It's that time of year

It's that time of year
- many of us fear it;
shuddering at the prospect of queuing hours on end in heated stores or online, trawling the pages for the perfect present or a gift that's 'best fit'.

It's that time of year!
You hear it called near and far
and see it as you crawl through the traffic of miserable but hopeful shoppers stuck in their cars.

It's that time of year.
We welcome it, invite it in,
make it one of the family, sit it down, offer it a festive bite to eat, even a tonic with homemade sloe gin.

It's that time of year again,
I have heard it said,
as we try to remember those less fortunate than ourselves but we're tucked up snug and warm in bed.

It's that time of year again:
we crack open (another) bottle
baste the turkey and turn the spuds while the Christmas tree lights twinkle, casting a light that's mottled.

It's that time of year.
I truly hold my family dear
and remind myself to be thankful for my friends - for their love and support - 'cos I fear
It has been a shitty year my dear, let's hope the next brings more cheer. My dear.
It's that time of year
again.

Horizon (draft 1)

If I'm gazing out to sea,
forgive, if it seems
I am measuring the horizon,
eyes narrowed, calculating,
enthralled, fearful, hands
fidgeting nervously
in anticipation
next to you, my audience,
forgive, and forget this
glimpse of my inner torment.

I'd like to think it's you
that am thinking of
but, thoughts hushed and secret,
I'm planning an escape
from you and this life.

I will keep it simple
in these final moments:
sorrowfully, it's a slow
and painful realisation.
I hope, for both our sakes,
to steal away and disappear
despite the conflicting surge
coming from the pit
of my stomach,
gripping like your hand
on my wrist, to stay, which
is what i'd like if only
I could face this life
beyond this moment.

A rite of passage

On the stony setting of the day, this woman blesses

           her son.

He'd dash to Totnes, then trundles casually 

North

to, what may be known as, the back and beyond

      of Scotland



 

The smooth sleek winding train yawns onto the

platform

inhaling from the platform his bags and bike to the

          lock up.

Her thin lips, held tightly into a smile, quiver as she stands like a

                                                    statue.

 

The tick of the track signals its departure;

it toots.

The sniffling woman with whom his eyes

meet . . .

Three pigeons, disturbed by the train, flutter and

fly past.

Escape

What is this ever changing state
where thousands cross border to meet their fate
and, in doing so, escape
from the destruction and slaughtering
- failing leaders who stand proud before them, and us,
as corrupt as ever?

Yet, the beheadings and bombings,
the suicides and exploitation
are not the product of
one man, or one vision, or one idea, or one religion.

History repeats itself
and this time the net is cast world-wide.
Atheists, the sinners, sit side by side
with Christians, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Protestants, Catholics,
for a cyber showcase
in shock at what unfolds before their eyes
on our screens
(and what we hope is a million miles away).

Innocents march, stumble and fall
alongside once corrupt officials,
ID-less, paperless, homeless.
Like the crusaders,
they hope for a better future
that sadly comes at a cost.

Everything costs.

Desperate parents guide their hungered children
in the shroud of night across continents.
Friends gather their energy and traverse countries
full of repent.
Sick and sorry that it has all come to this.

I sit aghast.
Horrified at what has passed
and feeling utterly powerless.
Gutless.
Scared but full of sympathy.
Silently grateful it's not me, or us,
... yet.

The World Yesterday

The hurt doesn't go away
despite the passing of the day:
indifferent to the moon
traversing the sky at night
after the sun has taken flight.

It hurts remembering
and this backwards thinking.
An intense heat.
Even the buds opened from the bright day
making it feel like yesterday.

The hurt doesn't go away.

Then, when the rain had
fallen in a summer shower, carrying a myriad
of the flowers scent;
then, when the swooping birds at play
held me silently, dumbfounded by the day.

What can I say about the world yesterday?
The hollowness hurts.

The bruised bark of the tree,
suffering, reaches above me.
A starless sky.
The stillness of air is suffocating,
when it's suddenly battered by a wind that's biting.

