pale as a sheet and glassy eyed,
his little frame stretched out
on the couch with one socked feet.
as he curled them by his side
that vacant look, a sleepy look,
he mumbles that he's fine.
but maybe we could call his school
and tell them that he's dying.
that we did and later on
we checked that he's not dead;
the little ****** smiled at us
while bouncing on his bed

I pause;
afraid
to make the
next move.
to open
up;
to spit out
the venom
that rots
my day.

I pause;
alone,
just
me.
I,
me
and
my why
am I facing
up again
while
it's all
going down.
and I’m
not a
whole below
the waterline.

I pause;
sinking.
a dead
mans
grip
squeezing
life,
freezing
life,
teasing
life.
afrai­d
to open
up;
terrified
to close
down.

I pause;
caught,
between
my
up and
my
down.
stuck;
limboed,
emptied
and clogged.
tired
to the bone.

I paused…

...




...




...






SHUT


THE


****

UP!

round, a round
older man;
newspaper scanning.
yellow jacketed.
sideburns, with
a chubby Eric Idle
look.

a young lady
all in black.
curled mouth;
looking insecure -
or maybe angry.
red headphone cable
a nice touch.

a middle aged woman;
middle eastern…
christian?
glasses and dyed
dark hair; smiles
while thumbing
through her iPhone.

an asian woman;
vacantly pretending
not to see
a thing.
pink lipped -
she sees all;
says nothing.

a girl in red;
jeans with scarf.
reading tight
lipped on her tablet.
black & white wheelie
bag sits obediently
at her feet.

between them all
I got transfixed; my
thoughts go round
and round.
I missed my stop.

I’m a ten digit
fidget; a cluster
****** mind.
a sand-hopping
hopper of the
trampoline kind.

I’m a bouncing-
bounce bouncer,
with cerebral jelly.
I’ll tap, tap, tap.
fidget finger, knee
or welly.

talk ten steps ahead,
talk five steps back.
roundy roundy garden
like a teddy-cadillac.

I’m a remote zapping addict;
buttonitis of the soul.
and finish your sentence…
I’m a pain in the whole!

I walked this path sometime before,
but when? I'm at a loss.
the boggy scent and earthy sound
as feet thread bearded moss.

this lakeside shore, iron grey;
it's rocks guide path and eye,
ever up this morning glen
where my homeland meets the sky.

I've seen it frozen, this mountain lake
wasted pines as far as I could see.
this path half muted in the wind,
blowing down ‘cross shattered scree.

I sat beside a fallen limb,
this mist moist softened day.
the damp, it dripped from the emerald branch
as I rose and went on my way...

if life gives you lemons,
make up a new word.

although after a quick
google search, it appears
I was beaten to the punch
by Scott Wilbanks.

nice one Scott.

remember
when I
used
leave them
behind.
i'd surprise
myself,
smiling quietly
inside.
the rush,
the explosion
tensed but
not tight.
move,
flowing
free bird,
exuberant
flight.
muscles
flaring,
tendons
ripe;
beat
to a rhythm
footfalls
light.
wind
in my
hair
brushing
aside
youthful
vigour
and
carefree
delight.
I'd trip;
get up.
fall;
I'd
arise.
nothing
could stop me,
nothing
denies
a feeling,
urgent,
of now
so alive;
those day's
when I
knew
I could
run
with the best
and
leave them
all behind.

... die, I'll rest assured
... live, I'll love ensured
... leave, I'll walk head high
... arrive, I'll heave a sigh
... look, I'll see the stars
... blink, I'll count the scars
... breathe, I'll **** in life
... swallow, I'll choke the strife
... smile, I'll bathe in sun
... frown, I'll come undone
... cry, I'll taste the tears
... laugh, I'll shed the fears
... run, I'll dance on air
... trip - I'll need you there!

(for my Working Flower)

there's something to be said
for digging a grave.
together, the clay it
binds us. it soils
our hands while we
work our way down.
two and a half feet of soil
is more than you'd
think it'd be, but together
we keep good pace.

and before being
laid to rest, one quick
round of photo's, all
smiles and jokes, deep
in the clay.
                      there's
something to be said for
filling a grave. it's closure
of the manual kind.
a few quick words, pat
the grass back in place
and we all move on.

oil-drum braziers burn
late into the Berlin night;
spikes and mohawks
warm themselves
in a sultry august heat.
it's an urban patterned jungle
of spray paint and tags
as the S-Bahn trundles
high on its way, above
the clamour of 1991.
I'd only just arrived
and my small provincial eyes
tried not to flicker
or shy from the sights
of those underbelly vistas;
was it deprivation or freedom,
necessity or choice, to stand
around a burning barrel late at night?
my host assured me
we're perfectly safe
as long as I listen to
her expert advice.
And then we arrived,
leaving the car outside
we got through on
the guest list
and so started our night.

the gorse and tough grass
on a mountain top.
a wind swept bog
at the edge of the earth.
silhouettes move slowly
leaping tuft to tuft,
avoiding the dark
still watery deep.
we were always told
to steer clear of the holes,
where pickled remains
of leathery Celts
lay waiting for hapless
travellers to stumble
and sink to the bottom-
less, peaty fold.
but tonight it's okay,
they move with such ease
in a barrow full laden
in the faintest of breeze ...