If I were a tune
I'd dance with me and
Lift my feet up star lit stairs
To level ground in far out space.

If I were a rune
I'd read with me and
Lift my spirit up moon kit floors
To love and care with grace.

I am in an eating mood today.
A wag would say 'sure what's new?'
But I know the difference.
It's a matter of control and
Today I have no control.

I'm in the grip of it today.
An optimist would say 'think yourself lucky.'
Because it's not drink or drugs.
It can often feel as hopeless and
Today is a hopeless day.

I worry about my weight today.
A cynic would say 'just stop eating.'
Sure all it takes is willpower.
But willpower is not for the weak and
I feel weak today.

I will try to rise above it today.
A pessimist would say 'can't be done'.
But I can't listen to myself anymore.
I need to stand up taller and
Believe tomorrow is not today.

My gut tells me secrets and
Guides me to answers.
It screams nausea like a
Air raid siren during war time.

My gut speaks to me and
Implores me to listen.
It never chides me when
I ignore its clarion call.

My gut is never wrong and
Sets me timely reminders.
It stores experience like a
Well thumbed user manual.

My gut is instinctive and
It helps me understand others.
Their motives and intentions;
Their weaknesses and strengths.

Mr McParland;
our Primary 4 teacher lived in Newry,
Northern Ireland.
Not a City in those days,
but a dangerous border town.
He had wiry hair like a blonde Afro.

Pat Jennings;
world class goalkeeper for his country,
was also born in Newry.
Our man claimed to know him,
and went to school with the green giant.
We believed without reproach.

Yours truly;
age 6 & 7, in the years of the Hunger Strikes,
born in Belfast.
I was enthralled because Pat was of another
world to kids reared in our divided times.
A symbol of hope on an island of doubt.

To the beholder such beauty is heavenly.
A godly product of nature,
as enchanting and majestic as
the flowers or a morning frost.
To the beheld in such worship is frippery.
A biased vision of allure,
as manipulated and contorted as
a dream or a narrative device.

After the dust settled,
the mess tidied;
they ate peacefully.

With every knot the brain ties,
we become hunched and tense.
We become tight and sore.
Fury gives way to agitation and we collapse.

The knot constricts our movement,
until it is laboured and slow.
Until it is stuttering and resistant.
Agitation gives way to pain and we cry out.

Knots can be tied from every angle,
secured by work or home.
Secured by people or person.
Pain gives way to tiredness and we succumb.

They say it takes a long time to untie a simple knot.
Clear thought makes it tame and pliable.
Clear thought makes it limp and loose.
Tiredness gives way to breath and freedom.

The tea cup touched my lips.
I drank;
peace rei(g)ned.

I know the road back
But I still get lost.
So many twists and turns,
Blind alleys and stop signs.

I know the roots of strongest tree
Can become tangled.
Constrained by my thoughts,
Inadequacy and obstinacy.

I know the fear of dates
On the calendar.
Reminders of my despair,
'Bravery' and breaking point.

I know the vacant feeling
Of slow detachment.
Sitting in pain and staring,
Crying and collapsing.

I know this time of year
April Fools Day.
The body slowing down,
Remembering and revisiting.

I know the road back
But I still get lost....

Botox on the high street
A jab for flabby jowls.
Is it any wonder people
Exist only in their heads?

Social media selfies taken
From above in unnatural light.
Is it still shocking people
Hate the boring everyday?

It's not easy to like yourself
In a world obsessed with image.

I remembered something today.
Something I forgot,
During the march of time.
In the race to here.

I remembered something today.
Something you once said,
During that long summer, 2001
Way back there.

I remembered something today,
Something beyond recall.
During the madness of my fog,
In here somewhere.

I remembered something today,
Something I buried.
During the years in between,
Deep down inside.

I remembered something today.
Something I'll never forget,
During the wee small hours,
Inside the dark night.

If my thoughts were like blossoms they'd drift away.  Lifted on the air to float off to the distance.  I would remain rooted, grounded but blissfully weightless.

Choices are paths of determination, routing life from cradle to grave.  Roads of decision and bravery lead to fulfilment.  Roads of indecision and cowardry lead to regret.

Heavy rain will fall someday,
Fear will flood your mind.
Shelter will appear far away
Black dog right behind.

Meet the dog with openness,
Let it lick your face.
How wet you'll get I cannot guess,
But I know you'll last the pace.

The Fifteen (capital F is important),
is a tray bake unique to the North of Ireland,
i believe.

It consists of cherries (these are a must),
Marshmallow, coconut and digestive biscuit,
I love them.

Cloud break as the rain quickly slows.
Hushed, from a cacophonous roar to the
sporadic laugh that follows a hearty chuckle.
It's last wet breaths stuttering to ground.
Then you like a beacon of warm sun.
Heating my soul with your natural born
light, as pure and generous as the Angels.
Soaking up my tears and calming my heart.