this must be
the correct train
there was not
another option
it was waiting
        on the expected platform
it departed
        at the expected time
and
it headed
        in the expected direction

despite what I might tell myself
i remain on edge
at every juncture
        of the journey
every announcement
sets me on edge
every stop
sees me checking
        double-checking
that this is
the anticipated station
that i am on course

even when assured
of heading
the right way
there is no relaxation
instead
a countdown is commenced
of each station
to be visited
before reaching
that final destination
as each station
is passed
another count is completed;
numbering
one stop less
than the previous

but still
i will lose track
of where i am
of how far i need to go
panic will set in
blinded by doubts
and undue regrets
i will question
it all

what started so promisingly
has been torn apart
again;
the oblivious
and the abstruse
contribute nothing
but silence.

we are the void
all is numbness
and nothing else

sometimes
the moon elopes
the night
showing her face
during daylight hours
hanging listlessly
seemingly
without purpose
sisyphean
a ghostly pallor
lingering
at the peripheries
of vista
and vision
impotent
as we go on
with our day
a reminder
haunting us
with second guesses
of that which
we thought resolved
the night before
try as she might
her powers
will wane
in this dominion
of sun
and that which
she felt need
to illuminate
will no longer
be seen

a crow
struggling
against something unseen
tries to fly
only to be forced
backwards
further from its goal
with every attempt

it will never realise
it was better off
beforehand
there is no regret
it will simply
keep trying
again
and again
until it succeeds

never thought
i'd be jealous
of
a crow

how loudly
that clock ticks
when all you want
is ******* sleep

camping with
the dog
i sit out
eating breakfast
in the early
morning light
a faint whispering
of elements
crosses the field
a gentle touch
at the back of
my neck
before i notice
the slightest
      softest
of drizzles;
a dampened dappling
of pages
the slightest rippling
on the surface
of my morning tea
looking up
the wisps
of cloud
overhead
remain bright
and airy
but a dark horizon
promises brevity
to this

perhaps
that charcoal smudge
of nimbostratus
passed by
during the night
they didn't forecast
any rain
until tomorrow
after all
i am content
ignoring
   the warning signs
enjoying
the dog's snore
the flutter of tent
the dance
of grass
of insect
and of bird
and continuing
without change
while the dog
sleeps
at my side

Jupiter was visible
yet again tonight
a symbol of tolerance
and understanding
     or so i have read
shining bold and proud
yet unwittingly misleading
to those who might look
contradicting the import
of ever-present Polaris;
but to me
ruled as i am
by nothing less than
the magnificence of the Sun
it is merely
another distraction
to confound this search
for my true north


.......................................................

there is no order
the golden ratio is
just coincidence

by the time
we see the light
it has already
died

I'm trying
not to let that
carry
too much meaning
but
it's getting more difficult
these days

celebrate the light
allow it to permeate
to dazzle
and blind

nothing is gained
from looking ahead
into its darkness
instead
celebrate its light;
that it reached you
at all

though it may have been brief
think
on what was gained
a light
         a warmth
                        a life

it seems ridiculous
to me
that
it does not matter
in spite
of what is
clearly
logically
and undeniably
the truth

just because
a mistake
was not
challenged
or
corrected
until now;
should not mean
we are forced
to accept
the hindrance
of this idiocy
and what it means
for
our future

i watched her extinguish
one of the candles
with dainty fingertips
while i hastily blew
the other one out
with a puff of cheeks
trying to be helpful
but getting it wrong
seeing what i had done
she scalded me playfully
deep down meaning it
telling how a candle
should never be put out
in that way

for blowing it out risks
expelling the positivity
all of the happiness
that its burning
had built up for those
who first lit that wick
bathing in the glow
of its healing light
that flickering flame
that keeps our shadows
dancing together
arm in arm
even if we simply
remain wrapped up
sat side by side