Don't

Don't -
don't console me
that way you try
with sad knowing eyes
and a questioning, quick shift of your lips.

Don't -
don't console me
and hold me close
so I can hardly breathe:
suffocating and choking my tears on your chest.

Don't -
don't console me
with a stroke and tap
and grip and grasp, with fingers that grate
like sandpaper they shred my sensitive spirit.

Don't -
don't console me
and think those atonal words
you offer can change anything
(if I hear the dry, dreary drone at all through my torment).

Don't -
don't console me.
You try: you touch and speak
too much to nothingness, to a shell,
echoing your efforts out to sea - words wandering amongst the waves.

Window

Her sadness was double,
it had two edges.

One looked out -
at a budding cherry tree,
and corrugated roofed
barns, and a road,
and fields turned up
like churned feelings.

The other stayed in
to see
her thoughts unwravel
and her lines
all wrinkle
in the lit up mirror.

Both were torturous.
If they met they
made a window.

'Look at life!' cried the pane.
'Look at the clarity of your vision!' cried Mother Nature.

Political Sickness

This is a satirical ridicule played out by hocus-pocus jokers, proletariat pricks,
who have their eyes on the honey pot and hands on their dicks.
Cutting support for the paupers and desolate fools
who should have just behaved themselves and "tried harder at school".

The retrogrades and renegades are fighting: tucked up in bed
or sat fiercely with their hands held firmly on their heads.
Dumfounded, desperate and belittled by this constant source -
suffering a degenerative standard of living - dished out by the Conservatives, of course.

So we're baffled... numbed...
and pretty soon (with these cuts) the lowest of the low, doing their sums,
discover their worth pittance to this country. And to top it all,
now a third child won't be a thing of joy at all,
so baby making is stalled.

Government, take a bow: for destroying the simple things we hope for -
comfy homes, a loving family, a hot meal a day and knowing we're safe behind a locked door.
Take a bow: for corruption and lining the silky pockets of your velvet suited friends
and comrades in power - to this greed and monetary gluttony, sadly I see no end.
Take a bow: for the neglect you seem intent on inflicting
on Health, Education and Welfare - pillars of the community we once lived in.
Take a bow: as more and more desperate people struggle with their own reflections,
their decisions and the urge to tip the bottle and succumb to a life of liver infection.

The utopian vision seems a childish whim
as we listen to the Budget cuts that Osborne ushers in.
Dystopian Orwell society drawing ever closer make us question if it's fiction:
a gloomy, muggy future is one artistic depiction
of the results of your catastrophic changes
(as everyday grows ever stranger)
and it leaves us wondering how far we are from real danger.

Posing as a saviour, you hold up your policies
like trophies -
a win we find it hard to share in.
And your proud, wolfish grin at each announcement
makes the common man shudder.
Then you slam us with another and another and another.

Then finally - the pièce de résistance, the card up your sleeve -
you're 'giving back to society'. Surely this will make us pleased:
"we're raising the minimum wage to £9 by 2020" you say (blow me down,
hold the phone, and all the other clichés around)...
I am sure you've made the 2.5 million people low paid workers' day!
(apart from with everything else, they'll actually be worse off year on year. I'm dismayed).

So this election manifesto, the one you acted out in May,
turns out to be as sour grapes as I anticipated on results day.
It turns my stomach and makes me sick
to think about which decent folk gave your their voting tick.
Who put their blind faith in your dirty, grubby hands?
Who carelessly (or naively or ill advisedly) is now stood shaking their heads trying to understand?

I voted Green, but that's not the point,
and I won't be worse off, but that doesn't oil my joints.
Childless, working adults are some of the winners in this policy change test
and the upper, earning elite who got us in this mess (again, they're treated the best).

A society of ambitious loners, in swanky cars, one-bed homes and loveless sex,
of companionless managers, unattached bachelors and successful bachelorettes
or suffering swarms of abandoned, uncared for, forgotten family makers,
children below the poverty line. No room for benefit fakers,
not in this Conservative paradise, where you work for what you're worth
and you get what you're given (or not given), if you've already money in your purse.

