25

I have been heavy handed, but
Not in a heavy-handed sort of way
More of having the will to impose my will
On those I thought in need of guidance

Some might say that I was stubborn, yes
In that stubborn-as-hell kind of way
But more I feel as a demonstration
Of my own damned and wretched inflexibility

Available from Amazon

24

In this air, which we call our clear air
There floats at least a million dust mites
Yet only for those few moments, with the earth set on its axis
Does the light sparkle through tree and window
There to show off the fine particles, both levitating and travelling
No worry for the coldness, it seems they are knowing full well
That when the brightness disappears then they too will disappear

Available from Amazon

23

What is it that troubles me

No I know I haven't told you

And though I take the time to hold you

We haven't yet managed to second guess

To prevent distress I don't ask that you unfold me

No I know you are happy that I hold you

And rather pleased that no, I do not scold you

Yet perhaps it is time to probe, not just to impress

Don't let them fuck you about, it is not compassionate

To be brutal, it is not clever to tear that frail paper

When what it needs is a firm frame to wrap around

It is a tree which speaks well to me of frailty and indecision

With the precision of bonsai the branches point neither

In the way of the road less travelled, or any other road

It is a different tree, more wilful and wild of nature

With the precociousness of a night-after hairdo

Which says more about a night on then town than a night on the tiles

They are the real deal (and I know some people their equal)

I am the faithless pretender (and you know some people my equal)

If you don't want to be alone with me should I be on my own

If you don't want to share thatch and stone with me should I moan

Or just get on and do something about it; my purpose thus to roam

I find people, I lose people, I hope one day that it may slow down

Available from Amazon

22

We are doing all of those things that we didn't have time to do
We are fulfilling all of those promises that we didn't have time to fulfil

Yet still I retreat
Into that silent solace shell
That quiet place where I love to dwell
Yet knowing that for others it is their living hell

I am escaping from those who are close to those who are close to me
I am indicating my displeasure yet achieving less than nought you'll see

Yet still I repeat
Once again the same mistake
My inherent stubbornness it is no fake
Jealousy is always the fiend I choose to rake

We are all having fun, we are all going places, days on the beach, days at the races
We did have fun, we did follow our traces, days on the beach, those old familiar chases

Yet still in deceit
I hide deep behind the word
Driving along nudging the highway kerb
Always doing what I do, intending to disturb

We are building rooms, fireplaces and floors
We are replacing windows; drawing plans, buying wooden doors
We did construct; wardrobes, bathrooms, kitchen shelves
Only then to destruct; gardens, pathways, it was your living hell

Yet still my mind is fleet
Always unfulfilled, inside out
Hard to whisper, harder still to shout
Never committing, fearing the doubt

We are going away, to an isolated cottage in the dales
With friends, with family, with wine, with real ale
We went away, to an island hotel by the sail
Taking the children, to a place where all they did was wail

Available from Amazon

21

So many comparisons that pass me by
So many similar inferences where I am oblivious
Is this how the older sisters see their younger brother
Are his unfathomable abilities on the same plain

It is that time, at the end of the day, after an evening of reading, writing, eating and watching television; chasing opportunities for self-reflection, chasing ideas for onwards extrapolation, searching out what isn't there anymore, what most likely was neither there before.

But it doesn't hurt to dream does it, and these are the thoughts that precede the dreams; these are the my self becoming aware of my most inner and intimate self.

When I do go back to what might have happened, what might have been meant by those soft sensual words and o so tender embraces, what might I have implied from those passionate looks, and the nooks and crannies of physical progressions.

So many illustrations that I can use for illusion
So many commentaries that one day I might replicate
Is this how the young boy overwhelmed his family
As his indeterminate talents exceeded all expectations.

It is that time, in the clear light of day, after a morning of working and buying presents; losing, or leaving behind any detritus from the former, any joy from the latter.

Such that now we one might think of oneself as a writer; not a Colm Toibin or anyone heavyweight, but as a lightweight who lets the words drop onto the page as snow might fall, without story or setting, without hook or strap line.

Not even time for my self to to engage with my inner, or my intimate self, for now all I do is to look forwards, towards the next virgin page, to the next empty notebook of a life yet to be lived, of actions yet to be determined, of loves and lusts yet to be chased, or reinforced, or discarded.

Available from Amazon