Obsession

Nearly always, actually always, I find a way, I discover a route to permeate the ether with my need to continue with the rise and fall of the heart, the mind, the soul; those cognitive and non-cognitive processes which allow me to make, and then celebrate a connection to what perhaps would be safer, or wiser, or _ _ _ _ left unexplained.

Yet that I discard the inner and the outer voices which beg me, which incite me, which indulge me to let go; but no, hanging on is the obsession, and just as the mountain climber (though I am no mountain climber) I hang on as if it is for my very life, which of course is exactly what it is; obsession or no.

Forgiveness

Could the word be split in two, could the forgive be separated from the ness. And what is the ness anyway other than a place where the monster resides, or does it?

But back to forgive, is it an action to take or an action to receive, and which of these two actions will make you feel better, or feel good about yourself.

And how often to forgive yourself, and in how many ways to work through forgiveness without it becoming an obsession.

An other ness like kindness, or, see how the flow stops when you try to be cute, or clever. How your mind or your brain stops you, through its restriction of access to a wider vocabulary.

Compulsion To Write

Five minutes free writing.

Forgiveness seems an odd place to begin; am I forgiving myself, or am I seeking forgiveness for others, or are there individuals who I ought to, or who I want to, forgive.

Is the process of forgiveness a way of wiping the slate clean, to then allow new thoughts, new ideas, new grasps from consciousness to enter.

Will I become free, will my writing become free; but what do I need to escape from, what is it that traps me.

Are the barriers of my own building, are there techniques to open the lock gates and let the waters (words) flow.

Is it important, or necessary, to set down in lead the thoughts which dash from place to place in my mind.

Is it ok to be wistful?

Highlight three words.

Lauri

Where does writing begin

Grown by sunlight of presence

Time & nourishment & love

Words float in on the breeze

Begin Here - Try For Yourself

Enjoy the day

Feedback session

At end of exercises

Elizabeth Gilbert - Big Magic

How ideas work

No material body

With consciousness

With will

Ideas search for available and willing partners

You might miss the signal

The idea may try to wave you down

Until the day when you are open

Lead In…

Lost, in search of a word

I chose another word

I wrote, balanced

I was not satisfied

With this substitute

But I used it

Lost, or confused by love

And its loss

I wrote about departure

I was not satisfied

With this leaving

But I left anyway

Lost, in need of explanation

I asked

Why do we hang things on walls

I was not satisfied

By the three ducks flying

But I used them

Now, or as near to

I must

And I do

I was not satisfied

With the must

But I did…

 

