Old person

Poke an old person
Tell them they're boring
At least once a day.
Make them pay
For living so long
if they give you grief
for just being young.

 

Old Dentist

I've started
to look
at the breasts
and the bums
instead of
the face
and the teeth
and the gums.

 

Reins

Don't hold them back,
let them go let them do.
you must remember
what it felt to be two?
Well at least recall
what it felt to be four.
Try harder you must
let them learn to be free.

 

Tea

I'm sitting
again
with tea.
My liquid friend,
becoming part of me.

 

Queue

Our queue shall be meandering
orderly but meandering
By whim of obstacle sun or shade
our trail of people shall bend our end
as each extension grows our bond
the shape becoming mathematically strong.

 

 

Too personal

I don't think i've explained why i'm doing this.
it is a release.
it is a letting of thought.
by so doing, space is created inside
for life and more thought.

it is of a style from within.
it means nothing to just be clever
or beautiful or art.

it only serves to make space
and affirm who i am by what i think.

i was told today that i had spoiled the paintings by writing on them.
i wrote, because i could not convey with the paint.
it felt right to write and scribble and babble where the colours had got stuck.

she said that the words could not be read - they were too personal.
i was angry. that is the point. to be personal.

but the person who could not read was my wife.
she has endured weirdness.
she has been practical and strong.
while i have been finding a course and solution
she has been supporting the makeshift structure.
now the structure is strong, she does not want to see how it is built.
that should be her right. it is built with her help.
i am no longer angry. i just feel alone.
i have my thoughts
and my art
and my words.

it seems enough.
i feel strong still with my words.
i look at many, and they have no words beyond the mundane.
so i am happy with my words.

my real work is simple and practical.
i use my words at work,
but they are not special.
just clear and provide reason to do or question or act.

but these inside words are alone.
they are not used by others to build and grow.
my work words are useful, but not these.
these release me. the work words build for others.

art or words for their own sake would be fun,
but i can not have that. i have responsibilities to others.
so, i write about release from responsibility.
it is the most fun i have.
it is for me.
you do not need to look and read my words.
they are for me.

Scribble

Crayons - the earliest release.
To lose this confidence to scribble
seems inevitable for most.
Who still plays with colour past puberty?

 

Freedom to fledging

Freedom lost.
Replaced with houses and cars
and loans and kids.
Oh, to rest would be lovely.
To rest for a week or two
or a year or more.

I feel like its done.
The work of fledging complete.
Reflection and sagely sitting follow.
Others enquire: "Advice
for the new adventurer?"

"Hmmm.. impossible not to talk bollocks.
Make up your own mind. Failure
is the most likely outcome. Life is harder than you think".
Such useless advice, built on failure.
But inevitable failure
is no reason not to continue.

 

Phil and Felicity

Phil and Felicity
Don't know each other,
but they both clicked 'like'
to a rambling on sitting
and slimming and eating and summer,
I'd wrote.

I like Phil and
Felicity a lot.
They are not alike,
in ways that we measure
like jobs
or the way we find pleasure.

But they are friends of mine
from a long time ago.
One from work,
The other before so.

They look you in the eye
and you feel their depth.
And we still meet occasionally
and that is great.

 

Sitting

Sitting. Better than standing. Better than walking. Unless fitness is the aim. Fitness is the aim. I shall walk to the shop, and buy lunch. Too much lunch does not help the fitness. Bacon, sausage and bread do not make for thin. So I shall have a nice salad. And an ice cream, because it is summer. But ice creams do not make thin. So I shall have plums that I bought yesterday and had forgotten about. Tomorrow is thin.

 

Duvet

Lying.
Still.
Protected.
My duvet imprisoned me
happily.

Tingles from its force,
keeping out all.
Keeping in warmth.
The world is not real.
Between death
and sleep and life.
It's too perfect.

I don't want to remove it.
But I do.
And I write this.
The want to write this
was just more.