i don't believe
her theory necessarily
but i am left wondering
of all the candles
i have ever blown out
birthday celebrations
cosy evenings in
candle-lit meals
if what she says is true
i can't help but think
about those moments
of happiness and joy
that i have wasted
simply blown away
with a vacant breath
and an unwitting mind

the problem
with buying clothes
these days
is not knowing
if anything
will fit
properly
or even
suit you
until it arrives

instead
rather than
just return items
that i decide
i don't want
i hunt for
a loose thread
and pick at it;
first
with finger and nail
when that is not enough
next comes
a gnashing of teeth
and
if needs be
i am not above
brandishing scissor
or knife
to split the seam
gaping
wide
before complaining
that the item
is faulty

i am never proud
of myself
when i do it
there would be
no difficulty
in returning it
as unwanted
but
this way
i don't end up
paying postage
twice

she said
that i manage
to reduce
the nicest moments
into their
most negative
aspects
my eyes wandered
as she spoke
falling upon
an extravagant
burst of
the sun's rays
exploding through
the rolls
of pearly cloud
colouring the sky
with blooming petals
of pinks
and oranges
haloed by yellows
and creams
a sight
to marvel at
perhaps
but without
the imperfection
of that
darkened shroud
this light
would not
be mixed
into such
artistic palettes
and
the magnificence
of the scene
would go
unnoticed

she waited
discreetly checked the time
continued to wait
patiently and impatiently
flashing a smile
at what felt like
appropriate moments
a stunted laugh
or an "oh"
"really" or "yeah"
if she felt
she'd been wordlessly
quiet for too long
hours had been lost
to the smallest of talk
the bane of
real conversation
of truly meeting a person
all that effort
of getting ready
the makeup
meticulously applied
the hair
styled and restyled
the outfit
chosen then doubted
then changed
to be put on again
all of that
for this

fireworks
******* fireworks
happy new year then
i suppose

it's
not enough
and
it never will be

****
it
all

in my obliviousness
inadvertent and unintentional
some may say as usual
i disturbed a wasp nest
the heightened bombilation
an anger-pitched droning
unheard somehow
therefore unheeded
until that impolite *****
a warning sting
through t-shirt to torso
followed by a few more
in quick succession
set my legs moving
apologetically away
with hands raised
chastened and contrite
both in supplication
and in order to remove
the offending article
of clothing
the oversensitive wasp
having become trapped within
defensively stinging
as nature directs
to be honest
its overzealous instincts
began to feel
more like spite
than mere survival

many will know the beauty
of a butterfly's wing
and the delicate intricacy
of their decoration
those swathes of colour
meandering boldly in flight
a proclamation of
             their presence
             their providence
whose startling eyespots
can mimic the stolid gaze
of the stern and the alluring
observing in judgement
or perhaps in wonder
blinking only as they flutter
flattered disbelieving
yet there are reminders
in that Rorschach patterning
that those with ill intent
should observe
threats and
             warnings overlooked
by those in admiration
of such beauty
where few will heed
that gossamer fragility
broken by any
not considerate enough
in their handling

a gentle patter of rain
tapping politely
at the window
not tempestuously
but imposing enough
in its constancy
a passive aggressive reminder
from the heavens
of our ultimate
lack of control
such a minor obstacle
and yet it tips
the scales of
what was planned
or hoped for
to something perhaps
unforeseen
not yet considered
i thought i had
no intention of
leaving the house
but find myself
rolling my eyes
with huff and sigh
cursing the grey
for ruining
that potential

by lunchtime
windscreens glisten with
newly welcomed sunlight
reflected blindingly
from droplets that linger
despite the fresh warmth
carried in the convective air
it no longer appears
to be "coat weather"
though the ground
is still puddled
to squelch or
splash underfoot
perhaps i could venture
outside after all
with a motivation
fuelled by this
latest change
but for all the blue
stretching the sky
there is still that
darkened mass of cloud
hanging heavy in the distance
unable to tell if it has
been weathered already
or is another downpour
yet to come

