You are here
Here in this house
Here, in this room
We sit together
In meditation
Also, in the bedroom
We lay together
To become closer
More-so than in love
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
You are here
Here in this house
Here, in this room
We sit together
In meditation
Also, in the bedroom
We lay together
To become closer
More-so than in love
Finding my feet
Friday morning’s flight
Giving all
To the new direction
Met at the airport
Taken to the shops
Then onto Mon Plaisir
For a close and warm embrace
Our life
A cosmos
On a pinhead
In the Exhibition
Without strife
A fine dust
Particulate
Situation
I have been to many places
Alone and alone
I have studied lots of subjects
By myself and by myself
I have listened to millions of songs
With my own company for accompaniment
I sat on buses, trains and aeroplanes
Taking just the one seat, just the one
I watched football in the park
Not joining in, no not joining in
I self-published my books of poetry
For only me to read, only me to read
Now I am studying psychology and counselling
But I have no clients or patience
Is that why
She wore a mini-skirt
Or was it because
She thought
If she looked good
She felt good
And that was
In her mind
Way better
I stood in the market
On a Scandinavian archipelago
Wondering
If to buy a present
Was the the right thing to do
A good way to protect
And project that moment
Fade away (almost)
Immersive
In concept
Also in delivery
Persuasive
Close-up
Also far away
Declare this
In sunlight
And beneath the stars
Change and education
Or education and change
Rushing headlong
Into a future
On tracks or with steps
Entirely shaped by happenstance
Fade away, almost
The words don’t settle
So easily, even
Individual letters
Are difficult
To comprehend
The line of trees
How might I believe
Beyond the night’s darkness
The pathway through the woods
All uphill until
The bright clearing appears
I do not know of Le Bon or of Hippolyte Taine before him, although I did once stay in the Place de la République
The closest that I get to mob culture is in the football crowd, where I occasionally do move from individual thought
Of course I despise those politicians, especially the conservatives, who chose to name group behaviour as mindless and without reason
Instead, even though my own experience questions it, I prefer to believe that I behave as a thoughtful individual, whether alone or gathered in a crowd
Ordinary things
Smaller things
A note about the builder
Coming to do repairs
Orgasmic with their climactic noise
Then
When the dry weather arrives
The painter will paint the walls
Ash is the hardest tree
And to return the cruellest track
Yet both are in the realm
Of those beautiful days
When the blue skies
And the gentle breeze
Take their turns to play
The questions that I ask
Which no one answers
With a yes or a no
Yet they espouse
The pathway to their house
Or their door
But green is the colour
That I seek
Not stop, nor wait, but go
I go there
I go there
I end there
I end there with you
I smile
I laugh
Also I cry
I end there with you
I had to be alone
Life was too too intrusive
But I like your picture
I always go there with you
A sink
With a mirror
Another mirror
For make up
One wall of wardrobes
One with a full length mirror
A bay window
To one side of the bed
A Mark Rothko print
On the opposite wall
Above the king-size double bed
A row of cupboards
All of this for certainty
Among the uncertainty
Outcast
I have cast myself out
And I am slowly forgetting
How to reopen the door
Bitterness
Helps me to be bitter
Humour
Helps me to smile
Happiness
Follows swiftly
As I sit, secure
In my meditation chair