Here, Yes, And Now

I am in response and react mode

I read of Toblerone

I remember that I have a Toblerone

So now you find me eating Toblerone

Believe me

I am trying not to try

But if Mr Slingerland

Offers me such chances what am I to do

In another book

By Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

I see myself as autotelic

I write because I enjoy to write

Believe me

Even though I am not the Austrian lady

Living her iconic free-life, on the slopes

I too do have my freedoms

  

Choices

If I am

The village poseur

If I am

That counterfeit

Of a good man

If I am

How can I change

How can I

If I am not

What I want to be

I read about The Way

By a writer

Who compared this way

With that way, and

That way, as you might guess

With the other way

If I am

To find The Way

How can I

Waste time

With other ways

If I am

To become The Way

How can I

When there are way more paths

Than I need

  

How

I do four things in sequence

1. I put down my book
2. I turn on the source of my music
3. I switch on the kettle
4. I stand, wait, and ruminate

The first is a natural pause

The second is inspired by the first

Three naturally follows on from two

Four is a regular following occurrence

I do four more things in sequence

1. I end my contemplation
2. I brew my coffee
3. I choose the music
4. I pick up my book and read

The first you can imagine for yourself

The second was waiting for one to pour out

The third simply had to happen

Otherwise how else could four have occurred

————————————————————————-

And how could one arrive at a new place

Which feels completely familiar

Trying Not To Try

Edward Slingerland

  

Gamble

As if the nettle

By the footpath

Has any choice

About where it grows

Whereas I, yes I

I can sit on this bench

Dedicated to Jennifer Nelson

A true ‘Country Woman’

Or I could head off

Back to my car

Then into town

To the pharmacy

Or I could take the risk

And not take the diabetes tablets

Or did you think

I was going for something stronger

Such as did

The young reckless motorcyclist

Whose end came way too early

Such a waste, pointless loss

Whereas I, yes I

I sat on the bough

A little longer

I took no risk at all; no, not a one

  

Reasons, Lots

If this was the Hebrides

And if I was on my own

With only the machair, the sand

The sea, and the sky for company

Would I be any more settled

Would I hear different birdsong

Would my thoughts be any more free

To think of other possibilities

You see for sure

This quiet part of Lincolnshire

Gifts me a breeze

Also blue skies with sunshine

So what more

Could South Uist offer

Would I commit

To buying a painting from Volbeda

Will that very long journey

By car, and on board a ferry boat

Deliver up a tiredness

Which is not so easy to shake off

Of course the act of going, and going alone

Is itself quite a statement

Why do I seek solitude

What more does my mind need

  

Many Miles of Space

Cricket commentary

On the iPhone

In quite open country

Yet with the TV mast

Clearly in view

Blue skies

With hardly a cloud

A strong wind

Possibly from the East Coast

Ben Stokes

New to the crease

Excites the fielders

Huddled around the bat

The fly, on the screen

Jumps to the cheers

As Joe Root loses his wicket

To Naseem Shah

Classic test cricket

So the commentator tells me

But that’s it for now

As I choose to click

And save the beauty

  

Literally, No

Too far to walk
With such indigestion
Too far from home
With this pressing need

Yet the bush
Is such a perfect place
With stone flags
Beneath my feet

The wind whistles
Over my shoulder
Then just as quickly
It settles to a breeze

A warm Zephyr
With the occasional urge
Of a more forceful wind
To keep me wondering

And of course I have
Come here to wonder
At the roll of the wolds
With the certainty of trees

Much as if travelling
On the Trans-Siberian railway
Up and over, or through the Ural Mountains
Then all along the self-levelling Steppes

  

Introversion

One more day of not knowing

One more long night to look forwards to

If you do not join in

Why would anyone join in with you

If you choose not to put yourself out there

Why should anyone choose to put out to you

One more season of not knowing

One more dull Saturday to look forwards to

 

