man of the world

swiss army knife

 

she’s going up to do the do

I’m not the man this house should have

the bathroom lights are on the blink

and I’m downstairs making coffee

 

she comes down and looks for tools ( avoiding me )

goes under the stairs and turns off the juice

goes back up armed with a torch

and I’m down here stirring coffee

 

it’s quiet now, no doubt dark upstairs

though there are noises and a commotion

then she returns confused

it’s a mystery, annoying  but she’s put them back

 

so I’m sat here in the error of my ways

not quite composed because she

‘heart’s beating wings’

will come back to me with more energy

 

more things to do because “you know”

the dog won’t walk itself

the washing is in a pile and dust

accumulates with a vigour we must contest

 

these Bank Holiday week-ends

are such a treat and

the weather is a bonus but still it’s best that I

maintain a low profile when anything is to be said or done.

remainders

Remainders . pic

 

I’m looking back on words that spoke to me of

tight spring buds seen through small panes of glass

that drew a stark cartoon against an insipid green

and me embroiled in warm sheets thinking of how

time makes a sketch of history and each craven itch

is always in need of recognition from the void,

the slipstream  of life’s urges

that simple sense of loss that has claws

leaving bite-marks and bruises on cooling flesh

unwittingly, urgently, moving toward the freezer door

and men in sombre suits patrolling next to slow moving black cars

stickmen immune to vanity whose shapes are not prisoners

as they populate the space containing them

and give it substance

and I keep looking back on words that speak to me

as they come back to life cleansed by the soil they were steeped -in

unmoved by history, their romance always in the present tense

all these tidal sounds carouse with me

Page 1

Pic for Page.1

 

a white space yawns

asking for infinity to be installed

and I am just a passenger

a wide-eyed boy in search of clarity

still in awe at the awful blankness of space

in those great oceans of unoccupied terrain

that I would people with words and sense

to make a friendly haven in the morning, a berth

a place of solace and comfort where

one  could be left without the lurk of doubt or dread

a place to own and luxuriate in

somewhere to call a home that is

full of warmth and promises

after I’ve scuffed the Welcome mat

and trodden on the post

Go lightly

Go lightly. poem.pic.

 

buried deep

fingers weave and leave

traces of the suffered

the lost and the all too painful

 

they knead and pummel

vibrate with a conscience

so insistent that patterns emerge

behaviours begin to inhabit

 

the soul

so much that we are simply

hosts to feeling –

the carriers of sin

 

but

the kindly magistrate of truth

will spin a yarn and let me off

wrapped around in ragged lies

 

the cloak of shame so dismal

evoking sewers and silent movies

all black & white – so noir

he’ll lift the veil and laugh

 

a sentence in a swarm of words

all dazzle and blame

will coalesce and rinse themselves because

we all deserve a pardon

rainfall on a monday morning

 

rainfall on a manday morning.pic-001

 

one son has gone to view a property in Peterborough

the other son went to work in Surbiton

and here I am wondering about Win Wong

a Chinaman I met on holiday in the Maldives

What is going on in my  head?

how goes it as I sit with my coffee in a quiet house

my wife about to go to work

and I am left with the simple task of walking the dog-

I’ll probably go to Sunbury

the earth it seems is spinning on it’s own head-strong celestial axis

and me- I’m powerless as I recall the Tuna Win Wong caught

on a strip of line with one fatal hook

that my wife and I ate that night

on an atoll in the Indian ocean

one night that seems so far away that I

may be still in the land of dreams but

‘one last thing’, she says as she goes

‘please put out the bin, it smells’