I could say her conversation was inane

Early start

Yet much later than the sunrise

Looking at a picture

Of a bridge over a canal

It could be that Turner stayed here

Though on reflection I don't think so

I believe he was painting in Chichester

This is Chelmsford, with a cheerful oriental waitress

I could say her conversation was inane; but

What good would that do for anyone, least of all me

If I had more than my ambition

The jazz singer sings

Yet without any ambition

Isn't my day going to drag

Although the breakfast is good

& I might have the same tomorrow

There then, that's a thing to aim for

To smile, be jovial (on the surface)

Irrespective of the slow tides that ebb within

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

The Key to Room 149

Seven o'clock is the wake up call in the hotel suite, next door but one

Down the corridor a door slams, the first executive is on the move

I press my mobile alarm to snooze, feel the early day sensation in my feet; the baths, showers and WC's set the plumbing pipes in motion

My meeting, a presentation by others, is at Ten AM, one hours drive away; as I enter that point into the iPod I realise it is time to turn on my own taps

Time to begin my mornings ablutions; but first to make a cup of English tea, while the tub fills with hot and lukewarm water; I mix in the complimentary bubble foam

I submerge myself in the three quarter length vessel; it is not a delicate movement, yet I am supported by the handrail. The shampoo is eco boutique, I put some in my travelling bags, next weeks rooms may not be so luxurious

My untidy stubble means I need to shave, it is a man thing, and tedious; that's why midweek I mostly wear the unkempt look, unless, as today, I am the public face of the company

Back at my desk, still writing, but now hurrying, for breakfast is at eight sharp I told myself last night. I put on yesterday's clothes, I will change later, after a couple of rashers of bacon, with soft fried eggs

I put the trousers in the trouser press and go; the chambermaid smiles, she offers a warm good morning, it's been quite a while since I was a regular, but we do remember faces don't we; especially honest workers

The restaurant waitress is equally welcoming, asking sincerely how I am; she points out the weeping willows, starting to turn to leaf; I tell her that they are further on than at my daughters in Derbyshire where I have just visited my new born grandson (will he always now be in my conversation)

We talk some more about weeping willows, she has one in a pot at home; the meal ends with black coffee, toast and strawberry jam. I return to my room, passing pleasantries, again about my becoming a grandfather, on the way

The writing has to stop, time to focus and concentrate on the work; reading back I see I have told you a lot of little things, yet there is much more that I have left out

Next door’s telephone is ringing; it is left unanswered, she may already have left.

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

Sark

I was in the moment

On the headland meadow

Laying on the grass

In my green striped shirt

I was simply being

Being; in a place

Where I wanted to be

It was such a moment

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

Bedroll

I forget how many times I've turned over for passion

Or was it for compassionate leave

To grieve for nights that wander by no more

Or was it, for some misguided reason

To try and even up the score

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

Chimes Café

Some places get it just on right

With cream & green & rattan

The aroma of the baking

Travels with the light

The old cottage window

Preserved from the past

Candlesticks and flowers

Nought that moves too fast

The coffee & the flapjack

Tiled roof’s up to the sky

Another makeshift morning

Slow time; simply wandering by

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop