Recital I

I drank a good few beers
On Kate Harrison's
First ever Acoustic Music Night

I listened to the Ukulele Band of Louth
Then to my friend Peter Conner
Sing his self-penned soul searching
Next up was Jake Newby
Singing about what he'd seen on TV
Before David with his rumbustious trombone
Joined in with Peter and Alan on drums
For a touch of jazz a tumult of improvisation
Then it was the poets turn
I read Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Verses
By the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda
I was there in the moment lapping up the applause
Before reading my own poem Spring In Winter
I was enlivened as I introduced John Scarborough
Who read his light hearted Lakeland pub poem
About two walkers losing their map then losing their dog

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Rowing Boat

Rowing right out into the rip tide
Forcing the tortured oars
To take us over the seventh wave
Flaky paint is all that adorns the outside
Levelling the undrawn scores
Again to take us back to the seventh grade

Faithful by name yet no one stands by
Faith discarded under a rain filled sky
With no tourists there to speak of
Except my lover and I
Walking by the shoreline
Seeking to find out in our own time

Rowing on rippled pond waters
Carrying the weight of two and one other
A belly button of a mother to be
A son a brother for the daughters
The time was near
As if we always turned to see

Unfaithful by name and no one stands by
Faith discarded
Left with no more than time to wonder why

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Alone

Alone
To be on ones own
Away from the noise
At one yet not with the boys
The joys of solitude
Rude awakenings of self
The wealth of a different fortune
Ruminate among the musings
Cruising with the music stilled
Willed on by the love of love
And by the surer love of one other
Mother of all mischief
A thief surrounded by silence
The meanwhile now ground to quiet
The riot at once held back and unleashed
He reached for the stars for those older
Cuban cigars of youth and misappropriation

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Plasterer

I had read in David Lynch's book Catching The Big Fish that it was important to put plenty time aside if one wanted to be creative

He suggests if I understand him right that at least four hours of preparation are needed for each and every hour of creativity

With this in mind I planned to spend the all of Monday morning in the Old Stables doing some recording of my poetry and doing some clay work forming

As it happened I began writing in bed almost as soon as I woke and as soon as I rose the plasterer was knocking on the door for he had come to finish off the spare bedroom ceiling

He wasn't due to arrive until the afternoon but hey ho with the best laid plans of mice and men my plans were scuppered odd how I find it difficult with anyone else in the house to truly engage or infuse myself in creativity

I did take the time to visit St Petersburg via Google Maps then to add a few racy words to my novella

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She Chooses I Choose

She chooses music to play on her stereo
I choose to write about you before you go

She chooses to kneel in bare feet
I choose your footprints in the wet sand
She chooses Aztec designs for her fabrics
I choose the gold reflection in your suntan

She chooses partly painted floors of blue
I choose turquoise as a reminder of you at your best
She chooses a ruffled simple cotton top
I choose to undress you to gently caress your breasts

She chooses to let her hair fall on to her shoulders
I choose to think of your hair held with a velvet slide
She chooses to reach right out with her left arm
I choose to think of you as you slowly draw me inside

She chooses to keep books beneath her sofa
I choose to cherish and posit those books you bought
She chooses music to listen to played on her stereo
I choose to write for you about you the you I caught

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