What to do, where to go
How to let the day develop
How to help affairs shape up
Watch the waitress take the orders
Watch the waitress pour the coffee
Watch the waiter serve the breakfast
Look at the glum-looking chap
At the next table, not a smile
So far, not one hint of happiness
Who knows what his worries are
Who knows the troubles in his life
Who knows the debts he has incurred
Maybe he looks on me in the same way
What a miserable sod he might think
He could even dismiss me, as a waster
Though I don’t feel at all uneasy
I don’t feel at all out of place here
I don’t, until I see, and hear, his laughter
Thursday, 21 June 2018
Wednesday, 20 June 2018
Olden Days Are Not Forgotten...
One day out of seven
Not a bad ratio
But of course that all depends
What you talk of
What side of the equation you are on
In this instance it was running out of words
Not knowing
The next thing to write
Not knowing
The next thing to think
And most certainly, in those moments
I did not think back
To that last one in seven chance
Such then as were my opportunities limited
Such then my escape into silence
Ever more profound, ever less pronounced
Then to read, thanks to Maria Popova
Of the damming of the word depression
An onslaught on its lack of anything useful
Better then to return to the previous term
Melancholy, and how that word now so so
Rightly masquerades, if sung in a mohair suit
Not a bad ratio
But of course that all depends
What you talk of
What side of the equation you are on
In this instance it was running out of words
Not knowing
The next thing to write
Not knowing
The next thing to think
And most certainly, in those moments
I did not think back
To that last one in seven chance
Such then as were my opportunities limited
Such then my escape into silence
Ever more profound, ever less pronounced
Then to read, thanks to Maria Popova
Of the damming of the word depression
An onslaught on its lack of anything useful
Better then to return to the previous term
Melancholy, and how that word now so so
Rightly masquerades, if sung in a mohair suit
Tuesday, 19 June 2018
In A Room, With A Memory
Listen, listen to the quiet
Bathe, bathe in the collective calm
Even the tip-tap tapping
Of the keyboard is helpful
Yes, yes, yes, no it is not repetition
A whole swathe of letters
Are brought into play
As I imagine climbing over the five-bar gate
Bathe, bathe in the collective calm
Even the tip-tap tapping
Of the keyboard is helpful
Yes, yes, yes, no it is not repetition
A whole swathe of letters
Are brought into play
As I imagine climbing over the five-bar gate
Monday, 18 June 2018
Parked, On An Incline, By A Field
Between the grey, and the maroon
Sit the rolling Lincolnshire Wolds
On this mist filled February afternoon
Between the hedgerows, and the trees
The tarmac highway takes over
Towards a welcoming, melancholic tune
There goes the last of the coffee
And no longer any cigarettes
To go with that Cornish vacation fudge toffee
There go the coasting four by fours
Also the rampant, excitable speeding youths
All intently exploring; what this here life is for
Sit the rolling Lincolnshire Wolds
On this mist filled February afternoon
Between the hedgerows, and the trees
The tarmac highway takes over
Towards a welcoming, melancholic tune
There goes the last of the coffee
And no longer any cigarettes
To go with that Cornish vacation fudge toffee
There go the coasting four by fours
Also the rampant, excitable speeding youths
All intently exploring; what this here life is for
Sunday, 17 June 2018
With Sight, And Sound
The music was called Reiki
Now John Christie
Talks of a patch of light
Earlier, yet only a few minutes earlier
I saw the orb of the sun
Half obscured by the afternoon mist
John talks of darkness
Darkness known as memory
Perhaps he is thinking of my dream
My repetitious dream
Repetitions, which unfortunately
I don’t now remember
Yet John seems to remember
All manner of people
Even those who talk of spiritual collaboration
The photographs, for you might not see them
Are of trees, and hedgerows
And fields, with crops and lakes
The artist’s date in this way
Comes to fruition
That is to say, it turns full circle
Now John Christie
Talks of a patch of light
Earlier, yet only a few minutes earlier
I saw the orb of the sun
Half obscured by the afternoon mist
John talks of darkness
Darkness known as memory
Perhaps he is thinking of my dream
My repetitious dream
Repetitions, which unfortunately
I don’t now remember
Yet John seems to remember
All manner of people
Even those who talk of spiritual collaboration
The photographs, for you might not see them
Are of trees, and hedgerows
And fields, with crops and lakes
The artist’s date in this way
Comes to fruition
That is to say, it turns full circle
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