Wander In

I was in London, walking beside a big lay-by, which gypsy wagons had pulled into, I climbed over cars covered with juice…

I found myself walking down a wide alleyway, I came upon a door to 'an experience', I entered and climbed the narrow staircase…

There were lots of people, in smart casual dress. They logged me in, and put me with a group of five or six…

I said I was an engineer, another guy said he was a builder, a long haired chap said he was a poet…

I was looking forwards to our conversation, but the group soon broke up, and I found myself eating a roast dinner…

I checked out; the explanations for the receipt were bamboozling,  the 'experience' had cost over seven hundred thousand pounds…

I caught the train home.

Was it a dream, or was it two dreams. All I know is that there was lots of joy and laughter. I was very happy, and only a little disappointed not to talk with the bohemian poet. As always there are people, as always there is a refectory. Oddly this was an almost all male collective, apart from the girls taking the money!

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Marshchapel Bank Holiday

You are due on at four

I am sat in the graveyard

Looking out onto a very busy headstone

What do I make of the Cherub blowing kisses

Would the song work if I played Ukulele

For that is the sound I hear

Along with the cockerel

The singing, and the dogs barking

All of that is in my left ear

With only the church there to divide us

I never really settled with the motorbike

I was too much a creature of comfort

The bench has slats for the sitting

It is set solid, upon substantial flagstones

Where my feet settle, firm upon the ground

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Drift

If only to see the sunlight
Feel the stillness in the shadows
All then to walk alone on the marshes
To sit in those quiet spaces, where
One may set ones eyes upon the outlook
Contemplate with ease, on the absence
Of that which was most always absent

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Make Of Me

My uniqueness
Such as it is, at this time
Comes almost entirely from my past
So little of it is gathered from my present

Yet, if in the future
I wish to look back with some satisfaction
On a more unique and creative self
Then it may become equally

As apparent to you
As it becomes crystal clear to me
That I can only achieve that past
By working more uniquely in the present

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6:23

Grey skies
Don’t stop the birdsong
Windblown hedges
Don’t dampen their spirits

I have risen early
For no real purpose
It is too soon
To make my love her tea

Poetry doesn’t begin this way
Even for Mr Bukowski
Why, by now there ought to be
Profanity, or words more profound

But, as the too slow camper-van
Crossing the New York Bridge
I also am moving too slowly
I need reminding how to flow

Perhaps a meditation
To contemplate the light
Say thanks to all creation
& the wonders of the night

Maybe an invitation
To a debutante’s ball
Or another Gatsby glorification
To sound his lost lover’s call

Besieged by past temptation
I stride out towards the fall
There is no simplification
When love to know is all

The love of one another
The brook beside the brawl
The sister and the brothers
The familiar tone to stall

As richness becomes discovered
& spitefulness is turned around
The day moves on upwards
Sad thoughts banished to ground

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