Less Strong

She stays more dreamy than in sleep; to face up to her fragility with dignity

He touched her eyelid so soft; panicked at the thought to end in a penniless croft

Rambles of a ramblers themes; he often caught her drift, yet also missed his chance

Fate undone by circumstance; there in the queue, where she knew of but the few

She reads in joyful voice; of her new-found, long-lost friend; it is why we depend

To send the desires of her spirit, she impresses her lover’s letter, with the stamp of wax

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

Over There, Believe Me

Shadows; words lurking in the in-between spaces, demonstrations of my counter complexity

Maintaining a conversation, however ill advised, brings with it the difficulty of understanding my inner self. Brings with it the need to clarify, at least in words, my present physical and mental states, however troubled they are to get to the  surface

There is a nearby indiscriminate pain, slight but present, a pain of what I take to be of absence; near and in my shoulders, near and in my gut, near and throughout the whole of my body, near and in and among the veiled shrouds of my absently defiant yet mostly mistaken mind

These are the bubbles of joy and guilt that bounce along my arterial veins, just as the surf turns to the oceans with the expectancy of incredible life, just as the clouds turn from the sky to leave the transparent blue, just as those Saturday mornings opened with the opening of a white cotton blouse

I read your seventeen words, twenty-one thousand times, without any hint of desperation

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

I could say her conversation was inane

Early start

Yet much later than the sunrise

Looking at a picture

Of a bridge over a canal

It could be that Turner stayed here

Though on reflection I don't think so

I believe he was painting in Chichester

This is Chelmsford, with a cheerful oriental waitress

I could say her conversation was inane; but

What good would that do for anyone, least of all me

If I had more than my ambition

The jazz singer sings

Yet without any ambition

Isn't my day going to drag

Although the breakfast is good

& I might have the same tomorrow

There then, that's a thing to aim for

To smile, be jovial (on the surface)

Irrespective of the slow tides that ebb within

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

The Key to Room 149

Seven o'clock is the wake up call in the hotel suite, next door but one

Down the corridor a door slams, the first executive is on the move

I press my mobile alarm to snooze, feel the early day sensation in my feet; the baths, showers and WC's set the plumbing pipes in motion

My meeting, a presentation by others, is at Ten AM, one hours drive away; as I enter that point into the iPod I realise it is time to turn on my own taps

Time to begin my mornings ablutions; but first to make a cup of English tea, while the tub fills with hot and lukewarm water; I mix in the complimentary bubble foam

I submerge myself in the three quarter length vessel; it is not a delicate movement, yet I am supported by the handrail. The shampoo is eco boutique, I put some in my travelling bags, next weeks rooms may not be so luxurious

My untidy stubble means I need to shave, it is a man thing, and tedious; that's why midweek I mostly wear the unkempt look, unless, as today, I am the public face of the company

Back at my desk, still writing, but now hurrying, for breakfast is at eight sharp I told myself last night. I put on yesterday's clothes, I will change later, after a couple of rashers of bacon, with soft fried eggs

I put the trousers in the trouser press and go; the chambermaid smiles, she offers a warm good morning, it's been quite a while since I was a regular, but we do remember faces don't we; especially honest workers

The restaurant waitress is equally welcoming, asking sincerely how I am; she points out the weeping willows, starting to turn to leaf; I tell her that they are further on than at my daughters in Derbyshire where I have just visited my new born grandson (will he always now be in my conversation)

We talk some more about weeping willows, she has one in a pot at home; the meal ends with black coffee, toast and strawberry jam. I return to my room, passing pleasantries, again about my becoming a grandfather, on the way

The writing has to stop, time to focus and concentrate on the work; reading back I see I have told you a lot of little things, yet there is much more that I have left out

Next door’s telephone is ringing; it is left unanswered, she may already have left.

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

Sark

I was in the moment

On the headland meadow

Laying on the grass

In my green striped shirt

I was simply being

Being; in a place

Where I wanted to be

It was such a moment

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop