Commute
The image bleeds
Hard glass distorts
Reflections of captivity
Homeward bound
The eyes beseech
Visions of distorted hope
But this will pass
And comfort close around
Their aching thirst
A time-table dictates this
The lost and found
Journeys on a merry go round
Feet will accelerate to meet
Impatient minds
Hungry with anticipation
And the train will cause to move
Reflections that scrape and slide
On glass that carries a parting kiss
Staff and customers at this newly refurbished Fullers pub stepped-up to the mark in their blue suede shoes and quiffs in a 50’s revival night with music from the Blue Jays. A classic Vanguard car was parked outside to set the scene. Inside the locals fell easily into character.
I spent the evening looking for Long Tall Sally but I must have been dreamin’ cos I left empty handed. Ain’t that the blues.
Kiki. A ridiculous dog
I call my dog ridiculous
A term of endearment tinged with truth
And we go out on a regular basis
In this I’m not alone
For all around converge
On local scenes
Days become rituals
When those of us with leads on dogs
Becomes experts on matters of the day
Encounters with strangers
Often end well
Because dogs dispense with formalities
Conversation, however stilted
Is civil and shared
With an emotional bond
The dog may be a tramp
A mongrel, bitch or vagabond
But owners invariably share the love of them
Their names, like fortune cookies
Are full of hope
From Ocean to Sky, Hollie and Bella
So, on Hamptons roads
Parks and open spaces
And places further afield
My ridiculous dog
Rubs shoulders with hilarious hounds
All tangled up in this funny old world
Hampton Pool
On days like these steam rises
Above water and the dawn
When tired faces cling to warmth
While other hardy souls celebrate
Not just the season but something simple,
Joy
To be immersed yet float
Below cold sweating air
And laughing. Emitting happy sounds
That echo with uninhibited fun
Reaching out across the fields
An a cappella chant to church bells
With a chorus that connects us all.
Hampton Ferry
An ancient tale
Will travel between the banks
Of England’s most famous river
And here, at Hampton
The ferryman still plys his trade
Oblivious to ghosts and superstition
His transport now is much the same
In that he transfers passengers
And denizens of faraway places
From side to side
And we, the inheritors of now
Indulge ourselves with modern coinage
To perpetuate this ritual
And ruffle the waters
As citizens who find pleasure
In short trips
Duke’s Head Passage
Who will come to pass
Through this bright arch
Safe passage between the Duke’s Head
And Henry’s Royal Park
Where walkers exchange pleasantries
And dogs acknowledge their own formalities
Who will mark time as seasons change
And speculate on the weather
On clothes and family matters
As they pass yet another familiar face
Take note of difference, of growth
Of time passing and fading light
Yet all the time
As black and white dissolves
Roiling clouds and personal moods
Exchange their subconscious wares
This path will be resolute
A stoic witness to familiar traffic
Man O’ War
Man O’ War
Stragglers that languish
In the sea of consciousness
Drift and hope, almost gripped
By ennui
Though sometimes the strands of thought
Go fishing and drag watery membranes
Against a flowing tide of loss
To snare or snatch at luminescence
Electric sparks of colour
Illuminate a word or thought
And travel quickly to the lode
That mother ship
Where all the others jostle
In their queues of confusion
Simpering and damp with memory
Oh, I am host to all of those
Nervous tics
Electric sparks of colour
Sucked-up through tendrils
That tremble on the oceans currents
As dreams weave amongst the fathoms
Forever present in the swell
And ready to vanish on a tide
With the broiling enigma
In a long tangle
Of DNA
Electric sparks of colour
For eyes
I am witness. I am life.
Hunter. Gatherer.
Your very own all-action heroes
Two messengers to high command
That you exist in time and space
I am sight
I crease. I fade
I am another’s witness
For often I am truth
And I mutely signal
Distress or desire
However they are dressed
I am the arbiter of the light
You receive
Your watchman. A sentry
That hint for a smile
That mirror to shame
I am yours I presume.
‘whoop-de-doo’
A rhymester writes
I was always set to do
Something along these lines
The ‘whoop-de-doo’
A mission statement
My coat of arms
A calling card
A visual cue
The sonic signature
Of a guy who does
The ‘whoop-de-doo’
It’s attitude and life-style for a man
Who wants to mesmerise you
So listen to the little guy
Who is a shadow, you’re counterpart
When he whistles and coo’s
Aware that he’s been tickled by
The ‘whoop-de-doo’
There’s no hiding nor shame
In a continuous rhythm
That settles in the mind
Colours the blood
And fills all your waking spaces
With ‘whoop-de-doo’
Absence
Absence
Every day. A call to arms
Such devotion. Such energy
Oh how I wish that this
Would all come naturally
Without prompts, self-doubt, recrimination
For I am so transparent
So wanting. So close to the wounds
Of a life that slips inexorably by
It should be marked. Arrested in flight
And the beauty noted
Pressed between the leaves
Of a book that seals
Filaments and membranes
That contain the essence
Of me
But. And this but is big
For clarity to put a sheen on the scene
We must be immersed
In the life of the soul
And take a keen interest
In just how much we can give away
Like a smile or a hug
When indifference would normally win
Because we are casual. Thoughts slip
Best intentions drift. Sink in the ooze
Of footprints left in migratory soil
