Journeyman

I am not here to write
But write I will

My practice began with a letter
About butterflies, set against
A backdrop of bright green leaves
About craftsmen, set against
A wall of Cotswold Stone

There is a second letter
A more difficult proposal
Using my vast reserves
Of conscious procrastination

This letter may also
Be concerned with butterflies
Yet set against I know not what
Perhaps it may be
About a jobbing builder

Set against a background
Of far trickier times

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Between These Lines

A packing crate of memories
Nights of mobile phones, and bridges
Of deciding to cross America
On a Honda-Goldwing motorcycle

Or connect to parties with milk
Bottles, and milking machines
As we watch the microlight pilot
First lose, and then find, his engine

Tomorrow the Atlantic coast
A place with a lighthouse
Miles of deserted beaches
All the ways we go, to find a desert

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Timid

Within the four walls of my own inadequacy
I refuse
And as many times as I refuse I say
Go on, take the risk
Knowing, full well, that it won’t happen

Only once in a lifetime
I accept
And as often as I accept I say
Take it easy, stay calm
Knowing, equally well, the gremlins will enter

For that time, that time only
I remember
And as I am, for certain, shorn of love
There looking back, no trouble
Knowing, absolutely, it wasn’t so, it wasn’t

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Awake in Sleep

These are fluid times
There is lucidity
Clear edges to the thoughts
A rationale, for further
Research and development

Scattered fragments
Are drawn together
Fractious egos
Are washed with calm
Complex endocrines
Are strung into the loop

I am more than me
More than what you see
The highs and the lows
The carbon glows
They are a part of me

On the borders of perception
A place far away from thought
By canals of introspection
Water; deeper, undone by nought
I am more than me
Yet still I see the uncertainty

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Relapse

Flies or crows or
Spiders
Long forgotten

Still I chose
To go back to sleep

Only fifteen minutes
To the alarm

Shortly
Afterwards
In the stillness of the day

The early light
With movement only
Of birds and superstitions

Not a breath of breeze
The white sky sure

To turn to blue
In the fullness of the day

Time to move on
Work out
What is meant

By crows
Or flies or spiders
Long since forgotten

free from poetry shop.co.uk