Voids Below

For that one moment

While making coffee

At the kitchen worktop

I was back in Anchor Court

Over thirty years ago

That once new place

Won’t be so new today

Those bygone daydreams

Have also faded

As dust indeed does turn to dust

Such that floor joists

Beneath lifted floorboards

Now come to mind

In a way that only my memory

Is able to conjure up

What was there is there

What it meant is not

What happened happened

And how it felt, did not die

But dust indeed does turn to dust

 

Days Like These

That Monday should be the day

As all days sometimes have to be

When the sunlight and the fly

Are encouraged to co-exist

Or that this day, or that day

Could be any other day

With the breeze through the trees

Making its own way, independently

That the dream should be so clear

You know, to be totally remembered

In one fell swoop

At least that is how it somehow seems

Of course many corrections had to be made

For who knows what past associations

Our dreams may, or may not, represent

Besides our life mistakes along the way

That Monday should be the day

For the conscious, and the sub-conscious

To fully arrive, within their integration

From the stocks complete with their chattels

Or, for that matter, that this day

Much indeed as any, or many others

Begins

With a few moments of our own forgiveness

 

Close Call

The mind at rest

Without a thought

For the two trees

At either side

Of the road

Without a clue

To the two road signs

One at each side of the road

Or the car 

Which passes by

Before leaving me

To let my mind

Be at rest

Be at rest I say

Down this narrow lane

Where to park

Feels like an indiscretion

That is, until

The delivery van whizzes by

On its way from nowhere

To somewhere else altogether

 

Squandered Opportunities

Down the road named thoroughfare

Where to go to

Why, whatever for

Other than in search of self

Beyond bodily behaviours

More than minds meanderings

Reason, for reason’s sake

In this the halfway mid-morning

No room to turn around

There is only forever onwards

Until you come upon a place

Which, without doubt

Is not the very place

That you had in your mind’s eye

Nevertheless it is, or seems to be

The very place where you have landed

But what’s that you say

Only for now, a transit stop

Somewhere on the way

To almost anywhere else in the world

Which, in and of itself

Would still not be the solution

For, without being at rest

There can be no resting place

 

