DIY

In this light there is real peace

Sky and breeze and life at ease

Slow formed flames in the fire

Calm the lust for lust's desire

Bold grey walls by bookshelves tall

We have made this home that we call

Those days of dust they are long gone

We sought out trust, with love it shone

Soft cuddly toys in the rocking chair

For the grandchild who played so fair

Pictures on the walls & windows too

The doves fly as they so often do

Daffodils by the 'Thinking of You' card

Life can be tough, life can be hard

But with logs laid up & candles to burn

We can move ahead, continue to learn

As that day we found these soft armchairs

We thought to search, we chose to care

Cushions, and tables, and a music stand

Statues & lampshades, all rather grand

When friends come they say it feels calm

And we watch movies sat arm in arm

On the big screen projector in the dark

As with all young lovers we love the lark

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Good; As Only I Know

It is not for you, nor I, or for anyone

Other than the the poet who wrote the words

To call it a good poem, or a bad poem

For only the poet can say, with anything

Like approaching absolute conviction

That the words say, what he as poet wanted

For anyone else to express opinion, either

Objective or subjective is, in my opinion,

Poor form, for a form that is beyond clarity

That I have the cause to rise on this point

Is down to a fine piece of work by Wendell Berry

He writes well on The Responsibilities of a Poet

He only lets himself down, as many others have also let

Themselves down, by suggesting that an observer could

Name a poem a good poem; it is not so, it never will be so

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Bun

She did not know me

How could she have

I was new to these parts

New to this kind of life

But not without talent

A strong imaginative outlook

With a clear watching brief

All here are working

Sat in line; writing, reading

Studying, copulating

With our, and their thoughts

Also, every Thursday afternoon

A game of cards in the corner

How one walks, or rather squiggles

Says something

About the workings of the mind

How one stands, erect

While fixing milk and sugar

Speaks volumes about your style

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High Life

I would never have caught it

Not in the firmament so to speak

Yet I did catch it

In the moment as you might say

That brilliant tea-time blue sky

Washing behind the pink-tint clouds

Setting up the approaching crest-red sunset

Yet you only have my words

To persuade you of the beauty

So let's backtrack

To the supermarket car park

Laden with shopping

Too busy to see the outlook

Before driving West

Along the floor

Of the tree lined valley

Then climbing North

Up the steep hillside

This was for sure a race, time

Against natures clock, which

I was certain, sure beyond doubt
That I was always destined to lose

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Mark Me

It is a decision

Yet not like any other one

In that sense unique

Which usually appeals

How to analyse the rest of life:

Which tick boxes to choose to tick

Which spreadsheets to spread out

Which actuaries to ask for advice

With such indecision

I join with every other one

In that sense we are all the same

Which I usually steer away from

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