Shallow pools
so still
filled with dripped dreams
long decayed.
Fearful whispered words
will echo under their weight.
Because not every circus has
a drunken clown,
nor revolution a song
and not every scream means
something is wrong.
It's a reticent forgotten poem
existing in an amorphic state.

yet most were in april, searched for winter

find one will have to insert it. most days are busy,

i am the only one to do it, unless i pay.



searching for meaning, it may be there is none.



loving our homes, rituals and bad spellling

we carry on, carry one.



sbm.

it is number 13
a thunder ball
in my mind.

who is james bond
anyway,
he is ficticious.

elephant is not.

we got up too early,

went back to bed.

with a cup of tea.



sbm.

The story began one night in the dark
when most curious minds were asleep.
Sitting silently, only fingers tapping the keys,

“You tempted me like an empty page,” he wrote,
longing for a response of immediacy
that would fill his mind with more words,
the only thing he took comfort in.

She stepped aside from the voices
at her gathering to read his message.
“Emptiness,” she wrote back, “lives in the mind,
the habit of looking for what’s lost.

There is no zero in nature.
Let me tempt you with fullness instead.
Come and see what I see, and share what is there.”

As she sent the message, she swallowed deeply
knowing that what she offered was not quite a lie
but more of an unfulfilled desire.

“I can give you what I never had,” she thought.
Her mind wandered, filling
with all the ways that only emptiness can.

He wasn’t sure what she was offering him.
Whatever it was, he longed for it.
Her words flooded him with a feeling he couldn’t name.
Love? Desire?  Intoxication? Yes.

As the sun rose, he took no notice of fatigue, thirst, hunger.
He forgot the empty days,
the time spent looking in the mirror,
counting the lost years.
He began again to write.

Summer morning.
Recrossing the borderline from the afterlife,
the dreamer is expelled from sleep, the dream lost.
I am a dream’s shadow,
heavy with transition, jagged from sleep.
Light gathers me from every room I have ever slept in
onto the shrinking island of the bed.

Someone cues the poetry. Unquiet lines.
The past was worse than you thought,
voices say.  Your life is a weighted skin.
Stop swimming against the tide of loss.
Sink.

Yet gloom is porous.
From the sky’s cracked mosaic,
Daybreak seeps in.
The light reassembles familiar objects,
which replace mere longing in ordinary darkness.

The things of the world resist but return
to radiance, resume the work of existing.
We are all day laborers.
It's my shift. Summon the coffee.
The world yawns before me.
And I am, therefore (I think).

And  when  his  usefulness  had  gone.
They  just  cast  him  aside.
And  on  the  final  downhill.
He  began  to  slide.

Rejected  after  all  his  work.
Visions  now  all  gone.
He  knew  full  well  his  time  was  near.
He  knew  he  had  not  long.

As  an  old  man  disillusioned.
And  weary  from  his  fight.
He  spent  in  sad  remembrance.
His  final  lonely  night.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

There,s  not  many  upsets
in  the  FA  cup  these  days.

Because  the  playing  area,s  
are  in  prime  condition.

In  the  old  days  they  played
on  mud  bath,s  which  were
a  great  leveler  in  skill.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.