Lately I have been
far too content to attempt
to write poetry

this isn't actually a poem, (ceci n'est pas une poeme?) just a request for those of you who have time (and I know you're all bust people out there) to have a look at my blog, thank you :)
http://suedonim-newtech.blogspot.com/

‘The guilty party’ why is it always me?
Why can I always see the other’s point of view
and consequently try too hard to placate,
take compromise to the extreme while others only take.
Why don’t I stamp my foot, and pout and shout
till all the negativity falls out?
If I am so hard-done-by it can only be
the fault of my own cowardice
avoiding confrontation at any price.
Scared to offend, unable to defend
my own position.
My carefully constructed arguments crumble like cake
in the face of opposition.
And yet I am not weak!
Push me too hard and you will find
me only too ready to speak my mind.
Beneath the fluffy mallow layer lies a hard vein of self-interest,
which I try to ignore as being a fault,
likely to crack and shake my world.
A world that I am making and constantly reshaping
without a plan to follow,
wandering a labyrinth and wondering about tomorrow.

I think that you should tell her from the start
That she can never occupy your heart
The way that I do. She will have her dreams
And you could tear the stitching from the seams
Of her illusions. You should never play
with her emotions, lead her on this way.
Should she want more than friendship she will be
so hurt and angry when she learns of me.
And if I do not make my feelings clear
And warn that you could lose a friend so dear,
And blithely cause immeasurable hurt
Then my beliefs are nothing more than dirt.
For if I do not point this out, in fact
That will make me accessory to the act.

You were never any trouble, never any mess,
Content with clean water and a few ant’s eggs,
True you weren’t very cuddly, but you were easy on the eye
Some said you were boring, but I prefer to call you calm.
Except of course when you prodded the Perspex,
Was it to gain my attention? Or simple coincidence?
Because you always swam to the surface as my shadow swept over the tank.
And when the time came, and you floated lifeless on the surface
And it was necessary to perform ‘the flush’,
I tried to solemnize the occasion,
With a pretentious oration,
Imagining you roaming the vast oceans,
Tail-gating turtles, shrinking from sharks
And teasing tuna.
Too late, it dawned on me, our house is served,
Not by mains sewerage, but a septic tank!

Another slow Monday morning
Dull day, dull brain,
Numb November blues
Clouds in the sky
Clouds in my brain
Need nicotine, crave caffeine
Have to shake myself awake
Wish the sun would burst through the fog
To pierce the day, provide clarity
If I could shift my perception
Watch the reflection from a different section
Of life’s glittering disco ball,
Illuminating all the good bits,
Then I should smile at this trial,
Laugh at my gaffe,
No more messing, count my blessings,
Then I should see that I am rich,
No wealth, but good health,
No money, but life is sunny,
A glass more than half-full.
And so what if a little gets spilt?
Matter do it?
No use crying, just keep trying,
Replenishment comes when least expected
And from the direction paid least attention

I place my hand in the box,
muscles and tendons tense, ready to recoil.
I feel a small metal nail file,
one end smooth, a mirror, a myriad of reflections.
the other rough, refining and redefining memories.
I smell gorse, delicate aroma from vibrant colour.
I taste beetroot. Ugh! I must cloud it with coffee, numb it with nicotine.
I hear a jumble of words, random and eclectic,
but all English. Makes me feel guilty.
My ny vynnaf cows Sawsnek!
Finally I open the box and lift out my baby,
but it is an infant adder,
and as I cradle it with fearful love,
it slithers from my unsure grasp,
leaving me bereft.

Nothing, is what you owe me, and
Nothing is what I have taken from you.
Love is not meant to be a balance sheet,
Give and take are meant to ebb and flow,
If you keep taking you will end up with nothing,
Nothing is what you say you have.
Once you gave me something,
A tiny seed which I have nurtured until I am infinitely richer than you with your nothing
Keep saying you have nothing, because you do, nothing to give and nothing to own.
I have everything, and would have given it to you, but nothing is what I now feel for you.
Nothing more to say.

Alas! Poor Prufrock! We know him well –
at least, we think we do, we have been talking about him for weeks,
analysing him for eons,
picking out plosives, frowning over fricatives,
attempting to penetrate the fog of phonics with the clear light of hindsight.

Alas! Poor Prufrock! We have dissected him,
etherised him on the table of our ignorance,  
relentlessly wrenching these words apart
without the wit or will
to reassemble them.

Alas! Poor Prufrock! We have peered
through the follicles of your carefully combed hair,
seeking in your skull the echoes of Eliot’s mind
trying to gauge where yours ends and his begins.

Alas! Poor Prufrock! Curmudgeonly git!
We all feel crabby and careworn at times, exposed and unworthy,
Scared by the scrutiny of others.
But you are not so shallow as you pretend, with your fake
Flirtation with fashion and your predilection with the polysyllabic.

Alas! Poor Prufrock! He wants to be loved,
like you, me and the rest of humanity.
Can’t we give him a cuddle,
a sympathy shag,
and let him be?

Yesterday you passed me in the street,
your phone clasped to your ear
as you chatted to your mates
and you didn’t even see me, my bright beacon of colour
(orange is the colour of warning)
didn’t register in your brain as you planned your night on the town.