Changes Of Direction

I wanted to be a flâneur

But now think dilettante 

Better suits my purpose

I wanted to be elsewhere

Though now prefer

To stay where I am

If experience is what they say experience is

Have I not already, in my sixty-eighth year

Had more than my fair share

If love, and truth, and beauty

Not forgetting soul, yes soul and spirit

If they are still in the need of finding

Should I not buy a bucket

Or an aeroplane ticket

And get on with it

Just Asking

Why would I assist

If to assist

Is to be argumentative

Why would I lend a hand

If to lend a hand

Is to have the rug pulled out

From beneath one's feet

Time Takes Time

It is July

Not a million miles

From midsummer

Yet the first

Autumnal orange brown leaf

Has appeared on the blossom tree

Time, as they say

Marches on

Today, a day after

This July day

We are on local radio

In support of humanist weddings

I will wait for the quietness

Stay home, alone

With room to roam

Through my mind

Abroad with feelings

Of love and its emotions

In that peace

I might imagine

The leaf in transition

From olive green

Through plum red

To orange brown

Trotternish

I am urged to write

Not knowing

Where the spring rises

Or where the river flows

But there is celebration

The day has gone

Beyond its darkness

Clear light has made an entrance

Books, photographs; framed

To bring a thought

To gift a memory

To recast a pain

How good it is to feel good

To drive beside the loch

On the way to a place

Whose name I can’t remember

Flodigarry, that’s it

I just needed a few moments

Of pure concentration

Then to look out to the island

Black Dog

It is a place that I left

I have left a lot of places

It is a place that I return to

I return to a lot of places

It was a time when I walked away

I have walked away too too often

It was a time which passed me by

I did pass time by too too often

My memory occasionally reminds me

My memory equally often forgets

My heart and soul remind me

My heart and soul less often forgets

It wasn’t a great start

But it did get better

I was not in a good mood

But the mood it got better

I was under the black cloud

But the black cloud lifted

I was feeling sorry for myself

But the pastiche of miasma slowly lifted

I berate myself unduly

Before I feel the lightness

I criticise myself without reason

Before I am redeemed by the lightness

Noise, Is That All

Is it the things

That we do do

Which bring us together

Is it the things

That we don’t do

Which force us apart

Does love

Draw us

Together

Does love

Push us

Apart

If I have any certainty

It is

In the uncertainty of it all

If I have any doubt

It is

In the without doubt of it all

Will my ears still ring

In my headphones

Tomorrow morning

Will the constant

Phut, phut, phut

Take me through the night

Wet, Wet, Dry

It is the sound of the rain

On the window panes

Which gifts me comfort

I feel settled, knowing

That the world moves on

Yet I have found shelter

I was think about

Becoming the I

Who lives my life

That the ways

In which I box things up

Are of my own choosing

That I have an open life

And a secret life

May bring complications

Yet also a sense of order

Is imposed, simply by

Having classifications

Sunshine and rain

You could say

For the rains have died down

The showers have cleared up

The return of the birdsong

Is what brings me contentment

Drive, Walk, Drive

Wind blistered sand

A desert of a walk

At the end of the day

Two bells in the sea

A shelter of driftwood

With a fire-grate

One man

Up to his knees in the sea

Carries a sound recorder

In soft blown fields tall grasses sway

With their seed-heads

Catching the last of the sunset

Parked up, on Bluestone Heath Road

Under the shade

Of the whispering hawthorn tree

I take off my driving sunglasses

Listen to Cypress Avenue

Write one more penultimate stanza

One man

Up to his soul in the countryside

With all of that which this life offers

One White House

For all the world

Within a butterfly

For all of the shadows

Along the long five-mile road

For all of the escapees

To be standing by

For all of the known and the knowing

To be in the ‘two paths ode’

For all of the views

Which came unto my eye

For all of those whose undulations choose

It is my heartbeat, and my rallying cry

For all of determinations

To be sought out before we go

For all of the wartime sedimentations

To be bold beneath a blood-red sky

For all of peace

To take away the hovering buzz

For all of the love to increase

Making it easier, to try, and to try

For all of my eternity

And yours too, I hear you sigh

For all of the joy, and the doubtless infinity

It is for your beauty that I write

Interiority

I am nothing

When with nothing at all to write

I am nowhere

When with nowhere at all to go

I am no one

When with no one there to remind me

I do hear

The birdsong in the garden

I do see

The leaves settled on the tree

I did taste

That meal which I cooked earlier

Whose smell

Was the best bit by far

With such a collapse to repetition

Do I deserve any more, or any less

With such a fall to clumsiness

Do I really have any hope of finesse

With such a grope for desire

Do I forget times of non-delayed gratification

With such a cumulation of urges

Do I lose the path to sincere compassion

I am, I do

Hearing

Such repetition

I am desirous, I am urging

Unwelcome Guests

Out in the country

On my bicycle

I stopped, for a drink

From my flask of orange

I sat, on a bench

Beside the old canal

Which still does go, if somewhat half-heartedly

All the way to the coast

Young, urban youths

Tease the cows in the field

While their parents watch on

Sat in the car smoking cigarettes

I came here simply to be a quiet observer

To watch the grasses

Bend, and blow, in the breeze

Steadily, peacefully serene

Instead the continuous chitter-chatter

Even one might say the racket

Of the city-dwelling, uninvited intruders

To this rural, might I say, ‘countryside idyll’