Now, before I get into senseless exaggeration, hyperbole for effect you might say,
my pain and concern is very simple really, despite this poetic essay I've typed today.

It's simple because I don't lack the capacity for empathy or sympathy for others;
I climb right in next to those you beat down to understand how and why they suffer.

They're suffering because you're lying to yourself and the whole of the United Kingdom,
because you don't care - you're not charitable, and are lacking in basic wisdom.
You're mugging my neighbour, my friend and strangers in broad daylight
and you want me to keep my mouth shut? To put up? Well, I want a fight,
I want to put this injustice right!
I want to shout with all my might!
I want to drag minds into the light.

So, I sit tucked up, typing poetry in bed,
or sit fiercely with my hands held firmly on my head.
Dumfounded, desperate and belittled by this constant source
of ill thought - prompted by the Conservatives, of course.

Forgetting

Subtly slithering through my fingers
like sand slipping through the fishing net.
Washing you away.

Like a whisper of wind that whips one last time,
in and round and through and up and past.
Whisking you away.

The dripping tap tips the tick tock of the clock
down the drain - small droplets at a time.
Running away with you.

Fading memories gather dust like the photos
and cards folded now and settled somewhere.
Slowly greying you away.

A sharp breath.
A shock.
A stab to the heart and stomach.
Back again; day one.
Desperately not wanting to let you go -
not wanting it to be true, or you, or us,
or me, now, here and you there.

I crash into the surf and cast my net wider and further,
waist deep in stormy waves, grasping at the frothing tormentors.

I leap into the air screaming silently - trying to inhale your name
again and again: gasping at the gusts that choke me as I strain.

I tighten my grip on the fittings; twisting and turning, wrenching
with these contentions that mock me as they wash away my tears that sting.

Where has the time gone?

Tugging sharply on the binding I lift your image and polish your portrait,
holding it to the sun for a rebirth, a regeneration, that never comes.

Just pain.
A hollow, terrible, shaking loss.
Just the same pain,
yet somehow worse -
now.

Falling away secretly, unseen, unheard, by us all.

New beginnings

Farewell.
Go safely.

As you shoot among the stars
of your youthful, glittering sky,
don't zoom past the
windows of opportunity;
don't leave yourself wondering why...
why did I never take a chance?
why did I never give it a second glance?
why did I give up so easily?
why did I let them give up on me?

Farewell.
Go safely.

No regrets, as you move on
with your lives.
You're not children any longer -
you're taking adult strides -
huge steps towards responsibility,
opportunity,
with dignity
and potential for an exciting future.

Farewell.
Go safely.

A thought

Or, perhaps, we understand perfectly.
Perhaps our reflections are whole, after all.

亀の甲より年の功

Lying back, closing
my eyes I sense the clouds float
across my vision:

a whirlpool of thoughts -
an internal storm or gale -
a tempest within.

Discharged from this life,
I find it's not so simple
to escape the past.

Serenity. Hope.
A longing for acceptance
in all our friendships.

Forgiveness. Belief
that we can learn from mistakes
that we keep making.

Lay here, I open
my eyes and see the sun burst,
blinding my vision.

Intoxicated

The intoxication makes your nerve ends
quiver
like a strip of ribbon
vibrating
in the rushing wind.

As the chemical waves wash
over you,
your eyes stare into mine.
An imaginary line joins us,
suddenly,
temporarily,
inextricably and fervently -
now or never!

Your pulse, like a volleyed football,
fires
again and again,
going for goal.

The intoxication makes your nerve ends
shiver,
like a rising riot
you reach to passionately embrace me
in the rushing wind.