That was today's reason
to surface again.
But such awakenings
are draining.

Just get up
and go.
Is the normal way.

To sleep under my desk
With my duvet
While the others toil.
I hide away.

Not to be here.
Not to be asked.
Not have to fear
Another question.

I know my answers
work for me.
But you want other truths.
That won't go away.

 

The Tide

I waited for the tide
to come and meet me,
but it was slow.

I went for a swim
with Sheila.
My arm hurt,
So I rubbed it.

And we exercised
And it felt better.
A shower and sauna,
Refreshed, we ate.
And wrote and wrote postcards.

And I waited for the tide
to come and meet me,
and it was closer
and I waited.

I said to Sheila
"Have the bream.
I want to see what its like.
I want to live through you".

"I'll have the salmon", she said.
"Are you sure?", said I.
She hit me with her eyes,
and banged her arm,
and it hurt.
But she wanted to hurt me.
Next time she will.

The reeds were still,
and so seemed the tide.
but I waited.
It came closer,
but I could not wait.

Sounds dramatic,
but my food was on the table.
The steak was good,
but I should have had the bream.

And I waited for the tide
to come and meet me,
but it was still,
I was too fast to see.

 

Sunday

I smelled the wind
and watched the tide.
and seagulls dumped
what they'd had inside.

The sun soothed the hour
the boats fished for food
i walked by the quay
and it lifted my mood.

croissants and cheese
were breakfast for me
while sheila had juice
I had russian caravan tea

gentle silence of soaring bird
earthy flower morphing in spring
words have gone messy
sunday morning bells ring

The new car

I want a new car.
I want it now.
I want the one there.
Sort the finance somehow.

The car that I have
Is fine and quite new
But I still want a new one
Even though its not blue.

The colour does not matter
I quite like the style.
It suits my persona
Of old git gone senile.

The price is reduced
by five thousand pounds.
It does seem a bargain.
I should buy it now.

I want more comfort
And a little more speed
for driving to york
with luggage, wife and kids.

I have to go back
and fill in the forms.
They'll want to know
I can afford

All the monthly payments
for the next four years.
A commitment to driving,
No money for beers.

Perhaps I should wait.
But the bargain is good.
I still want it now.
Though I do feel stupid

For wanting something
So clearly middle-class.
Oh bollocks. Oh bollocks.
A kick up the arse.

Is what I need.
What shall I do?
I'll go back to work
Or sit on the loo,

Till new conviction
can lead me back
to the nice man in the shop
With cars that are black.

 

 

Felicity's Photo

Felicity has a photo
Of her, Anne, Max and me.
Its from a long time ago
When we were young and free.

The smiles are as I remembered
Often in my dreams
And to be with them last Saturday
Felt not a little surreal.

We talked for hours
and bored the kids.
We remembered friends
And reminisced
Of honest youthful bliss.

We didn't change the world
In the way I thought we would
But youthful vision,
however crude

Changed it enough
to be worth the angst
of simplistic truth
and tight 1970s underpants.

 

 

Andy in the Semi

We want to see him take it on.
We don't want errors either.
We want Andy to win in three,
And be in the Wimbledon final.

I don't see how his mother helps
Sitting in the box.
The best are bravest alone
as the gladiators cross.

So, come on mate
do more than ever:
lose yourself
in the endeavour.

Too soon I get excited
The trainers coming on.
Andy's feeling poorly
But he's winning two to one.

I'm feeling too defeatist.
Andy's too much effort to watch.
I want a confident hero
Not one who oft gets lost.

But still I should support him
All around me do,
But Nadal is much more fun
than the dour scott at twenty-two.

 

 

Study

I started study at seventeen
My life was academic,
I need to glean
As much as I could
About everything.

But 3 years later
I'd had enough.
Academia didn't cover enough
about everything.

To work I headed
But first some play
I won't be young
again.