it's five o clock
yes in the morning
birdsong has woken me
an hour and a half
before my alarm
was supposed to
even after another
terrible night's sleep
to-ing and fro-ing
with tossings
and turnings
staring into the blank
of ceiling and wall
not enough comfort
or perhaps too much
on this slumped mattress
to slip deep enough
beyond those initial
stages of slumber
down into REM
i'm surprised to find
i'm not as angry
nor as drained
as i thought i would be
at such premature awakening
i can lie still
untroubled for now
contentedly listening
to the chattering
of these feathered neighbours
an avian symphony
of movements manifold

it's been used
quite meaninglessly
twice
    maybe
       three times
and
in between that
it is simply
a dust trap
in hindsight
it was
a waste

i must
have known
that it would
barely
     if ever
get used
lured
beyond sense
     and reason;
the novelty
behind the idea
silenced
any concept
of logic
     or prudence

being able
to say
i own
the same typewriter
as such
a great mind
must mean
something

even so
         if not
it shall remain
on display
esoteric
ironic
impotent
amidst the pages
of my bookshelf

thankful that
the promised storm
did not arrive
umbrellas were collapsed
used as walking sticks
or were discarded
as unwelcome rain
and clouds of grey
drifted apologetically
stood in expectant awe
we were rapturous
as blue skies stretched
from hillock to tor
to witness a cowboy
dressed in white
the hero-in-waiting
with a sunset
      to ride towards
his happily-ever-after
a pastoral beauty
in flowering green
inseparable thus far
tradition be ******
now adorned with
a bonded eternity
on their fingers
to match that
which is long-rooted
in their hearts

no matter how many times
i've crossed these tracks
nor how old i might now be
i will still feel
that childlike excitement
building within
as i look cautiously
left then right and
left then right again
just to be sure
before stepping across
that first metallic line
a symbol of both
danger and adventure
rechecking the signals
as i cross the second
i have never understood
what those lights tell
of the next train's progress
red yellow green
single or double
flashing or constant
no matter how clear
the tracks appear
the uncertainty of
what might soon be
unstoppably approaching
always sets me on edge
momentarily apprehensive
yet exhilarated by
each rushed step

i was late
through no fault of my own
at least
that's what i tell myself
just one of those occasions
where try as you might
the universe won't allow you
to leave on time
standing at the threshold
one final pat of pockets
to check i had
all that i needed
looking up
to gauge the need
for coat or umbrella
i witness
an inhumane globule
of avian faeces
viscous and creamy
in colour and consistency
exploding upon the path
two steps ahead of me
i see no sign
of the culprit
hearing only its cacophony
of enjoyment
or maybe disappointment
drifting
into the distance

the sailing stones
were thought to be
a phenomenon
it was incomprehensible
that a rock
the inanimate
     of all inanimates
should show signs
     of movement
here was mystique
here was mystery
perhaps a message
left by
cosmic energies
or
higher beings
undecipherable
     unexplainable
there could have been
beauty
in never knowing
in letting
     the idea remain
pure
untainted
restorative

alas
we cannot bear
the unexplained;
where the miraculous
is founded
   in uncertainty
we must probe
and pry
until an answer
is found
whether for benefit
betterment
or
hindrance

perhaps a balance
can be found
between the known
and what remains
acceptably unknown
before
the intrigue
and enchantment
are marred by
the bland
     the sterile
          the prosaic

if you talk
about it
they'll tell you
its just a case
of centring yourself
before
it builds up;
placing yourself
in the moment
and understanding
what cannot be changed

except
there is
no progression
no steady curve
it goes from
a carefully traced line
to a scratched
scrawling scribble
that tears
through leaf
after leaf
of paper
whether the message
is legible
or not

