One hundred Monday mornings
One hundred photographs along the way
Glimpses of the mood
Captured in that wellspring of emotion
Notes made on the road
More of the Christopher, and less of the Kerouac
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Sunday, 24 September 2017
Saturday, 23 September 2017
26
There is a church
With a small spire
It shows a precision
Which its diminutive
Clock face signs off
With a small spire
It shows a precision
Which its diminutive
Clock face signs off
Friday, 22 September 2017
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
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
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Thursday, 21 September 2017
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
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
Wednesday, 20 September 2017
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
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