Stepping Points

How many times

How many more times

Why

Do I disrupt my own self

Why

Do I ponder

On that which is not wonder

So then

How many times

How many more times

Once more

To look at the clock

Once more

To look at the clock

You can stay all night

If you want to

How many times

How many more times

Why not take hold

Take hold of the doubt

Which dismays you so

How many times

How many more times

So think on

Think on of the hopscotch

As you count from one to ten

Bring Into Being

Any more

Than it is possible to be

Than it is possible to feel

As I taste the satsuma orange

And crunch the Swedish roll

Which carries Port Salut cheese

Any more

Than freedoms may offer

Or doubts could take away

As I taste the strawberry jam

And crunch the Swedish roll

Which carries Port Salut cheese

Is this in the least bit obsessive

Do you think that it tells you

Anything at all

Of what I want, or need, to say

I came here

With a clear vision

Reminded to me

By the transcendental music

Playing on my stereo

But now

Well, by now

You might believe that I have forgotten

Or was that it, all along

Break, Snap, Curtail

I don’t know

I just don’t know

How to close out

How to shut down

How to forgive

How to forget

The waves at the seashore

The walks in the meadow

The gazing up at blue skies

The streams on the moors

The theatre on the highway

The songs in the stables

I don’t know

I just don’t know

How to renew

How to rewind

How to fast-forward

How to move on

The letter in the post

The card on the birthday

The flowers from Inter-flora

The poems read out loud

The easy big question

The altogether love of you

Discovering Discoveries

Open hearted

I save the broken heart

For days gone by

At least that’s how I started

When I played the part

Of one who sits down to cry

I figured out the day we parted

Was when you saw the rising of the lark

And said you had to do this before you die

Just to break things up

Days of bought and days of sold

Stepping under, stepping over

To witness the story told and told

Stepping over, stepping under

Stepping under, stepping over

See the seascape of a love now cold

Stepping over, stepping under

That the wind blows daring one to be so bold

Just to bring things to a close

Place To Page

Only the orange wilted

I myself was ok

And so too the crow

Only the moon waned

To gift a giant sun

With welcome winter warmth

Listen then to the stories

About this quiet phase of life

Going from place to page

Not knowing, nor being shown

Not owning, and not being owned

This season, nor next neither

The gull and the magpie

Are out walking, or should I say strutting

The lady with the stick, she strides on

I am here

I sure am no longer falling

As the walkers in the walking group walk on

Life, And Death

In that moment

I felt immortal

For one second

For one minute

For one hour

For that day

But not

For that night

Because, as darkness fell

I was on the cusp

All of my energies galvanised

For one final burst

I never felt such totality

Every muscle, every synapse

Every vein, every bone

Every nerve end tingled

Yet I know, yes, I do know

That I am not immortal

I shall wither and die

As will every other ever born

There will be no second coming

No new life, now the lessons have been learned

What has gone before was not a practice

Though, of what lays ahead, no one knows

Various Variabilities

Her eyes fall on the red flag

Her sister’s faith dies away

What her swirling thoughts say

Is no more than volcanoes erupting

The distant cries act as kisses

Each headpiece thus adorned with love

There is no heed of the watchful wolf whistles

Only the silence stills the dancers

Beneath her gown her feet skip dainty pretty

Beneath her favour her heart leaps

The fear, too far away to shake her

She sways her soul to stray no more

A hundred shades of grey

Bring out the rose vermillion

A hundred cloths of ample daylight

Bring the scarlet to the freesia and the fuchsia

Why Couldn’t You

It was a landscape

In which I was settled

Every day

I re-assembled the fields

After the farmer’s work was done

Then, one morning

After another pagan ritual

It was I who gathered

The remains of the dying embers

Was I the first to rise

Or had others seen

The dark turn into light

Watched the foil tops being fitted

And the churns taken away

The snow

Was not here yet

But it would be calling

Play with me

Play with me

I am your nemesis

Waiting On

I was already out there

And several times

I had been rejected

I knew of rejection

And doubt, its not yet

Too apparent bedfellow

But I was loud

Also foolish; yes

I pressed on

Unrelenting, relentless

I had many sores

Still to pick

Or to pour over

Stood at the bar

Watching you dancing

Waiting for the interval

Or the intermission

As it’s called in the movies

Where I would

Most definitely

Have bought you a vanilla ice-cream

Of course you could have refused it

But why would you

It wasn’t for anything

Touched By Timing