apparently
        its simple;
in that split second
between empathy
        and apathy
before the destruction
of everything
outweighs
the strength
of all
that has been
accomplished
i simply need
to breath deep
and
count
           to
                ten

i'm still waiting
to be told
what to do
when my count
reaches ten
and
i'm still
angry

those pensive ones
as they seem to me
birds on the wire
gazing this way
     and that
lost invariably
to their ennui
their melancholy
their obliviousness
to the point
some may say
     pointlessness
of their existence
in these moments
without reason
or incentive enough
to prompt one
     or the other
to take to the wing
embracing the bluster
of the ever-blowing winds
rather they sustain
this idle malingering
waiting listlessly
for that which none
can know

halfway along a mired path
with no option but
to gingerly retrace
their mud-caked steps
or simply struggle onwards
careful of each squelch
along that mud-caked path
the dog sits blithely at heel
appearing miserable
in this drizzling rain
but patient for his reward
and willing to wait
following unconditionally
while the man considers
his options and
the next poor decision
he is liable to make

although there are only
blue skies overhead
i can still feel
a prickling approach
of distant rain clouds
in the air

it seems
the blue lights
drift ghostly
past the windows
more often
these days
each occasion
bringing with it
a momentary
fleeting interest
in where
the drama is
currently residing
at who's pillow
might be
tear-stained
through the night
at who's door
fear and anxiety
are being permitted
to step inside
at who's house
has become
a closed film set
waiting to be
stripped of content
until only
walls doors windows
and memories
remain
but
as commercials end
attention returns
once more
to a stronger
more constant
source of
blue light
and all present
are thankful that
at least
the banshees
that wailing of sirens
has been silenced
in time

It should never have started
I know
As well as anyone
That it shouldn't

But this
I can guarantee;
Whenever they say
"Do not..."
I'll be the first in line
To do just the opposite

Beneath it all
Though I know my mistake
It doesn't mean
I regret
A single moment

Perhaps
It should never have started

Doesn't mean
It should have to end

i know
the raven quoth
"nevermore"
and croaked
himself horse
for Lady Macbeth
while the crow
is an omen
of doom
or a messenger
carrying secrets
for the gods
but
if i saw
one of these
blackened birds
in solitude
i doubt
i could tell
which it was

it made him feel old
     beyond even the years
          he was managing to carry
as he judged the children
storming the carriage
raucous in hi-vis
ever-ebullient despite
their chaperon's plea
to showcase successfully
their inimitable behaviour
only to be scuppered by
a locomotive
     lack of momentum
which did nothing to quell
their impatient effervescence

as the stationary train
     held by an unexplained
          flashing of red signals
awaited its onward journey
through yet another
outbound rush hour
not one single person
elected to sit next to
or even near by
that solitary man
wrapped tightly in coat
bedecked in hood and hat
hands deeply pocketed
and eyes half-closed
blind against his fatigue
and the low-slung sun

unseen by the children
until after their calming
the man appeared to them
     as one of those adults
          not to be disturbed
like their grandpas
deeply snoring on
those rainy Sundays
or their parents
finally at peace
after one of those
     wanton days
steering clear of limbs
and personal space
they are careful to avoid
any proximity to this
slumbering stranger
fearful of the wrath
of such an awakening

appreciating their caution
     unnecessary as it may be
through his squinted
obstructing view
unexpectant and unexpected
he found himself smiling
     at what he could see
     at what he remembered
and stirred playfully
settling deeper into
his feigned slumber
careful to avoid
confounding
any of those
childish preconceptions

nearly five years old
my nephew plays
with a stethoscope
a fully functioning
auscultatory device
not just some toy
of unavailing plastic
and purposeless rubber
lost to his imagination
he holds the chest piece
against my sternum
the diaphragm cold
even through my shirt
making me pull away
momentarily
out of instinct or habit
even though
it is not needed
he sits listening
concentration tight
across his brow
with very real concern
as he informs me
that he can't hear anything
that i must just have
no heart at all

