Coming Round To Being

I am that rattle-bag of old bones
A dull and decrepit mind
In a worn out body

I am feeling sorry for myself
And one of us doing that
It is one too many isn't it

I have forgotten a lot of people
Yet I am unable to forget everyone
Desire it seems always defeats me

Of those I do remember:
A few were at junior school
And a few more at grammar school

The black coffee
And granola bar are taking effect
As is the young woman two seats down

I am feeling better about myself
And one of us doing that
It is a beginning isn't it

I am that saddle-bag of new tomes
A full and encrypted mind
In a born to flout body

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Cogitate

I am coming back through to you

There may be even more souls invited

I am thinking of a thinker’s night

Twixt thoughts, of the body almighty

I rest myself writing to the blue of you

Among those other souls who delighted

I am sinking into a contemplative night

Unwrapping the roses of dear old Blighty

I have the time that I didn't have, for either

Of the previously untrue not yet sighted

I am winking teardrops at the pleasing night

Enlisting the hopes that abound so slightly

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Cobbled Up

I wake early
But already I
Hear Peter leaving

In someone else’s
House I tiptoe
Raise myself quietly

I boil the kettle
Find the refrigerator
Make a cup of tea

There is a light mist
But already daylight
On a beautiful day

The living room
Is dark, all curtains
Are closed, it is warm

I slowly draw back
The corner blackout
New-light streams in

I begin to read Jane’s
Book ‘Too busy
To live your life’
What with the birdsong
And the cockerels
I think that unlikely

This is the quiet
Of the countryside
A good day awakening

We drank their wine
Ate their chocolates
Listened to their music

And now I gaze, let
My eyes fall, onto the
Simple vase of freesias

This is a home, and
It is what we aim at:
Joy and bonhomie

Ash still cools, in
The open fire grate
We both say thank you

For your invitation
‘A good do’ we say
‘Pity it’s time to go’

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Suit Collection

It matters less if it works
Rather that someone tried to do it
It is in the trying
Where the real beauty is hidden

The photograph of moss
On the old outdoor doormat
The recollection of the dream
In the cool light of morning

It matters more that time is taken
Rather than to let it slip idly by
It is in the action of contemplation
Where the silence might bathe us

The fading daffodils
On the half-finished shelves
The clock that no longer turns
Over the shining Roman numerals

It matters the same for today
Rather like it will tomorrow
That the bright spring day
Brings warmth to the shoulder

That the busy market town
Is open, to and for all seasons

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Inspired

The nights journey
Reflected the days journey
The creative souls of the day
Came back to warm the night

Those hours of being inspired
Landed into a few dream moments
Distillations of the sensitive people
Instilled with a sense of self-wonder

You might look up Robert Plant
Or Bert Jansch, or Antony Gormley
If for just a few of their ideas, or for their
Words, and their experiences to touch you

You may of course have your own list
But please, choose it, from just one day
For somehow I think that to go to overload
Would be a detriment to our sensibilities

Best to aim for that level
Which we may be sensibly able
To physically, and psychologically
Handle our thoughts and our emotions

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