All those pages of handwriting

With sloping margins

What is that all about

How easily do I trawl

My deep sub-conscious

All those skies full of rain

Around the silver and the grey

Where does the wind rise

So far from the raging seas

Of our universal unconscious

What then of the smoke

From the small shed’s chimney

Who did light the fire

On the warmest day of winter

When the weather gifts consciousness

And so the clock chimes

After who knows how many years

See just what can be achieved

Through the turning of a key

In the half-light of the semi-conscious

Divination

The sleeves on my vest

Or base layer as Finisterre

Choose to call it, ride up

To sit above my elbows

It is a minor irritation

Although I am not sure

That it warrants a complaint

But perhaps a query to quality control

Instead to watch Gen Kelsang Nyema

Focussing on the positive frame of mind

I am asked to sit comfortably

Feet on the floor, hands in my lap

Which is much as I began the day

And so so settled did I become

That sleep welcomed me into its house

Until the meditation alarm woke me

And now I have been told

That I am infallible, though

I do believe sarcasm may be involved

I would anyway have preferred unfathomable

Like the bicycling man from Sheffield

Who followed his dream

Or rather he followed his gut instinct

And all turned out, sort of, ok

Unperturbed

No news is good news

Although the news is not due

Until this time next week

Other news

Is also outstanding

Yet without much hope

Light shines

As light falls

At a slant, at a time

When what else

Comes to mind, comes to mind

From who knows where

There was that time

No, truly there was

I’m sure I remember

In any case I smile

And why wouldn’t I

With so so little on my mind

It is the quiet moments

The slow moving stillness

Which echoes, or reflects the clatter

Stealth

Outpatients department

Grantham hospital

Oral Surgery & Orthodontics

Who knows what’s next

Who knows why

Who knows where

No butterflies or songbirds

No beech tree or aspen

No coffee, or tea

But lots of receptionists

Three so far

Have passed me onto the next one

Perhaps it is the new payment system

That’s left the car park so empty

Must remember to pay before I go

My Covid test results

Did not come through

Though Kate said I would be negative

I don’t know

Whether to take that as a compliment

Or if I ought not to pay anyway

Sustained

Sat outside

By the straw bales

After a good lunch

Of cheeseburger, with tomato relish

Followed by

Peach and raspberry de-luxe ice cream

On the eleven-twenty to Newcastle

Complete with face masks

The only two

To board at Corbridge

But then we are travelling off-peak

As a means of economising

You Do The Math

Thomas Ellis

Painter

Decorator

Glazier

Signwriter

A tradesman

Serving the shopkeepers

Of this northern

Historic abbey town

Which closes at 4pm

Actually

The Deli at Number 4

Went home early

Or closed the shop

To prepare coleslaw

The building society

Has moved next door

Their building

Taken over by Dickinsons

Who were established in 1878

 

Inland Vacation

In Cartmel Square

The workers they congregated

Talk of the maidens bare

And the squire's suspension of shame

In the monastery temple

At Manjushri Kadampa centre

Shoes taken off at the door

Hands sanitised and face masks worn

A formal meditation

At fourteen-thirty

With flowers, offerings

Among images of the Buddha

The skylight is only a skylight

There are no stairs to climb

Nor any viewing platforms

To look out to the bay

Prudhoe Castle

Should we or should we not

Pay the entrance fee

Including a donation to the trust

But we have bought

A bicycle pump

And there are safe places

Hereabouts

 

Day Trippers

Ferns and moss

Fallen down trees

Footprints in the bogs

Sands and salt marshes

Bushes by the doyen’s dozen

An artisan baker’s shop and café

A quiet place

A busy place

A place once so full of tourists

On platform one

Waiting for the train

To Silverdale

Two stops down the line

Alongside the estuary

From Grange-over-sands

To the RSPB’s sanctuary

At Leighton Moss, with the ducks

And a coronation chicken sandwich

Paint is peeling

From the glass window

Staring out into the station’s waiting area

 

Steady Does It

Matilda climbed on the rockery

But was told

No, no, no Matilda

Absolutely not

But who gave her the name

In the first place

Sat, on the promenade

At Grange-Over-Sands

On the last Saturday in August

In this, the year of the pandemic

Opposite the telescope

Which looks out over Morecambe Bay

Children race each other

On their push-along scooters

The girl says that she is the winner

Are all girls, and boys, competitive

Kate has gone to the café

For coffees and vanilla ice creams

The proprietor says that they do all kinds

Including cappuccino, yes, he did say that

Patches of blue sky, ever so slightly

As Pink Floyd might have said:

Obscured by Clouds

Maybe they had played here

Back in the day, in August

 