i can
conjurer up words
mix delicate
intricacies of verse
with poetic license
i might defecate
upon scripted genius
   of the past
a scourge
on the eloquence
   of perfected prose
a pariah
with semantics
that hang in the air
like a frequented noose
the rhetoric of
this rhetoric
both dumbfounds
   and delights
the agenda of the learned;
to supress
the syntax spat forth
the phlegm and catarrh
of a gut
of derivatives

i could compose
a verse
for young lovers
   to cherish
if i could
only stop
the rot;
genius
   nonsense
      or ignorance
i couldn't
tell you
which

though i float in time
i cannot get where i want
there may be comfort
found in the past
but
to remain there would be
too great a sacrifice;
this is
a much better place
though it cracks
and flakes

now that you mention it
the bright mornings
of yesterday
were just as clouded
maybe more so

dwelling on our struggles
we must not forget
the joys of
today

it seems to me
that breathing deeply
and counting to ten
just gives them
another opportunity
to irritate me
even more

that deadened fingernail
first damaged long ago
not quite a lifetime but
time enough
          to feel that way
is showing signs of regrowth
partially shrouded but visible
beneath the lingering ruin
the fingertip was caught
ensnared and pressed
more firmly than
          could be endured
though care was provided
the bruising ran deep
and undermined any chance
of this body's repair
unexpectedly
          and unimaginable
in spite of this layer
of lamented keratin
there stretched forth
a sudden burgeoning
a crescent of cuticle
          and lunula
telling of the strength
of the fingernail to come

my eyes are drawn
to two seagulls
perched contentedly on
a ****-caked lamp post
nothing decorative
lacking flourish or accent
a simple narrowing pole
coloured inexplicably green
with gently domed cowls
that gulls and pigeons
seemingly frequent
marred by a combination
of cream brown white
for all i know
it could be
their own faeces
in which they stand
or it could be
weathered and aged
built up and dried in place
for days
for months
for years
perhaps even decades
never to return
to untarnished days
perhaps if the bulb blew
or the lamp failed completely
it might be restored
while it is repaired
but there is no
guarantee of that
and yet the birds
could not care less
they'll pay no heed
to that which is less
than perfection
treating this evidently
well-favoured resting place
the same as they would
an unmarred branch
protected amongst tree tops
or a dainty bird-bath
amidst the flowers
of someone's quaint garden

perhaps
a sudden
flash of movement
as they pace
back and forth
or
a glimpse
of
a head
           a shoulder
                           an arm
as they bend
to their food
it's quite common
to see them
from behind
while their attention
is focused on something
bright
and colourful

it is not always possible
to see the inhabitants
of each enclosure
but
rest assured
they are in there
somewhere

may i suggest returning
at 8 o'clock on Thursday?

now
and then
i like
to turn off
the lights
let the moon
and instinct
guide me
swallowed
by the dark
there is no path
   to choose
only chance;
blind luck
balancing upon
   the finest of lines

eyes will adapt
to the pitiful offering
of the clouded crescent
but
there is neither
enough silvery light
nor confidence
to be sure
of safety
for long

in the enveloping darkness
anxiety rises
fear overpowers
and faith
in the self
becomes questionable;
headlights
are flicked on again
in panicked haste

as the road
and its obstacles
become clear once more
i am left
wondering
if i truly believed
i could navigate
without the help
being offered
or
if i simply
wanted to
force myself
into failure

it seems whenever i read
of these monumental
astronomical events
annular or total eclipses
planets in alignment
a radiant of meteors
as grand in magnitude
and meaning
as hyperbole will allow
that i am never able
to truly witness
or fully appreciate
the wonderment
that others have claimed
these spectacles always occur
on the other side of the planet
or at a time of day
that makes the divine insignificant
mundane and barely noticed
despite the significance
assigned in theory
this clamour for
once in a lifetime opportunities
will inevitably be missed
leaving me with
a sense of aimlessness
and distraction
until i read
that experts claim
this occurrence repeats
approximately every
ten or so years

