Writing As A Pick Me Up Cure

This morning, even with the
Sunlight, and Tumblr’s fabulous
Pictures, I could become morose

It is what I do, with or
Without you, with or without
That great poet Pablo Neruda

This morning I am aching, it
Is a pain I carry, after the
Terrible falling

It is what I do, with or
Without you, with or without
That great painter Mark Rothko

This morning I am dishevelled
In an untidy room, that is painfully
Slow on the road to progress

It is what I do, with or
Without you, with or without
Those great meditation teachers

This morning I hear the birdsong
And pick up my fountain pen
At least then, as when with you, I am happy

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Imperfect Perceptions

The bedroom was shorter
Your buttons
Were closer together
I never said
How I wanted the treasure
To go on forever

The blossom was pinker
Your thoughts
Richer and untethered
I never said
How I hoped with endeavour
We might go on

The night-time was darker
Your dreams
All of stormy weather
I never said
How I could measure
Up; given the chance

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Chiaroscuro

Through the open door
Shadows of another door
Through the inhaled breath
Sounds of a ticking clock

After two weeks of storms
Slightly longer in pain
Waiting now for spring
The branches are still

Through the vacant mind
That only hears cars passing
There is no thought to time
To breathe is the blessing

What is the thing you leave
After close caressing
Will one always grieve
Before to begin undressing

All those hopes forlorn
Tickets stamped on, and torn
Thin edges gradually worn
Past promises once sworn

With today’s new shadows
Accompanied by slow breaths
We have the desire to go on living
Our light is free from living deaths

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A Light Touch Of OCD

In a short while I will
Become active
Rearrange the furniture
Tidy up the hi-fi, and computer
Listen, and look out for
Whatever disturbs me
Afterwards I might
Try to settle for peace
Or move
In the direction
Of perpetual reflection
Corrections to whats gone before
More of the stain
That my mind calls the plain
Where I go walking
Talking to myself
With these words
Writing to myself
With this pen

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Salon Night

Slow down
Watch out for the hi-hats
Skat’s off and he’s playing
The crowd’s hot and they're swaying
Slow down
Watch out for the night cats
Skat’s off and he’s playing
The crowd’s hot and they're swaying

Blue beat
And it’s raining
Skimming the life
The pianist is straying

Picker of steel
Working on the reel to reel
Laying it down
And feeling the feel

Slow down
Watch out for the hi-hats
Skat’s off and he’s playing
The crowds are loud
And the musicians are swaying
The musicians are hot
And tonight, o boy, we aren't half all swaying

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