O rapturous heart! O blighted spirit!
Content and malcontent, the same.
Seize not upon thy hapless circumstance to ponder,
But on Fortune’s fickle favour renew thy claim.

For love is best served when least remembered,
An inclination immediate and true.
No rank aftertaste of bitter bile for me,
‘Tis sweet Aphrodite I petition: ‘Grant me my due!’

Louis: ‘There’s something about shooting that makes a man feel fully alive.’
Anne: ‘Unlike the birds I suppose.’
Louis: ‘They’re born to be shot, my dear. Like rabbits...and poets.’

I dream of you...on nights when the world has worn me out and boxed me in.

Snippets of reality snatched and shackled to tear-away shadows which claw at the fabric of my being. A monstrosity who closes my throat and strangles my peace; who herds my sleeping thoughts towards the abyss; who, with beastly intent, braids my tresses into a net from which I cannot escape.

And who are ‘you’ anyway - my nemesis, my reflection, or myself?

my brain vomited
onto the page
all squiggles
and misspellings
unpunctuated
heiroglyphics
a secret language
only i
could understand
not prose
not poetry
not correct
just me
my pen
wreaks havoc
on unruled
paper
i am errant
i am irritable
i am irreverent
i am making
my way

Pages inked in memory of days which deserve no backward glance - no dwelling upon, no minutes added to their allocated twenty-four hours - except for the fact that I have breathed their air, lived their promise, and named them for myself.

For each judges according to their truth;
And, accordingly, every truth affords a judgement.

I am drowning,
I am returned.

In the flow,
On the ebbing tide.

I am drowning,
I am returned.

Wrong-shapened and unfamiliar to myself.
Overwhelmed as much by the experience, as by my release from it.
But ready, ever ready, for the next wave.
Which may sink me - what are the chances?
Which may settle me on soft, sun-dried sand further up the line.

What are the chances?

past
present
future

what was
what is
what will be

irreducibly distinct
yet indefinable - one without the other
a temporal trinity

How can I pour my existence onto the page,
To stand firm, true, inviolate;
Like this arrangement of ancient bark?

My words written in their time,
Shed themselves like autumn leaves,
Tumbled and turned by the winds of the creative mind.

Will they whisper to those who would hear,
Of greener times and memories unfurled,
My secrets, my shame, my joy, my sorrows?

To be picked up and appreciated for their sunset colouring,
Swept aside with impatience as a trifling incidental,
Or trampled to dust by the pell-mell of rushing feet.

And which, dear reader, are you - a collector, a sweeper, or a trampler?

He
recites
poetry
before sunrise.
Belts out Broadway ballads as the dawn glows.

Talking wounds leaves me forever at the mercy of my pain.

‘But I am precious.’ says Pain.
‘Only I truly understand you.’
‘What would you do without me?’

Know myself for who I am and not for the label you would have me wear.

The train I missed left me waiting on the platform in the rain, rush-hour commuters splashing past. Then you offered me your umbrella, half-an-hour of conversation, and a smile so warm it could melt chocolate. Now, somewhere between A and B, on an express bound for home, I realise I’ve missed you too.

'My life is over, it’s completely over!'
My granddaughter sobs inconsolably into my best linen handkerchief.
‘I’ve made s-o-oo many mistakes. Why can’t things be the way they used to be?’
She clutches at my gnarled liver-spotted hand, with its swollen joints, and old gold.
‘You do understand, don't you, Nana?'

“I would rather be a pessimist who wears optimistic underwear - French knickers, please, in rose-pink satin;
Than a greyscale optimist wearing overboiled cotton."

And my uncle says charmingly - as always:
‘It seems like only yesterday, mon petit chou.’

And - for the umpteenth time - my brother-in-law shakes my hand off:
‘Wow, congrats on the DOF position!’

And - like clockwork - my best friend puts a ******-happy arm around my shoulders:
‘To be perfectly honest, y’know like, you don’t look a day over thirteen, cross my heart.’

And I think to myself (******-offedly but politely, as you never know who’s telepathic around here):
’I could sit here fixed to this very patch of fading upholstery for the next 365 days with a flute of champers in my hand and still travel as far as you all believe I have, achieve as much as you unfailingly give me credit for, and look as fresh-faced as my oldest nephew...apparently.’

And then it occurs to me:
’Beneath the ill-contrived compliments and the misplaced confidence; despite their infallible ability to misconstrue my every word and complete disinterest in what and why I read out aloud for a living. They turned up. As they do every year. And we annoy each other. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. Santé!’

you're on the tip of my tongue            
not quite fully formed
a word
the one i find so easy to forget

you trip me up
every time
start with a 'g'
three syllables

i've got you...almost                    
g-r-a-t-i-t-u-d-e
ah, that's right
rhymes with attitude                                  

i'm so thankful i remembered you at last