Storm Slight

And so the rain
Whose noise I hear
Against the window

A lightening of the sky
Immediately follows

And so summer shows
Allowing my mind to travel
To and fro
Fro and to
First there, and then back again

As the plants
As the bushes
As the trees
As the grasses
All smile to say thank you

The glass panes
Are quiet now

Peace swiftly returned
My eyes fall
Back onto the page

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Equanimous Objectives

I write about the beauty of routine
Then I break the routine
With my own tiredness
With my own laziness

I take a pen to sketch
Yet only for a few minutes
Before my patience
Defeats my limited ability

I find another book
Shelters and Baskets
But, unlike Shelters for Dreaming
This publication has no date

And so I return
Though not until after reading
The House of Belonging
Which twice made me realise

How little loss I have suffered
How little closeness I have found
Why not then pause to take
A moment, in the half-dark stillness

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Almost, Not

I read four pages
Without reading any
I heard of love
Without my old way
I wrote of meditation
Without stopping to think

Reading, writing, hearing
Waiting for whatever happens
To happen

I look around
Without seeing
I feel pain
Without giving it a name
I sense disappointment
Without wondering why

Looking, feeling, sensing
Hoping that whatever happens
Will happen sometime

I sit
Without the need to stand
I lay
Without the need to sit
I sleep
Without the need to lie

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Useful Or What

There are flowers of many colours
But nowhere at all to sit
There is a pond of pure black reflection
But nowhere in sight to sit

An artist, or photographer
With his aunt or mother
Seeks to find the perfect angle
Though he knows of nowhere then to sit

I did not dodge my responsibilities
Think I
As the pregnant girl walks by

I did catch the water droplets
Think I
As they hung in slow suspension

There are ice creams of many flavours
With many tables at which to sit
There is a gift shop with fine papers
But no matches, for the redundant fire-pit

A writer or philosopher
With his lover or muse
Seeks to find a genuine entrance
Before choosing where to sit

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Unilateralism

When I go alone
I go without being
I go without looking
I go without seeing

Yet when I go with you
I am
I look
I see

Though often times
I forget to take you with me
I forget to ask you to join me
I forget to simply let you be

I go to my cocoon
For protection
For solace
For joy

I go there with you
To be alive
To be as one
To be with love

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Hideaways

Blackbird
What time do you go
Blackbird
To where do you go

Is it dusk that calls you
Is it dawn that frees you
Blackbird where do you go to
Blackbird why do you go

On the fences I last saw you
After the music came to a close
Between the fences, my eyes follow
As the breeze so so gently blows

Is the pigeon your nemesis
For from rooftop to rooftop it goes
Or is the swallow your possessive
Swift as swift it flies in rows

Is the stillness then a signal of sight
Just as with the total eclipse
Does the stillness undo the flight
All movement somehow to resist

Where do you go to
Blackbird
What time do you go
Blackbird

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One

No need for fire-pit
Or chimaera
For the sun brings twenty-seven degrees
And a rather blue
Blue sky

When is the time to prune trees
Asks the novice gardener
Yet
As he asks no one but himself
The conversation gradually passes

Looking through the grasses
Looking through the bushes
Catching the sun’s last reflection
Feeling into
The listless breeze

Water is the echo
Or so it seems
Of the ways and means
Spot the flies which settle
Pulling at your shirtsleeve seams

The big bird flies the skyline
Followed by the vapours
From the fading jet streams
The swallows show off real fine
Show gliding as the way to dream

The dusk is in the stillness
As the evening primrose opens
And the thermals wait awhile
So still then now the stillness
Only the moment makes to move

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Features

Clear water splashes
On the carefully placed statue
Meanwhile
The chocolate bar wrappers
Blow off the table

Even without forensic evidence
Or access to DNA testing
The poet could be considered culpable
And therefore named
As the number one suspect

And he is ok with that
For being named number one at anything
Is a step forward
Although it is true he did not hide
The individual Apple Loaves

He cannot now find the very same
Instead he drinks his tea
Watches the bubbles of the fountain
Turn into circular ripples
Across the pond’s surface

All the while
Listening to the water cascading
Down the irregular
Collection of stones
Which make up the main display

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Considerations

Will the pond be full by the morning
Will it be full by October
Is the overgrown greenery
Ever to be calmed

Might the sound of the waterfall
Keep evil spirits at bay
Such as my dark sides
Such as my depressive depths

Are the pebbles simply pebbles
Or do they bring
The energy of the oceans
Their stories of the seas

Such that as the day turns on
We will turn on with it
As waves rising and falling
As tides ebbing and flowing

Knowing full well
That it is we ourselves
Who transport we ourselves
Back and forth as we choose

Wearing whatever we wish
To suit the tremulous times
When all that we hope for
Is almost within our reaching

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Launch

I don’t approach my own unease with any certainty, more I let the weight of the occasion set me towards a standstill or a standoff.

Grey sky
Lively swallow
Or swift
Grey sky
Calm fellow
With this gift

One happy insect
Among perhaps a billion
Takes off from my page
Into the great grey yonder

Excepting
That the sun breaks through
Summer returns
Yet hardly with a vengeance
Instead we have twenty-one degrees
And no sign of the blue sky

My standstill, or my standoff, or my simply doing nothing comes at me with ease, the weight of this occasion you see is so so easily borne.