They have gone now

All that are left

Are a few walkers, in isolation

And those colourful cyclists, in stretch lycra

Once Upon A Time

Why so so

So many changes

Why so so, so much forgiveness

Whatever

Can be the circumstances

For life to gift this richness

Why wouldn’t I write

Of love which is like

The sunlight on the floor

Why would I not focus

On the lover’s dust

Which lies just behind the door

Losing It

I am going

I am leaving

I can’t stand the thought

Of self-deceiving

How would I reach myself

With a voice on my shoulder

How should I find new wealth

As I grow older, and older

Where is the reason

Of the seasons left behind

Tell me of the treasons

For the likes of my kind

I am going

I am leaving

I go without hope

In deep, deep grieving

How would I preach to myself

With a show on my shoulder

How could I regain my health

As you grow colder, and colder

Where is the crimson

Which the kings left me to find

Pray tell me of the gym run

With the slopes which may be less inclined

Instant Tone

All the while then

That we are dreaming

Making reams of paper

From the breathing

In the sunlight

Shadows are of stillness

Dreams or thoughts

There for willingness

All the while then

Tightness is reaching

Schools of easy living

Hopes there for redeeming

On the island

On the mainland

Reaching for distance

I am the same man

All the while then

Flights are freeing

Preach for past times

Freedom from the fleeing

In this real world

Of Monday morning

Each is of the other

Taking care of the shoring

Preparation

I walk into the garden

Sit at the table

With my lemonade

Not a cloud in the sky

Blue, as far

As blue can ever be seen

Light is as light

As light ever can be

The notebook

Is not ideal

What with lines

Straight and horizontal

And so the verse

Takes on a dictatorial feel

Nietzsche himself

Could have taken over

Except that the sunlight

Would have been

Too much for him

In his condition

I myself though

Am in way better shape

Even finding a balance

In the geometric

Dexterous

When I am cycling

I know that I am cycling

When I am writing

I know that I am writing

When I cycle

I can think about writing

When I write

I can think about cycling

Two things, together

Simultaneously, by me

Simultaneously, for you

Two things, together

When I cycle I could

Think about writing, about

You taking off, or putting on

Your silk underwear

Of course

I may lose my balance

Which would draw this note

To an untidy end

Better then, when cycling

To know that I am cycling

Also to know, with some certainty

That when I am writing, actually I am writing

Day Night Journal

The wind rattles round the garden

Leaves are turned inside out

Flipped upside down

As if searching

For drugs, or interlopers

Could I become

Completely nostalgic

Write everything

As if I was Jethro Tull’s

Living in the past

Yet how to get there

To transport oneself

Back in time

When right now there are

So so few flights to anywhere

The passing cyclists say hi

Or hiyah, or hiyah mate

Or they simply nod

Dependant upon how vigorously

They push their pedals

I have a love hole in my head

The love of the one who loves me

I have a similar smile, as I wake

To think of my day of thoughts

Laid out before me

Hands In The Stream

I too would send a postcard

I may even post one to myself

Simply to confirm

How I felt in that moment

But first to buy a pack of postcards

From an online store, preferably one

Without any credentials

To understand my understanding

And, to be honest

How could I hope to explain

Something which was imaginary

Alive only in my own imagination

Yet, as I look out of the window

How might I know

Of how the breeze feels to the leaf

Or the raindrop to the window pane

I have, or so it seems to me

A need; both for the writing

As well as for the fantasy

They both keep my life on the go

Such that one day I will look back

On this quiet Friday morning

When my thoughts sprang

From a place I once had known

Journal

The Medicine Wheel precedes us

Yet also

The Medicine Wheel received us

The silent space breathes

As we, together, or apart

Breathe for each other

Shelters and baskets

Well, they began much earlier

Than our shelters or baskets

Shelter being a basic need

Although love, love runs it close

Especially in my own world wilderness

As if in Connemara

Where to go is actually no foundation

For seeing Connemara

I was in Los Angeles

A couple of years before

Then in London, but that was later

Lewes will always mean

A place for meeting

Adrift of the Siberian winds

But now I am confused

The Shadow Stuff is dated

After the gallery visitation

Fortunately, Basket for Crows

Fits our timeline, precisely

Almost calling it as a time to revisit.