In Place Of Occupation

One more cup of coffee
One more to bring intensity to thought
To strengthen, to enrich, to magnify
To beautify, to endorse, to probe

One more shout out to the future
One more to bring indemnity to the scope
To elongate, to extrapolate, to mimic
To lose the cynic, to endorse, to probe

I photograph the stillness of the room
I record the calmness of the room

One more moment of now thus captured
One more time of being here in the present
To witness, to experience, to elucidate
To realise, to endorse, to probe

One more cup of coffee
One more final piece of action
To highlight, to dim, to radiate
To be within, to endorse, to probe

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Occupational Health

If I was a stamp collector
I would find one for this morning
All blue skies and frosted grass
All peace and tranquillity
All mindful time for the writing

If I was a sculptor
I would take out the plaster of Paris
All brilliant white and tactile
All solid mass and inner soul
All mindful time, for chiselling and filing

A stamp collector, a sculptor?
No, I am not any of these
Though of course I dabbled
What with friends at play, and on schooldays
Isn’t it just what we did

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The Choice

Books change peoples destinies
What did I see
What did I notice
What did I feel
What did I say or do
What didn’t I say or do

Those five small prints by Joe Tilson
What did he see
What did he notice
What did he feel
What did he say or do
What didn’t he say or do

Those ten small shelves of books
Might I choose one at random
That you might retire to a quiet place
There to read it
How does Hesse’s Siddhartha sound
Yes, let’s go with that; or no, maybe not

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The Paper House

Within a month of your gift we had parted

Thirteen years on
Can I measure the loss
Can I measure the grief
Can I explain away the obsession

The feet and the inches of loss
Never again to be close enough to touch
The kilometres and the miles of loss
Never again to bridge the inevitable distance

The pounds and the ounces of grief
Always to be in fear of the tears
The kilograms and the tonnes of grief
Never again to weigh in with a lover’s words

The one thing on top of another of obsession
Maybe, yes always, one last sprig of hope
The last time before the next time of obsession
With otherness, yes, worthy to carry the doubt

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Discuss; If You Must

How does one make sense
Of a watercolour painting
Or a contemplative pastel sketch

I look across the room
At my own work
From thirty years ago

I could say to you
That there is lightness
That there is love

Yet, if I move in closer
I would talk of frustration
I would talk of dismay

But, and I smile as I write this
I must speak today of satisfaction
I should talk well, of my minor achievements

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