Life after Life

After a while, it will come
and then, belatedly,
you will begin to recognise
who you are, dressed in these
clothes you used to wear, when days

were more familiar. Then. Before.
You'll begin to like the stranger in yourself.
Give hope. Give breath. Give your heart
some peace, for those you loved,

that were your life,
whom you adored and still do.
Polish the picture frames and now empty shelves,

rearrange the books, lay the letters to rest,
peel yourself away from then.
Look. You are alive.

Those Pussycats

For Ruth and her entourage of pussycats

Those playful pussycats -
with their twirling tails and whirling waves of energy
as they dash, decisively, or dart determinedly
from here to there: it seems they've no sense of where!

Their swirling manes flash between hedgerows and chair legs,
from floor to lap in four seconds flat.
Their tumbling gaiety - those funny pussycats.

Their breathtaking leaps of faith
at breaking heights give us a fright
as they stack
with outstretched arms and arched backs.

But there's no stopping these furry bullets
as they burst forth from bundles
of neatly piled clean clothes
or from the depths of the undergrowth.
Firing from room to room - those adrenaline fuelled pussycats.

Then dreamily they gaze upwards - heavenly -
into your astonished gaze, amazed.
Their beaming, hopeful green eyes caress your heart;
knowingly they anticipate, await,
the touch of God.
Longingly they look on you.
An invisible cupids arrow pings - those adorable pussycats.

Vulnerable

Turn away.
Say it's not your fault.
Blame.
Shout.
You deny any responsibility.

I can see your vulnerability.

Close the door.
Shut me out.
Refuse.
Reflect.
You won't even hear me out.

I can see you're vulnerable.

Run away.
Curl into a ball.
Shut down.
Shut out.
You block me out.

Vulnerable.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
Is there anyone out there who is seeing me fall?
Is there anyone out there who hears my silent call?

I'm vulnerable.

A Precious Life

A miniature person - a version
of you - settles, waiting, with you - mummy.

Soft sounds buffer against the safe shell
and a gentle lolling of amniotic waves
lulls your baby to sleep.

At times you find you weep.
Why wouldn't you?
A high-tech vessel, beyond monetary value,
carrying, like a priceless carriage, a gift of celestial value.
You are wonderful - mummy.

Cherishing these final days,
thinking of the wonderful ways
you'll spend each moment together.
Building memories to remember, forever.

Like a genie, we make a wish:
that all is well for you and your precious life.

For Steph and Dave

My Friend

You're there.

              I'm here.

You're shining brightly -

                                             permeating my vision;

                                                                                  I like it.

                                             A breeze lifts your hair -

                                                                                  I laugh.

You laugh.

                                             We smile and we raise a glass - ching!

 

                                                                                  I echo an idea you had,

you remind me why I loved it - travel.

                                             An inspiration to me.

                                                                                        

                                 I help you consider:

                                             inquiries, issues, ideas...

                                             Like a wave knocking against your boat.

But there are no clouds in your sky -

                                             the seas calm.

                                             We smile and drop the sails.

 

You're always there.

                                                                                  I'm always here.

You flood me with memories

                                                                                  and I float on the surface;

                                             we lie on our backs on our ocean.

                                                       I had forgotten, but do not forget.

Like drops of rain, 

they

come

back

to

me.

You're creating waves

                                              and they crash around us.

                                              We like this for a while.

 

Then, you're still and you gaze upwards.

                                   I gaze upwards while

                                               we enjoy this silence

                                               under a serene sky

                                               looking out to the universe

                                               from where we are now.

 

                                               You're there. I'm here.



Promise

I can't promise the world.

In fact,

I can't promise much.

 

I wonder what truths we can find in life,

in a place littered with heart ache

and plagued by greed and suffering.

 

I can promise thoughts, questions, ideas -

interest, engagement, enthusiasm;

a frustrating, strong, adventurous friend.

 

In me you'll find a place to reflect,

release,

re-energise.



Sunrise Station

Avoiding the shadows, the haunters of night,
and gravitating towards the light,
I am saved.

A rumbling tsunami of energy
rattles, creaks, rolls to a halt
at the opposite platform.

Moving vestibules to a journey's end;
life lived, momentarily, in a tubular world.