Now approaching
The age for wills
My life has had thrills
But not without bills.
More than I thought
at seventeen.
More than I could
do again.

 

Beach

In the water, on the beach, low tide.
Endless time to dawdle and paddle.
Learning each sound of the water,
Each colour in the wave mixing sand,
Each smell of sea, of weed, of fish,
The whirlwind of colours as the sea and sand mix
by foot or by wave or hand or toe swish.
Each sound of splash of swirling wave
that smell and crash through fresh surf haze.

 

 

Steve and Di

Steve and di
Are real friends of mine.
Real friends,
I have only nine.

Sheila, Henry
Philippa and kev,
Susan and Steve,
Steve and di,
And uncle nev

So Steve and di
Are my 7th best friends.
We are all menopausal
And frequently spend
Time looking back
At the sixties and seventies.
But with kids getting older,
Most in their twenties,
They are now doing things
That we used to do:
Drink, do drugs
And commonly spue.

Our pill popping now
Is for blood pressure
And pain.
But the mind
Still wants to follow
The days of youth
When we were able
To drink cider and beer,
And still be stable

So, Steve and di
Are fun to be with.
They have their opinions,
But accept others as if
They know there are clearly
Many ways to live.

We talk of music
Old and new
But steve's the only one
Who knows who's who

Di and Sheila
Read books a lot
They can converse
On grammar and
Authors with a plot.
On the archers
And the woman
Of Charlotte.

We said we'd be up
At the Market by eight
But things took a turn
For the worse
And we're late.

Di had a drink,
Last night,
Just a few.
But now she is vomiting
And still in the loo.

Steve is still snoring.
Sheila's still chatting.
I've come for a walk
To hear the birds
Chattering too.

Now I've come back
For a poo
In the loo
With the spue.

The Library

Books and PCs for learning,
Sofas and seats, comforting.
Refuge and dry, warming.
People rude and crude,
bemused in sadness,
lonely and smelly.
Learning to be human,
Striving to be more
than disregarded sheep.
All hail the library staff,
who have to tend the heap.

 

Sheep

		Went to Weymouth On a train In the Sun. Saw sheep and shadows long and black White and green, Fleeting as I sped past In the railed machine.

 

Back to the cliff face

You can't think how.
You can't think soon,
You can't think later,
You can do nothing but leap.

Later.

Preparation means little,
disguised procrastination.
philosophy helps
a useful sinew stiffening before leaping,
but leap you must.
at least try to again.

later.

a cup of tea.
a bit of blues.
let feel me the ease
of living with hopelessness
so I can follow steely paths
others have made with more determination
and less greed than me.

soon.

another bite.
another sip.
the sun is shining.
a day off would be good.

Ann

Flute
Lute
I wonder what she used to play?
What did she think,
Was it - "focus to be good",
Was it understood,
That she would be the best she could.

Was it to understand the composer,
Was it for fun,
Was it deeper than I can understand,
Could she listen,
Could she hear,
Could she feel,
What did she feel,
What did she get?

Did she get lost in the music
Could she lose herself
Could she let go
I don't think she could
But I'll never know.

We never talked beyond the simple
As though we were all too clever
And talking was irrelevant
Or perhaps too scary
Of what we would all say
Once the intellects fired up
And inner thoughts
Betrayed our simple veils
Of life's hurt and frustration.
Love lost, Failed expression
No longer in touch with the relevance
In each others lives.

We never spoke beyond the simple
It seems a shame now
But too hard at the time
Too hard to open up
Too unsure to face an argument on everything or anything,

She and him and her
found or find, it too hard to say
What was or is really on their mind?

So I am sitting
trying to find
Words in poem
That serve to fuse
The mind in muse
Of a sister
Lost
Without really talking
Of who we were
And what we needed
To survive
Perhaps too much to give
And that is it
I knew what she wanted
But could not live
In her world of
Her mistakes
Her grief
Her pain
Her utter sadness
Her
Alone
Longing for her friend.