Reclaimed From Rhyme

Clouds, in quite a hurry

To cross the once blue, blue sky

Thoughts of how I have disrupted

Oh so so many lives

Would that I could be seized

With no need to go anywhere at all

Would that I should be rooted

To a place so so calm as this

That we might all travel less

For less is more, is more, is more

No need then for second stops

Or even to worry as to the final result

What once was grand

Was, for sure, for sure let go

Decayed to the loosest straw

Solutions offered by the high and brazen

Rhododendrons were the latest thing

And for tall trees seeking light

A grandstand then was often built

Or a platform, for revellers simply to be

Dilapidation comes to mind

A certain requirement for a lick of paint

The past is past, but, we did all play our part

Except for the mother, who really was a martyr

  

  

Incontrovertible

It matters not

What you leave behind

Nor if your partner looks sideways

While you look forwards

No amount of wealth it seems

Can make a man, or his possessions, immortal

For he, and they, will surely

Be impoverished by the passages of time

All day long

I ought to carry this thought with me

Nothing should become too too precious

That it may not be written of by me

Currently closed

The chapel and the restaurant

Also the fishing pegs by the lakes

Otherwise, open for admission (tickets only)

The quiet stone

Stands beside the old wooden door

Where the threshold is much underused

The latest change is 1995

Smell the grass, freshly mown

See the heather, and the Acer

Take in the splendour

And think of how life might have been

  

Treasures

So far away

A minute stick of a figure

At the water’s edge

In his own world

Yet now, also

In my world

Trouble, as they say, sets out

At the double

To disturb his peace

More-so, the cloud cover

Has changed the waters colours

Caught the shadows on the hop

The white windmills

For now they are all white

Their greys having been despatched

By the twirling blades

He doesn’t move at the double

Troubles himself instead, to focus

On that extremely fine line

Where land meets sea

Where new light travels

Along the East Coast continuum

From the Wash to the Humber

From the gifts of the gifted, to those as given

  

  

Here As Elsewhere

The seed heads

Of the dry grasses

Crumble

In my fingers

Spreading their futures

Into the marshes

Eventually, most likely

Out towards the horizon

Where, one hopes

That sky and sea will meet

Or at least share

A place with a view

It could have been

A John Miller

‘Summer Sandbar’ painting

Except this is not Cornwall

Nor is this the Atlantic

Although the light, yes

The light is equally magical

Today I am told

That there are definitely seals

And so the cameras

With significant zoom lenses

Are called into action

To remember the day

  

Also Days Like These

Just to sit here and write

On the old bench

At Gibraltar Point

With the warm wind

From the salt marshes

Admiring the white clouds

Beneath the blue sky

Listening to the warblers

And the human conversations

Which are always with us

Lots of flags

And marker posts

On the way

Or pointing to

The safer ways

Now the sunlight

Bright and piercing

Brings the flowers

Into bloom; one more

Summer for the taking

Among the grasses

Before the bridge

Which we will be crossing

Once the car parking

Has been paid for

  

Mapping Out

One more black americano

One more morning in the town

The charity shops are waiting

As the shoppers stroll around

One more time to the hairdressers

One more perm for the crown

The health food shop is salivating

As vegans and vegetarians mill around

Break out by the big-shot

Hear the fire of musket sound

Hares out there on the blue-heath road

In search of spring so I’ll be bound

All it takes is concentration

Some days not even that

The devil it is in the detail

So play sir, pray take off your hat

The radiator looks just right

Its style suits its situation

If only I was at the seaside

Instead of at home on staycation

But at least we are safe

Or that's how it seems so I am told

I didn’t bring my mobile phone

So the trail of track and trace

May, by now, have become rather cold

  

Drilling Down

The idea

Is that the idea

In itself

Is sufficient to focus on

Just as if

The idea was a pebble

To be viewed

From each and all standpoints

Even to be touched

That is

If ever we can work out

How to touch ideas

What would

The hand feel like

If plunged into a bucket

Of ice-cold ideas

Much easier it might seem

To question the idea

With some rigueur

Or fortitude

Perhaps not as a pebble

But now as an acorn

Offering the possibility

To reach its kernel