For a moment
the caw of the birds remind you:
'Enjoy this trice,
the fresh air,
this place in time.
Waiting.'

An endless stopover
ends too soon.

Rattling, creaking and rolling
it comes to a halt
at this platform.

A sudden rush. Panic.
Hearts beating fast.

You walk towards the shadows
to live in a tubular world, for a while.

Slumber

Slumber

a slumberer

and tumbler

                              of dreams

 

Wonder

A wonderer

I wander

                                               through these dreams

 

Remember

that December

Forever

                                              - my breath is steady

 

The slumberer,

The grumbler

And bumbler...

 

I dream we were younger

drinking from tumblers

in the garden at mum's - and her

memory sings on in my slumber.

 

Condolence

Cards scatter across this black lake:
they arrive, sealed with love,
and are shuffled in those early morning reviews;
reviving moments that spring to mind.
They are higgledy-piggledy messages of warmth.




Like sentries they guard
this cold, black marble headstone,
settled like jutting memorials.
A reminder of life and death.



Memories pass over our eyes, scudding along, 
like reflected clouds over this black lake.
But they have stilled -
strong, almost solid, hanging reminders -
gaining power as they accumulate.
 
Yet they are fragile, these clouding memories;
unable to protect against fire or water, nor anguish or hope,
neither do they hold against tears that drop
onto this black lake.





For tears are, and will be, shed over these cloudy cards.

Loss

It is wrenching.

Hollow. Sunken and echoing like a well.
Right here.

Full. Swollen and suffering.
Like a puffed up pillow, its nothingness protrudes.

There's nothing. Less than nothing.

It is painful.

Hurt. Aching and jabbing like a stab to the stomach.
Right here.

Numb. Dulling and silent.
Sweepingly it cloaks my life in darkness.

It is unbelievable.

Lost. Confused and in denial.
A ship at sea, I float with no sense of direction.
                                                                                  There's a sense I am sinking. Right here.

Found. Loved and comforted.
Like a murmuration, it has brought us together.

I am swept up by wings of kindness, lifted by generous words.

Floating on the fond memories, I will try to keep my sail upright, as best I can.

Years

It has been years.

Maybe that is why I sleep restlessly,
wake early
with a mind full of bees –
buzzing around
with thoughts of you.

Is it a risk I can take?
Are you a risk I can make?
Am I a risk you have forsaken?

Trust me; trust you.

As I am confessing,
I have wished for a fateful meeting.

Recently, as each day passes into the next,
every song seems to
speak of you
speaking to me.
Of us.
Of what we were.
Of what we have become.

The new leaves, budding,
leave a bitter sweet taste in my mouth.
The new life promises,
surviving the harshness of winter
and battering of the cold,
to break free and bloom
in Spring.
My eyes to look on.

I know it is sad - it is a sad loss. 
But I don’t blame you.
The best years of my life were with you.
I won’t lie about that.

We were in love.
In love:
Completely.
Stupidly.
Heartbreakingly.
I dreamt of a future together.
What were you dreaming of?

As I sleep restlessly,
dreaming of risking it all on a fateful meeting,
our songs play in my head,
the magic twinkles like stars in my vision
- a migraine memory.
My tongue, a bud,
silently promises in a new voice
and my eyes close.

I have a lead weight in my chest. 

I has been years.
I hope that time is a healer.

Endings

In the end we wrap our words around what we can.
Endings bring out the best
and the worst.
The first and
last word
both grappled for
in the end.

Endings bring out the best
and the worst.
It wouldn't be the first time
we've battled for the last word.
Both grappling, in the end, for something
to depend or end upon.

Endings mean we've both said the first
and the last word.
We've both failed to grasp
what
is being said.
In the end,
we wrap our words
around
and around.

Tea

A comforting mug of mindfulness,
deep and substantial -
a heart-warming hug from a loved one.
It steams and shudders without contest
and sits submissively,
brewing conptemplatingly, with an air of royalty.
Clasp it: it's burning hot.

