In your room I am ironing
I feel pretty good about myself
I feel the goodness usually reserved
Or given a fairly lofty price tag
Much the same when you return
From your dutiful day at work
While all the while I toyed
With some unlikely protestation
Later, sat on the three-seater sofa
We feel pretty good about ourselves
We did kiss
But that was somewhat earlier
The iron is still, all else is steaming
Afterwards we mow the lawn
Taken from the collection Words in Aspect South Facing - Available from Amazon for Kindle
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
Friday, 14 December 2012
Thursday, 13 December 2012
Beyond the easily forgotten
Sentimental, awash with nostalgia
Do you remember, or are you scared
Think on - only from the past
No ideas for an unknown future
Nineteen Eighty Four is way back
A place no more than a wilderness
The Easy Rider’s have smoked
Their last cheroot, today is a reflection
But what of tomorrow
Walk naked down the high street
Or some other form of soul baring
Or extravagant expression; rose petals
In gardens falling, more or less to dreams
To intensify - autumn’s fresher schemes
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Turn away from the return
Escape to this piece of England
Determination your sensitised survival key
Something snapped; one final silence too far
One magazine article, one mission
Two hundred miles apart
You are going or even may have gone
Purposeful; with direction and organisation
Another way of life to give back a life
To vibrant youth; no more to carry the still
Misplaced child found in a house lost of love
Once, twice, but never ever a third time
Sound of fortune cards pulled from the pack
Wise words taken with a wiser smile
Shall we go home now
The first song on the first date
Soon together & determined at one
Purpose with and in a single key
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
White light, clear evening
Always forwards with preparation
Except this time to give chance its chance
Unexpected, the floodlit clock tower
The touch of hand on hand
In such a rush to build a past
To look forwards, to look out, for
Flashbacks of the future, memory of now
Wait; spare a moment from the cobwebs
Feel skin pressed hard against skin
Teeth bite hard into necks
Sink into softer navels
Bodies clenched tight
For fear of misunderstanding
Risk all
But do not call it desperation
Tall towers …longer views
Monday, 10 December 2012
Bounded
Even asleep the heat overwhelms to wake
With perspired skin; here still the prisoner
On the final journey, a courtesan about to fly
A writer to hold the broken lead one last time
Outdoors it is marginally cooler
The draught floats through the open door
Into the courtyard, into the library
Across the road from Grand Central Station
Backalong, in bars and sherbet fountains
We were glad; expectant in high summer
Mad with excitement, pretty dresses
Long legs, friendship, gaiety was all around
Surrounded life closed in & leaves fell
Four seasons, the reason for the winter
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)