Read More Into The Bubbles

For four consecutive nights
Right on the cusp of sleep
I have been gifted a poem about lemonade

Not a poem about any just old lemonade mind you
But a poem, about the lemonade that you bought me
Not being diet lemonade but full sugar lemonade

Of course it isn’t really a poem about lemonade
More it is a poem
About what I couldn't and what I shouldn’t do

Indeed I did have one line, fairly early on:
I couldn’t do what I shouldn’t do
But I could not keep that, for it’s just not true, is it

Not for me, not for you, not for the whole wide world
None of us actually are made of such stuff
As to be able to say, and to deliver on:

I couldn’t do what I shouldn’t do
I couldn’t do what I shouldn’t do
I couldn’t do what I shouldn’t do

And with that mantra, the floodgates opened
All those things I shouldn’t do I wanted to speak of
To shine a light onto all of my secretive suggestions

But I shouldn’t do that now should I
So I couldn’t do that could I
Except of course if we had an amnesty

A declaration that no upset would be caused
That no recriminations would be effected
That you too couldn’t do what you shouldn’t do

Available from Amazon

Everywhere, Everyone, Everything

On another day
There will be a different pain
Indeed, on other days
There have already been different pains

And there will be days
Of fabulous consummate joys
Indeed already
There has been such a joy of days

Available from Amazon

Later

This is the evening
To be in bed early
Listening to Meredith Monk
Listening to the wind
Being hopeful for my children

The wind might take me anywhere
You also, if you choose to journey
Yes, you also, if you join the journey

To walk beside the dry stone walls
To walk up the hills, to walk down the dales
With the all that there is to see all around us

Not in search of faith, nor spirituality
Or peace, or outward calm, but rather
Simply to be there; to see all, to hear all

Not that I am giving up the exploration
As to who I am, or more importantly for
Who I might become; who might I become

Yet all the while
To breathe, knowing the breath
To smile, knowing the smile

To speak with compassion and generosity
To hold hands, and wish well
For all whose paths we cross

This is the evening
To be in bed early
Listening to Meredith Monk
Listening to the wind
Being hopeful for my friends

Available from Amazon

25th

This is the day
When we don’t have visitors to the house
This is the day
Of so so very few interruptions

There are no letters or parcels
Although the days, and the weeks
Leading up to this day have been a riot
Of postmen, couriers, and delivery drivers

There are no telephone canvas calls
To tell us about the latest developments
In double glazing or broadband communication
Which could warm us up, or which could speed us up

This is the day
When the coloured lights glow for themselves
Where the music crosses with the liturgy
When the cooking just takes a little longer

There are cards, presents, annual gifts
Though not all are here to collect theirs
For they too are becalmed also
In their quiet houses, on this quiet day

Available from Amazon

The Writer Paused

It wasn’t always thus he says
With a benign smile of nowhereness
There once was a time, filled with enthusiasm
For each and every word

Now the openness of emptiness has closed in
The need for nothing, or at least the thought of it
Is becoming the thrust, the thrust now to follow
And so the empty rooms, and discarded railway lines

Can best mark the space for the virgin page
To make its entrance, less visible than ink
Yet more sustainable than lead, the parchment
Dies, for the irritant thoughts to be laid to rest

Available from Amazon