It makes you wait, but soon it stills
and its clear waters - once crystal and fresh -
are stewed and auburn. A burnt caramel.
The ripples still
and waves cease in a calm;
a moment.
A daily ritual; a moment of peace
before, between, during and after all things.

Sip it, slurp it, slug it,
however you choose: longingly
you are prolonging each mouthful
feeling smug, full of satisfaction.
You've achieved something
wallowing in this wonderful world.

A smile creeps over your lips,
in this exclusive moment,
as the swirling fragrant solution
soothes your soul.

Not Your Typical Valentine

Standing on the cliff edge
I jump into the raging storm;
It has appeared before me
and, although it comes as a surprise,
it is my own doing. A tempest formed.

You push. I leap.
I pull. You retreat.

Swirling in confusion -
waves of air pulse and beat us down -
we swell upwards and
sweep
in an uncoordinated fashion.
Utterances blast as battering billows of passion.

I push. You leap.
You pull. I retreat.

Edging away, with caution -
clambering over the blades, the rocks,
the challenging cliff face -
I question my motives.
Disgraced by an arbitrary demand.

We push. We leap.
We pull. We retreat.

Not staring one-another in the face.
Glimpses reflected;
frowns flash like the souring surf.
Groans of dismissal and misunderstanding
echo in the depths.

Push. Leap.
Pull. Retreat.

Your Wedding Dress

Cascading chiffon under
a mirage of intricate lace work,
of delicate fabric on fabric,
on skin, soft skin.
An illusion of rippling ribbons:
satins and silks.
An opaque curtain of grace and beauty.
A gentle moment of memories being made.

The waterfall of light,
luminous illusion,
strokes the shoulders,
hips and thighs.
It rests, like a babe's head,
upon the palm of your hand,
runs through your fingers,
like fine sand, and
flutters as you turn in reflected joy.
There's a resonating hush.
Astonishing.

Crystal stitching clutches
like diamond encrusted chokers.
Webbing grasps hands
and holds this masterpiece together.
Holding it together,
you gasp at the glorious vision beheld.
You are a vision.

Glittering gems
iridescent in the spotlights.
Sparkling smiles
twinkle in your eyes.

Majestic, as a swan.
Understatedly beautiful.
A cherub in a champagne cloak;
a gift from heaven.

Time

In my mind there's a ticking clock, tick,
dreaming of a time machine, tock,
measuring the waking moods, tick,
waves of ideas and fears, tock.

Every mirror glance reminds me -
we have one chance;
washing away the stains of daily grime
wishing the wrinkles take their time.
The clock continues; the striking bell chimes.

To one side I see myself, frocked, tick,
in a frilly tu-tu-too far, tock,
a gummy grin from ear to ear, tick,
and glittery, jelly sandals to top it off. Tock.

It's empty in this room, mostly.
There's no other being,
no one greater than myself -
but there are bigger memories that burn brighter
reflecting off the glass,
catching light like a new watch.

Even at night there's a glow. Tick.
And as morning breaks, tock,
an old, a new, a present life continues.

Rain

As I look upon the mystifying rain,
listening to each droplet,
it runs to another,
races like desperate children fleeing conflict.

Yet isn't suffering more like a desert -
torrid, arid, deathly?
Or this - a swarming grey sky of storming clouds
streaming steadily?

The tentative tinkling
of trickling rain
fall
causes me to shudder;
a chill runs down my spinal
column.

Oh solemn rainy road,
you overcome me
like grief.
Oh rain.

For My Craft

For my craft
I exercise late into the slumbering night,
when even the moon has left
and the corridors echo
with shadows and whispers
of ambitious souls;
I labour by a single light.

I'm not here for praise or recognition.
It is an unrequited love
or expedition;
I'll do it all again tomorrow
but for a rare smile,
the opening of a blossoming bud
whose seeds were sown
or scattered about my field.

For in the morning aurora
and the cry of the cockerel
call me to my craft.