Dodgems – ( or tangled thoughts on a fairground ride)

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Opinions differ sharply in the melt of emotions all of them skittish, as if, attached to volts running through thin metal wire suspended from an ornate ceiling with flashing lights and raucous music that throbs and robs rational thought from … Continue reading

Marking time

You will be seen shortly

 

If you could look at old photographs

for the rest of your life would you be sad,

not knowing what the future might have in store,

unwilling to wait for it

 

Deep voiced chatter below from the young men

who were boys not so long ago – unaware

that Dad is in his garret going stale

trapped in their expelled air

 

Above an aeroplane drones against heaven

sketching time, spreading dreams, reminding me

of the past

Of how elastic time can be. Except that it has stopped

 

The spring in the step of the man in that old picture

has uncoiled – it lays flat – lacks – kinetic energy

lives on in the losses of the past

Moribund. No better word for it.

 

Now people go out into the street to worship

care workers

clap and cheer to show solidarity against a single

malevolent cell

 

The wait goes on. The future stalled

Their voices below rumble on unaware of the past

because they live in hope, inviting the future to ‘come on in’

while my hair is grey, extinguished, so even pixels concur

 

This lockdown may become a permanent thing

I feel it’s characteristic embrace

A painless drowning – ennui

And ask again, why has it always been this way?

Pollution

Broad Lane in fog

 

The demons came again last night

traipsing through the virgin forests of my head

all dark and quiet, unsuspecting in repose

when I lay all the trees to horizontal so they can rest

before making a canopy for the day

that place of safe passage for journeymen

and people with business and clear consciences

to perambulate, perhaps not like fawns in a sylvan scene

but far off,  in soft focus, on a good day

How often must this happen? How many treats du jour

come curdled back to me

writhing dishes in the bleak moments of darkness

where death rehearses the curses over my cooling form

and I, innocent and possibly snoring am violated by my own ghosts

so I am minded to erect a one-way street

from one ear to the other actionable only at night

to see if I can divert this filthy traffic

Glimpse ( one of many )

Glimpse. Pic for poem.

 

in space, in time, a caught moment

that locus

between now and sometime later can be playful

yet the gaps lengthen and splice

into the inevitability of unfolding time

that ineluctable luxury and it’s conflation into one’s self

This being the first of the month and by its nature

much like many others I find myself in a fold of history,

with its little bookmarks liable to be set free when shaken

from the spine of ‘my’ book. Its close weave and glue, it’s conformity

posing the question, would you choose freedom if there were a choice?

Would you have the presence of mind whilst you were in free-fall

to attach yourself to something meaningful

to make a pact with a promise and hang there in space

waiting for clarity?

Would you, could you. do you exist in partial time,

a partner in grace?

Well do I?  Will I ever fall to earth…

Marooned

Marooned.pic for poem.

 

sometimes I get visitors who say they are related

they seem to practice their kindness on me as if

I am some kind of experiment

other times I simply lie there in gauze

the light strained through filters so that I

seem to rest beneath a halo

a crescent of colour ready to blush in tune

with my biorhythms – it’s probably plugged-in

but then so am I

so we run in parallel, pointless orbits

and most of the time I dare the lights to go

out where silence at least would show respect

 

sometimes I get visitors who say; ” you look well today”

they must imagine their words will be a tonic

but then I hear them say ” how awful to be locked in”

as if I’m deaf

that’s when I wish I was dead

but I’m not and the voices won’t go away

I get this every day and when I’m gone

I look forward to that day

it will be as if I was never here

never in the remote kindness of strangers

in dread of their footsteps

and all their good intentions

DIY

Bad teeth

 

I spend my time engaged in home improvements                  I am rust

tiring work this self-absorption

incessant, monotonous and repetitive                                     on the smooth haft

and if I’m honest, for all the huff and puff                            the sheen a parody

I’ve botched it

I’m not polished or buffed                                                      like atomic numbers

or what my son’s would call “hench”

I’m grey and lined and display all the hallmarks                                that emit the pulses

that come with age. Disappointment threatening to turn to rage

Morbid. Huh. I’m like rubik’s cube                                         of half-lives

a clumsy mystery that frustrates only me

yet deep inside                                                                                    I’ll take them

there is a light-filled space

that harbours peace and would                                                           let me glow

let me know that I don’t need spanners or a wrench

I just need a minute                                                                to be myself

One COVID day

Tribute

 

I opened my diary this morning and realised today would have been ( always was ) my mother’s birthday.  We have a magnolia tree in the front garden that blooms at this time. I will go out and photograph it to register a poignant memory of a remarkable woman.

Love you still Mum. Mike.

 

forget me nots  are blind to reason

for they share a common cause

not forgetting, they will always know

what you were like and never fail

to applaud

those memories of you – long after we have gone

misty eyed

and blue

Social media

Social Media.Pic for poem.

 

the words are launched – misnomers mostly – on spinning plates

like they do in Greek restaurants

and they tangle, mid-air with other meals

other dishes full of bile – it’s an untidy place

this sphere of conflict – a perturbation of opinions

mostly half-formed, ill thought through and charged

by a sense of injustice or perceived harm

that,  once thrown, gains mystic powers

able to thwart, injure and take down

opposition – that key ingredient to unreasonable debate

the gunner in his or her emplacement

no doubt a sordid place, takes aim –

all the consonants, vowels, misspellings and dodgy grammar

compressed into a shell at the behest of a mouse, no less

the launch painless, the load diminishing, it’s half-life

unravelling like a stricken isotope

and then it’s done – the thrill is gone until

another spot of bother bubbles away on the back burner

with more irritations adventuring toward a critical mass

now the heat is on

press send – retire and look for likes

I am the news

Me. I am the news. pic for poem

 

I am a sculpture

waiting upon reason, mercy and miracles

to mould me and make sense of each

passing moment that renders me as small

 

I am an echo

of nothing more than memories that slink

in the undergrowth of  my own propaganda

and threaten my neck with a sensual constriction

 

As spirits go

I am evaporating on the back of so many

disappointments

that a ghost would wail at the iniquity

of living in this entanglement

 

but I am immune

as a rogue infection to clinical intervention –

a bacteria so fit that healthy cells

emigrate to other hosts and leave me isolated

in my own member state

 

I am dilute

as my age dictates

that blood relatives die around me

and I take the calls of surviving kin

and enter in to their ‘arrangements’

 

I am the understudy

for my impending future, the heir apparent

to a ‘long wait’ that others may remark

was lived in haste and might in time improve