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
Friday, 19 February 2021
Space Exists
Thursday, 18 February 2021
Basis
When I sit in the sunshine
The concentration which I need for reading lapses
As my head wobbles
I don’t write of solitude, not nearly so much
As I read of solitude
I am the driver, at the railway level crossing
Who waits in abeyance
And I quite care for that sunlit location
Halfway to nowhere
Yet in snatches I am fully cognisant of my place
In this floating fading world
Wednesday, 17 February 2021
Unbelievable Facts
Tuesday, 16 February 2021
Harder Facts
What is the point of continuing the struggle
Would it not be more comforting to be alone
And do I have to write it to even think it
Do I have to pour out the angst to get over the angst
What is it that inspires such opposition
What am I not being told
What must I discover for myself
Yes, there is heat and light and space
But wouldn't there be that anywhere
Because with such disregard for my ways
What is the purpose, where am I heading
I want to be in society, but I am not, not there
Monday, 15 February 2021
Facts
Just on halfway, see the white line
Made with a roller and a bucket of lime
A groundsman, with a steady eye and gait
And perhaps a bowl of rolled out twine
Remember the school playing fields
Running tracks and cricket squares
Where precision, and circumference
Both came into play
Running in at a heck of a pace
Then stopping, precisely, as the ball was released
Or taking a leg-and-middle guard
Before tapping the willow, behind the crease