BBB Poem 12

In that distance, which you talked about
Do you ever hope to find me
Yes I am there, I do wait, I often wait
Yet it tires me, the wait wears me out

In that nearness, when you touch me
Do you know how good I feel
Yes I am there, to love you, I often love you
Yet it needs me, love calls me out

That the distance, and the nearness
Conspire to keep you from me
Yes I am here, to wonder, I often wonder
Yet it feels me, wonder finds me out

In that time, which I dwell in
Do you care for where I am
Yes, I want to be, I do doubt, often I doubt
Yet it leaves me, care wears me out

In that space, which I frequent
Do you hear me ticking over
Yes I have to do so, I shake, often I shake
Yet it catches me, space calls me out

Thus the times, and the spaces
Are arranged to keep you from me
Yes I want to be, I often have to do so
Yet they wrangle, they do so find me out

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BBB Poem 11

You cannot be with me today
And that is unfortunate
For the scented notes in the garden
I feel would be rather to your liking
As might the still water
In the restaurant, where I wait for lunch

The glass bottle
Has a fancy stopper contraption
Which, by my age, I ought to understand
How to operate; of course I do manage
Though you would not say
That mine was a dignified manoeuvre

You will not be with me tomorrow
Which vexes me
For we could have many opportunities
To take pleasure, and share enjoyment
Perhaps at the seaside
To take in the salt water’s air

Or to find a burbling stream
Out on the moors
Where we could take off our shoes
And paddle, before we sated ourselves
With love making, followed
By lashings of strawberries and cream

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BBB Poem 10

Sat, in the Garden of Mindfulness
At Doddington Hall
There are fountains
But also people talking loudly
As though they are mindful
Of their need to be heard
The gardener meanwhile
Respects the peace, he works
The soil relatively quietly
With his hoe, with his rake

One noisy woman
Is replaced by another, this time
A specie with gesticulation
And loosely flailing arms
The fountain, god bless the fountain
Masks the worst of her utterances
At last I am alone, with only the feint sound
Of children at play in the distance for company

If I knew the names of flowers I would tell you
The reds, the pinks, the whites
There are crimsons, yellows, and blues
And of course all nestled
In green foliage; green grass, green leaves
Green stalks, and green shoots
There is also a poppy, or two
Behind the big house and the rose garden

At ten-past-twelve or so, in the corner, a tree
At ten-to-twelve or so, a house, and a gate
The sky is grey, filled with cloud, yet I believe
Little threat of rain; it is warm, comfortable
With only the merest hint of birdsong

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BBB Poem 9

Wounds have little choice but to be transitory
Yet it takes a good half, of a dull wet morning
For me even to reach into the emptiness of
The nothingness which only existed fleetingly

Although a door was opening; the half silence
And the half-tired mindless daydreaming
Led me to that place of feeling, feeling though
Not of rational self, not of this conscious self

As if ones mind (brain) had been opened
By a tin opener, for it to breathe in the many
Airs; of irresponsibility, hope, and anguish
With the canopy lifted, my thoughts could fly

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BBB Poem 8

I know this place
Nearby is where I spent my formative years
I spot the base of Emley Moor Television mast
The remainder is shrouded in cloud, and mist
I remember the old mast
The winter of it being brought to ground
Due to the unbearable weight of ice, and snow

Those days, on the cusp of puberty
With girls just becoming a fascination
A few years though
Before my first broken heart
That is, a heart broken, by a girl
Not by my parents, or by my so called friends
Or by my Penistone Grammar school teachers

I left this place
But, like a bad penny, returned several times
Mostly in search of solace, or shelter
After further experiences
Of break-ups, and heartbreaks
Or after split-ups; moving-on proclamations
I am here today as a result of one such

Here today to go to an art gallery
Twenty five or more miles away
Salts Mill; the home of one David Hockney
Another Yorkshireman, yet such a soul
Who travelled way further than I did
And who picked up, quite rightly
Many more plaudits along the way

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