there are times
while reading
that rather
than check
the definition
     of a word
a word
which is recognised
but whose true meaning
evades me
rather than
search the illumined
pages of a dictionary
to reveal
the mysteries of
     this vital word
this word
which carries
the entire weight
of interpretation
and comprehension
for the rest
     of the sentence
     of the paragraph
     of the page
instead there is
a striving
to illicit some
understanding
vague or otherwise
from whatever context
can be applied
to those words
that remain
indifferent to
the possibility
that I might
misunderstand
it all

a shimmering lightness
of white rolls playfully
across the tips of
slender bladed greenery
the delicate dancing of
that yet-to-be-mown grass
grown long beyond
what building aesthetics
          should permit
a gentle play of
low-lying sun
glanced upon frosted
and thawed alike
the cold breath of wind
ruminating between
a delicate breeze or
          those chilling gusts
harsh yet homely
while blanketed in
the warmth of
this merino wool
even the bitterest of
winter mornings will
feel nothing but
picturesque

I'm trying
to be more positive
it's not as easy as
they say

optimism is
simply
accepting the worst
smiling
until the **** drains away
and the stench
starts to clear

when the absence
lulls you
makes it feel
like paradise

yet
still
there is a puddle of excrement
about your heels

it turns out
Mother Nature is
just as indecisive
as the rest of us
it seemed that
she had finished
with her winter
her day-long frosts
and biting winds
no longer the need
to cocoon oneself
in protective layers
when venturing out
for nothing more than
a bottle of milk
of down-stuffed coats
and twice-wrapped scarves
woollen hats
and thermal socks

it felt like
we had moved on
our spring had arrived
just in time
we could enjoy
the brisk early mornings
despite their chill
safe in the knowledge
that the gentle touch
of afternoon warmth
would shortly follow
the biggest setback
to be expected
was an intermittent
morning-to-evening downpour
dampening our anticipation
though only temporarily
of any plans we had made
until the puddles were dry
or had drained away

it may have been
a false start
but i'm loathe to say
we were tricked
or call it
an outright lie
those brightened days
were a welcome change
enjoyed by all
we were simply
carried away by
the primaveral allusions
lulling us enough
to forget the cold
and its significance
catching us unprepared
and exposed
like those delicate flowers
so recently bloomed
buried for now
beneath this weight
of snow

he may say
all is forgiven
but that does not
mean he should
be held to it

these days it means
about as much
as when he says
"i'm fine"

his hands
are firmly wedged
inside pockets
unwilling to risk
exposure to this
frost-coated morning
if he tripped
or slipped
stumbled
fell
even then
he would not rely
on their numbed support
he could not trust
that they would do
what was necessary
if called upon
deep in the sherpa-lined
abyss of his coat
his fingers remain
protected in gloves
clenched and wriggling
with all hopes resting
on a return
   of warmth
   of bloodflow
   of feeling
before he gets home
before central heating
   and chill-blains
turn his frozen tips
into scalding rods
when there is
no use but
to desperately
and ironically wish
that he could not
feel anything
at all

guilted into yet another
late evening dog-walk
after too long spent
indoors and weighed down
by endless introversion
trudging an unlit path
free of the imposition
of street lamp
     and headlight
with nothing except
those familiar constellations
and a degree of
     lunular exposure
to guide our path
despite the cold and
that lingering feeling
of obstinate lethargy
we firmly planted
our mud-caked boots
upon the saturated ground
unstable and clogged
as it may have been
in order to marvel
at that moment
of unexpected perfection
perhaps it was simply
a case of fortuitousness
or sheer coincidence
but to us it seems
the universe is offering
more wishes than we could
ever have hoped for

as out of character as
it may have seemed;
i still cried
       like a ******* child