It is a blue sky Saturday morning
I could wear a white shirt, and denim jeans
I ought to walk alongside the harbour
And take a coffee, at the top of the slip
I should sit, and wait
I should sit, and be
And in between the waiting, and the being
I remember, that I am no longer with you
It is a sun filled Saturday morning
I could take a bath, have a shave
I ought to soak, perspire even
And make myself thoroughly pleasant
I should stroll, and sojourn
I should be the flaneur
And in between the bathing, and the strolling
I remember, that I am no longer with you
It is a bright light Saturday morning
I could lay your clothes out
I ought to layer your silks
And use the mirror to choose the colours
I should skip, and laugh
I should smile with joy
And in between the joy, and the laughter
I remember, that I am no longer with you
Friday, 24 November 2017
Thursday, 23 November 2017
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
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
Wednesday, 22 November 2017
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
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
Tuesday, 21 November 2017
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
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
Monday, 20 November 2017
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
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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