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Those Who Have

This is, a mother and daughter
Or a sister and sister
Or a friend and friend
Or a partner and partner occasion

This is middle-class England
Though with quite a few
Who attempt to carry off the style
Without the ways and means

Strawberries for elevenses
Champagne and caviar for lunch
Be caught by the mobile TV cameras
In our silk and linen low-cut frocks

Too busy for relaxation
Too relaxed for work
They pull the pull-along baskets
Taking their flowers home

Yes it is pretentious
The North’s version of the South
Yes it is contemptuous
When it is still Love on the Dole

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Night And Day

Swans coast on the water
In front of the Imperial War Museum
We are in the heart of Media City
But it is raining
And the forecast is for heavier rain

She studied to be an actress
In our home county as it happens
But, due to the lack of opportunity
She returned home after graduation
Now she serves pre-theatre dinners

Today we are at Tatton Park
For the RHS Flower Show
Already I have an idea
For a strip of water
In front of our neighbour’s wall

The lady sat opposite
Was thinking in her head
Or at least
That is exactly what she said
As she sipped another Pimms

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Step In Now Why Don’t You

I am too often misunderstood
Also way too often
I do not understand myself

Why don’t I know
Where my keys are
Or my glasses, or my watch

Though I agree that
This is more about being misplaced
As opposed to being misunderstood

Yet today
As I was trying to explain
The authenticity of the writer’s voice

A snipe was made
That only I could interpret
After my claim that the monk had said so

In that instance then
Not only misunderstood
But also cut short

Before my explanation
Was allowed to run its course
For full understanding to be reached

Once again I was found to be
Halfway to nowhere, neither
Really clear, nor thoroughly confused

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Sated Or Saturated

If it is over so quickly
If the action
Is only for a few moments
Why does the resonance
Last for the whole of time

And if the monastic bell
Is the metaphor
For a peak experience
Followed by withering decay
Should we really rush to prayer

Or are we safer
To stand tall
To walk with dignity and purpose
Across the stone quadrangle
Laid down hundreds of years ago

Yet let us not demean the instant
In favour of the long time
Rather let us be thankful
For the gratification
In whatever is its measure of time

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In Memory of Mike Sarne

It is a cool breeze
Which makes the outdoor seating
Slightly less than comfortable

It is the coloured water
Which keeps the birds away
From the shallows of the pond

It is the grand homemade sandwich
Which says to stay outside
Though I know I should be inside

And so soon I shall make that move
As the last bites of the apple
Are taken and consumed

The tea is heated in the microwave
A fig biscuit is placed on a plate
The sunlight’s trickery is forgotten

Sat at my indoor desk
I notice my neighbour’s patriotic flag
Which waves vigorously

What was a breeze is now a wind
What was a mighty fine lunch
Is now within the digestive tract

A lunchtime then to remember
If not one exactly
To go right to the core of my memory

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Echoing

Nothing is ever completed
And so
Nothing new is ever really begun
Yet, just in that one glimpse
Another memory altogether
Rises to the surface
Such is the beauty
Of where we have been
If only we care to remember

All then lies in wait
If only
Our energies are forthcoming
I am not quite listless
Neither moribund
But simply settled in the moment
As the aircraft rumbles overhead
And one remembers
The cacophony
Of today’s dawn chorus

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Dear David

Dear David
My son and I
Have often visited
Salts Mill Gallery

First to see your
Various collections
As well as to taste
Their cafe’s finest offerings

In the early days
We would often see Jonathan Silver
Strolling around the books
And inspecting the tailoring

One time, on our way home
We got caught in the snow
We had to stay in a B&B near Haworth
Actually it was an old vicarage

With a long drive
And a large fire
We were made most welcome
It was a time for father and son bonding

Which I thank you for profusely
Kate and I went to London
To see your tree painting
It was quite an occasion

With the best Barolo wine
In the Italian restaurant
Where Piccadilly and Regent Street meet
Of course I know

We could have gone to
Leeds or Scarborough or Bridlington
To search out more of your shelters
For, thankfully, you have provided many

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This afternoon I am due

This afternoon I am due
At the hospital
For physiotherapy
To heal my sciatica

For several weeks
Sciatica has been my shelter
Not by choice you understand
Though for sure it was within me

This is my second appointment
With John
Who works for the NHS
He impressed me on my first visit

He asks if I know
When or how the pain started
I really didn’t know this time
But last time was after a massage

Which was a bit of a ha-ha
Moment for John
Apparently, if you are not well supported
During massage the nerves can be trapped

The first time I had sciatica
The doctor blamed it on DIY
As he did also
For my tennis elbow, and my frozen shoulder

I have cut back on the DIY
My partner doesn’t let me do hardly any
Which is a bit of a nuisance
For a man supposedly creating shelters

So I turn to sciatica
As both poem and shelter
Already wondering if the next one
Might be Ibuprofen or Paracetamol

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I am in the Internet Corner

I am in the Internet Corner
Of the Atrium Prestige Hotel
On the Greek Island of Rhodes
I am entirely alone
In this calm space
Now that the cleaner has departed

My shelters for today
Have shiny marble floors
Chairs and tables from antiquity
Also bookshelves from IKEA
With the square Bridge tables
Covered in green baize to complete the look
That is apart from
The two computer monitors

Also from antiquity
Or at least the steam age
The framed painting
Is a repeat from our bedroom
It hangs between
Two full-height glass panels

By the large screen television
Is a Perspex tube or column
A place to recycle batteries
There are no ash trays
What with the Greeks just passing a law
To crack down on smoking in public

On the back wall
Opposite the TV
Are four, tall
Rectangular windows
Also canvas art prints
One is of Linda’s Acropolis
One is of cloisters
From who knows where

Yet, even in a room
Filled with clutter
There is a peacefulness
As befits
My penultimate days
In search of a vacation shelter

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