In another lifetime I did something.
In another lifetime I was someone.
In another lifetime I built the Eiffel Tower
and wasn’t scared of heights.
In another life I did everything
that could be done.

I was a doctor, a famous politician,
an actor, a poet, a musician.
In another lifetime I travelled the world.
In another life I was a scientist
at the forefront of their field.
I went to the moon and back.
I stood on its surface
and planted a flag.

In another life I stood by the side of Nelson
and rubbed shoulders with the Duke of Wellington.
In another life I masterminded the Dunkirk evacuation
and stood victorious on the dunes of El Alamein.
In another life I broke the Enigma Code,
coming to the aid of Alan Turing,
when he was dejected and broken.

In another life I accepted
the Nobel Prize for Peace,
to add to the Pulitzers and Oscars
that already adorned my mantelpiece.
In another lifetime I discovered penicillin
and found the cure to cancer.
In another life I wasn’t afraid of failure.

In another lifetime things worked out.
I didn’t falter in love.
I wasn’t hindered by illness.
I didn’t suffer fear and anxiety.
I wasn’t scared to let go and take a chance.
I wasn’t afraid to move on
and follow my dream.
In another lifetime I was everything I’m not.
In this lifetime I did nothing.

ANDY BOTTERILL

Find a brush or duster
to sweep it all away.
It never happened,
the scared accused
quickly leap to say.
Their defence is ignorance.
Ignorance remains bliss.
It’s a weak excuse.
What’s needed instead
is a breath of fresh air.

Fling back the curtains.
Open the windows.
Stand with chest laid bare.
The truth can be awkward.
Don’t dress it up with feeble lies.
Spill the beans
before inspiration
slowly wilts and dies.

When they carry the coffin out,
all is still and quiet.
The silence is mildly suffocating.
Better to embrace the freedom
of trying to start again.
The day draws to a close.
Nothing much has changed.
Nothing new has come.

In the morning go to work
and all is comparatively calm.
Sit at the same desk.
Turn on the computer.
Pick up a phone.
If you have an idea,
quietly write it down.
May joy and happiness go with you.
May you never be alone.

ANDY BOTTERILL

Warming currents of air
lift up your memories
as never quite before.
Exposed now and bare,
lying in tatters just out of reach,
like dying embers
of driftwood washed up on the beach
scattered where they fell,
still and resting finally
from the last rising swell.

Where do we go from here?
Should never have begun that affair.
A phrase enters your head;
a word spoken out of place.
Shouldn’t have come back.
It was a mistake from the start
to think it might actually work.
The suspicion is it won’t.

The early days of spring;
perhaps the chance
for a new beginning.
Nothing’s a waste of time,
if it adds to the process of learning.
The bitter cold
of the last few months
is slowly receding.
Perhaps today a coat needn’t be worn.

Step out as if it’s the last time.
Take a walk back along the beach.
Re-trace your thoughts with your steps.
Throw some light on your experiences.
Perhaps enlightenment will come in time.
It’s doubtful in truth.
Another walk is needed.
Make a mental note to do it soon,
before the crowds arrive with summer
and disperse the gathering gloom.  

ANDY BOTTERILL

I’m drawn to the romance of failure.
I’d like to be remembered as someone
who followed their passions
and did their own thing,
even when it wasn’t easy
and wasn’t working,
when it didn’t turn out
as well as it might have done.

I refused to be deterred or to compromise.
I kept to my plan.
I had my own agenda, my own routine,
my own way of doing things,
that flew in the face of convention,
of popular conceptions
of how things should be undertaken,
of right and wrong even.

I shunned obvious career moves.
I didn’t conform.
Nine to five in a stuffy office
was a path for others.
I never saved for a mortgage.
I couldn’t buy a new car.
I couldn’t afford a house.
Yes I was drawn to the romance of failure.

Success has its own limitations.
Imagine if my poems, stories or novels
had ever been popular.
Imagine if I’d been recognised in the street,
as I went about my business.
It’s a terrifying thought,
I’m not wholly comfortable with.
I preferred to perform gigs
to half empty rooms than packed auditoriums.
I took low paid jobs.
I made choices and sacrifices,
sometimes the wrong ones.

I was unconventional.
I didn’t fulfil my parents’
hopes, ambitions and expectations.
I was a failure,
but I failed on my own terms.
For that I deserve a degree of respect,
a modicum of grudging praise
at least perhaps.

ANDY BOTTERILL