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Thursday 30 April 2015

On Landing

Is there phlegm when you cough
The doctor asked
Are there bicycles in Amsterdam
I should have said

Is the warm head
Another sign of my illness
Or do the busy places
Always burn so brightly


Wednesday 29 April 2015

Let Vacation Begin

Talk is of snowboards
Skateboards without wheels
Offers the grey haired older man

Father of the middle aged son
Who is doing most of the talking

Utah apparently is a good place
I therefore presume that these folks
Are related to the founding fathers

Descendants of those Boston pilgrims
Why else to be in Humberside Airport

Tuesday 28 April 2015

75

The book I have in mind to write is to do with recovery, recovery from the dark lights of life, and recovery from the dark lights of a several times broken heart.

The book will deal much with therapy, with many therapies, with many witch doctors magic methodologies, with many placebos, with the many failed and the few successful cures.

Longing will remain, it is one truth of life; longing may subside but it doesn't disappear, that is my belief, one reinforced through experience.

Firstly I will lay down a few facts, in some sort of chronological order. I will then group these facts into some sort of well thought out sets, placed on co-ordinates, in that x,y,z continuum that is the three dimensions of time, space and heartache.

From this cosmos, with multiple orbits, I will explore some of the perceived wisdom in the literature; you may expect a few quotations, from Jung to Nietzsche, from Dickinson to Plath, and from all spheres in between.

Unlike the poetry, which precedes this work, I will aim to distance myself from the particular, that is except where a detailed explanation of the particular might bring a smile to our eyes.

And who is to read this book? Why lovers of course; those falling into love, those falling out of love, and those beautiful souls found wandering on the precipice somewhere between somehow being in love and somehow being out of love.

Be ready to nudge me if I ramble, I won't intend to but sometimes the streams of the sub-conscious just take over.


Monday 27 April 2015

74

Is it that I have become indecisive
When mostly the only decision that I choose
To make is to write a few more words

On this next question I have truly stumbled
Should I retire, from the day job
To live the life of a writer

Let's be very clear then
I very much enjoy writing, to say immensely
Would not be stretching the point

Yet I have nothing published
And neither have I courted publishers, or agents
Save for that background noise of self-publication

I have hardly ever performed my work
Other than with a few local writing groups
And for my own internet recordings

I do care for my poetry
Some of it has stood the test of time
But it has never really got off the ground

I could carry on as a part-time writer
I have done so for eight years, or twenty five
What would another two mean; more of the same

Or I could jump, start some explorations
There would be risks, failures and successes
There would be change, I always wanted to change


Sunday 26 April 2015

73

The last page was the halfway point
And now, apart from that last short ditty
We could almost say it is a new beginning

And how many more times have I begun again
How well the strain of originality is kept at bay, both
Along the illuminated way, and within the sunken shadows

The madness isn't though now present quite so often
Time, that great healer, softened many of the blows
Although, will it ever truly be over, will I ever know

If it is that the fields and the trees
In the morning frost are feeling the chill
The sky and the breeze thus redeeming me still

The thrill of the chase
And the basket case I became
No blame, no reframe, no endless shame

Always the same or all ways to change
Simply to write; sit with words to rearrange
Place this before that, in love's lost exchange