddened by your lack of response, I am tormented by your lack of response, Yet I know that in the words of our favoured Candide it is probably for the best.

Yes, it probably is for the best, but that doesn't make me any less tormented; no, that certainly does not make me any less sad or demented.

I will though carry on with my words, right up to the last, I might even second guess, what words you might have pressed into my half-life of fantasy and despair.

In those days, which panned out grand with reasonable repair; to stand on the seashore, or to climb up the dunes, forever to see more than the end of our good fortunes.

So I go into the morning, into the beginning of the day, I go there with a warning, for I can't ever be expected to do any more than stay.

The car behind passes me by, then edges me on, I read from the road sign but I read it way wrong, the road is to be closed soon, in about another week.

New pathways I will follow, new pastures I will seek; I don't have the peace, gifted by a morning meditation, on these early starts for my long drive to my work.

I don't have the doubts of the now closed-shop federation, I don't have the reluctance, nor the reasons to shirk.

In a short while this will be over, that's why I write to you so, for I don't want to end, no I do not want to end without ever letting you know, that yes, sadly, I am letting you go.

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Once Again I Think Of You

We play with phones
So nothing's new
We play with smiles
Which shine straight through

We catch the breeze
As days undo
We catch the light
Which illuminates we two

We drink our gin
Of Sapphire Blue
We drink our coffee
Served by the stylish crew

We write our words
With nothing to say
We write our words
From the human zoo

They complete the crossword
Together and true
They complete the crossword
And once again I think of you

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Some Say She Was Always Thus

You're looking round for someone new
It's for your love for the soul of blue
She’s looking good in shiny shoes
She is your soul her name is you

She never wavers and some say she was always thus
Right from the start on the dimly lit downtown bus
Sodium lights tracking her back to the smoke
The helicopter blades became the flashing joke

She never settled however well you played
Her field was wide open for the sharpest blade
With the morning dew to the evening light
A fractious footstep commenced her flight

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As The Tempest True

We're looking round for somewhere new
It's for our love our love of blue
We stand side by side as the tempest true
We are in our soul our name is you

We stand side by side as the breeze blows through
We stand side by side looking good in shiny shoes
We stand side by side as the tempest true

He stands six feet tall she stands five feet seven
With the helicopter blade as the flashing sight
She stands five feet seven he stands six feet tall
With the sharpest blade to commence the flight

We are in your soul our name is you
We are in your soul your love of blue
We stand side by side as the tempest true

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Shout Out For The Joy Of Love

Lift up your head damn you man
Smell the sea
Feel the sand between your toes
Breathe in the air
Shout out for the joy of love

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Not That I Want More Religion

Sat in the cafe I felt good, in my old black linen jacket, in my brand new striped cotton scarf

Something of a bohemian I thought to myself, I sure could take to this daytime coffee-shop society

Yet my home town has nothing so, how can I say, nothing so inspiring nor of such an intellectual bent as where I sit at in this present moment

Where Spanish Christians talk on their mobile phones, about how to encourage more youngsters to take up their religion

Not that I want more religion, I just use it as an example of what kind of people could be attracted to in a town with a university

A growing town with a history of wealth and social justice and royal patronage

Should I move here, or should I move my false pretences is the very next question which I ask myself

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The Sports Shop Proprietor’s Wife

A worrying dream, set in my old home town of Holmfirth

I was being summarily discarded
After spending a passionate night with an old flame
A girl from my youth, who indeed
I had similarly discarded, as a much younger man

My car had disappeared from the car park
It was a big old Lexus
Which my brother said
He'd just seen some people messing with

He thought that they had pushed it over the edge
Out from the car park
Down the steep fifty-metre bank
Then across the river, to behind the hotel

My biggest, most irrational fear
Was how to go home
To explain my dalliance
To my wife

In point of fact it was my first wife
Who I was feared of
Which in itself is a conundrum
Yes, the whole thing was all actually quite odd

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Washing

The shirts are dry, the underwear too
Soon it will be the time for the ironing
To discover, to deepen the colour blue

The blue that speaks as in the Speakeasy
Jazz nights at the Upper George, or down
The stainless steel road, at the Silver Fox

The blue which inks, as Pelikan ink stains
The letters sent to a lover, or the words
Penned by one, yet meant entirely for another

The jeans are dry, the wool socks too
Soon it will be the time for the care of folding
To organise and to tidy the altogether neater you

The you that changes, for to change comes easy
For dinner at the Idle Rocks hotel in St Mawes
Or for Ladies Day at Glorious Goodwood

The you that struts his stuff or poses as the flaneur
Finely cut; by a tailor or by an experienced brute
Worn as a suit-jacket with silk stockings and brogues

The morning was dry, the afternoon so too
Soon it will be the time for the drawing in
To phase out the summer, to give me another clue

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Inkblot

For instance that Rorschach test taken at university, did it really show that we were heavenly bodies, soulmates on a celestial plane, forever compatible, to our dying days

Did I let the imagery or the initiation ceremony lead me on; was it simply blue-black Pelikan ink splashed on vellum paper then folded and pressed, to give an indication of a lifelong, hop-along symmetry

Yet of course, not an exact duplication, for the forces of time and the dynamics of fluidity coupled to the symphonies of slippage all took their chance, to make minuscule though not insignificant changes.

Just as the plum tree, try as it might, cannot evenly balance its foliage, having early on in its life suffered a terrible misfortune, where its parent fell over and then died leaving the young sapling to fend for itself.

To lean away from the prevailing wind, to find the place where the sun shines the brightest for the longest hours of each and every day.

That I might understand this, from the science of horticulture, does nothing to take away from me the fascination, nor the intrigue of that first seminal inkblot moment.

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Ignored

One of the downside consequences
Of choosing to be aloof
Is that you can quite easily be ignored
Your grateful words may not be read
Or at least not read by many
Also, so very few who choose to respond

The photographs you post of YSP
May not catch another viewers eye
Or at least not spark their imagination
The extracts of your Red Telephone Box book
May not be endorsed
Even if they were read in the first place

Yes, there are consequences
Of standing apart from the crowd
For, out of the mainstream, you may well be ignored
But is it not better to be yourself
To gather your unique thoughts, in your own way
In doing so build up your own inner strength

So say, this is me, yes, here I am
You can take me, or you can leave me
But don't expect me to do just as you do
For if everyone did that
How dull would the world soon become for you
If it was not already dull, because of you, in the first place

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Blue

Blue is such a bloody good colour
It is, isn’t it

When you read about the colour blue
In Rebecca Solnit's book
A Field Guide to Getting Lost
You say to yourself
She is a bloody good writer
Yes, she is, isn’t she

Then, after you have photographed
All of the curators paired up pictures and sculptures
In the Longside Gallery at YSP
You again say to yourself
They have made bloody-good pairings
I should say so, don't you think so

Such that you go outside
Purchase a black Americano
A raspberry sorbet ice-cream
Then you say to yourself
That this is the life
Yes, it bloody well is, isn't it

You sit down, look at the long field of tilled earth
With the sun and the cloud’s shadows
Taking it in turns to sweep towards you
Again you say to yourself
I'm so bloody well glad
That I played truant from work today, aren't I just

So excited you almost forget to mention the breeze
Which zips into your life
Reminds you, how as a teenager you climbed the wall
So you say to yourself
I was bloody lucky
To have been born near here, wasn't I

To go to the Young Farmers dances
On high days, Fridays and summer holidays
Down the road by the triangle at Cawthorne
So again you say to yourself
Isn't it just bloody magic
To have memories to look back on, it is, isn't it

Today singles, couples and families walk up the path
Which you often strode down
Walking here alone, walking from your mother's house
Which makes you think to say to yourself
She was a bloody good mum
She looked really happy in that blue dress, didn't she

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Predetermined

Pray tell me if you will, about the gossamer sheath
In your bedside drawer

It wasn't there by chance was it, held onto
In case some passer-by should pass by

No, did I hear you say, it wasn't
It was placed there for a purpose

In wait for the opportunity to arise
Or indeed for the situation to be developed

Which it did, mostly at my instigation I might add
Although you did play your part, thoroughly

For which I am forever grateful I have to say
Even if I don't always let you know that

It was a conscious decision, which I made on our behalf
The only unknown, for me, was to be the exact timing

I trust that clears things up
Absolves you of any of your insecurities

Which you may have formed or developed
During the intervening twenty-seven years

They can at last, once and for all be laid to rest
I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, all my love x

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Yorkshire

Sat on the real stone steps
Sheltered by the Hawthorne and by the Oak
From the prevailing wind

Or should it be
Sheltered by the Bougainvilleas
From the fragrant breeze

Either way the sun shone
The gardener mowed the grass
With his rather noisy eight-bladed machine

The children
Now, as then, then, as now
Engage with the sculptures

Perhaps see something of themselves
Reflected in the works of art
See something of the future, see something of the past

The visitors, from nearby, from far away
They jostle with a vacation's excitement
Hold hands as they walk down the pathways home

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