But, later, on your way home,
That was when you spotted, and wanted me.
(orange is the colour of attraction)
Was it my shape that invited you to pick me up?
You took me, showed off to your mates, put me on your head
“Look at me, I’m a wizard!” you said.
No! I was your dunce’s cap, appropriate that,
you had drowned your intellect in a dozen pints of Betty Stogg’s.

Today you are sober again, and I sit here,
among green bottles and red ketchup stained chip cartons,
(orange is the colour of reproach,)
while you debate, with your mate,
how to get rid of me.

Take, from an unlabelled packet, one small seed
Plant it and wait - Will it be flower? Will it be weed?
First, twin leaves appear, a small green shoot
Too early to tell whether thorn or fruit.
Tend this plant gently, give light and water according to need.
Talk to it, listen, but allow it to breathe.
Don’t dictate direction, just guide growth
leave the shaping to nature, nurture or both.
Protect it with patience, do not fear that it will shrink
from the wind and rain. This plant is stronger than you think.
Pour on it all your love, but don’t crowd it, give it room
to grow. Ask for nothing in return. Watch it bloom.
Accept that you may never see it fully grown
but hope that it may, one day, plant a seed of its own.

I’m going to wake up slowly.
Heaven must allow a long lie-in, leisure cannot be hurried
And I have earned the luxury of long hours,
Endlessly stretching ahead, effortless living
at last.

But someone is calling my name,
“Lazarus, Lazarus come out!”
Oh leave me alone, let me rest in peace,
I have forever to get out of bed, there should be no urgency
In Eternity.

“Lazarus, Lazarus come out!”
Is repeated louder,
Sounds like my old friend Jesus,
Great bloke, although he does show off
a lot.

“Lazarus!” yes it is Jesus, no mistaking that voice.
“Wait a minute, I’m coming” I grumble, and I start to get up.
My back hurts, and my knees are stiff.
Surely I’m not supposed to feel pain
in Paradise?

I have a bad feeling about this,.
I might as well ask Jesus, he obviously wants to talk,
and he usually has an answer to everything.
There he is, standing outside my tomb, smiling
as usual.

I stumble out from the stone but before I can speak I am smothered,
by my wife, my sisters, my mother.
They fall on me, weeping women, “It’s a miracle!” they cry
And Jesus, the sly old bugger, is smiling
at my sister.

The men are here too, feet shuffling, thinking of work
But the women are right, it is a miracle, oh Hell!
This means he IS the Son of God,
and he has brought me back to Earth with a smile,
Crafty sod.

When I feel small and overwhelmed,
You comfort me, your words
Lift my spirits and
Inspire me
Effortlessly

When I feel lost and alone
You are with me
Loving me
Instinctively
Eternally

Although a sad book or a movie brings
a flood of salty water to my face,
I usually keep a smile in place
and try to see the best in everything.
But once I loved a man who made me cry,
and though he did it quite unwittingly,
he made my tears flow unremittingly,
and never saw the sadness in my eyes.
And when I left he pleaded for a chance
to show that he could treat me with more care.
He tried to speak with words of soft romance,
but though he tried his face could never wear
a smile that could withstand more than a glance.
His eyes betrayed his melancholy air.

You fill me with a passion that survives
the test of distance. Though we are apart
I feel the constant presence of your heart,
it calls to me across our separate lives.
You are the beam of sunlight that shines through
the clouds and fills my waiting soul with light.
The underlying theme of every night,
each day begins and ends with thoughts of you.
I live in constant hope that we can meet,
if only for a stolen hour, to find
a small escape, where we can be complete,
where we can join our bodies and our minds,
and feast on love until we are replete
and leave our cares and worries far behind.

In sans serif font
Your life written on your face,
My favourite read.

This bed in which we sleep
our bodies intertwined
is the bed in which I lie

A soft and tangled heap
of deceptive comfort is
this bed in which we sleep

silently I sigh
you do not hear me weep
in this bed in which I lie

now as you sow, you reap
no longer can I stay
in this bed in which we sleep

for love that's gone I cry,
a cell of memory
is the bed in which I lie

not yours to hold and keep
my mind is set to fly
this bed in which we sleep
is the bed in which I lie.

I love you, I truly do, but right now it’s very deep down, squashed by my anger, like a flower pressed between the pages of an encyclopaedia,
And I just want that flower to bloom again in all its three-dimensional beauty,
I want you to open up to me like that flower, not stay silent and closed, a bud that does not know how to blossom.
Want to recapture that easy companionship when we strolled around the Island talking of nothing and everything all at the same time.
You make me smile, your wit is quick, you constantly offer a new view of the world.
Do you feel betrayed, and angry, that I cannot magic away the pain and hurt with a cuddle and a smile?
But you are older now, you have to find your own support, your own strength.
I realise it’s my fault, I’m not enough for you, you need two, and you have to share me, I know you hate that.
Every day I see you grow, and I am so afraid that you will become more like me.
This is my failure, not yours, remember that, be you, not me.

Mine is an unremarkable face –
No fleet will put to sea to rescue me,
maybe some lonely fisherman will trawl me up in his net.
But it’s my face,
And if I don’t have a problem with it, why should you?
Yes, mine is an unremarkable face,
and if you are choosing friends as status symbols,
to validate your own sense of worth,
and bolster your self-esteem,
then I am not one for your collection.