I am the majority whose opinion is not listed. I am unnerving.
A symptom of stress, of solace and solitude. I am a treatment.
For one minute I recall the brave in fields of red remembrance.  In another I am but deadly.

The artist recreating a by-gone era, too easily am I broken.
Holding matriarchs hostage, so to speak,
with their hands on their heads and fingers on lips.

Between friends I am comfortable, amongst fools I’m advised.
The calm before the lovers’ storm. I say it best.
Take my vow, be at one. For golden am I and Holy are my nights.

The unwritten word, the space between the notes
I speak volumes if you can spare a few minutes...
.. .4:33 to be precise.

Sometimes I get lost.
Up against the same relentless struggles and it feels there is no recourse.
Identi-clone traits under each hostile face, but for you.
Just a look, just a smile, and if for just a while
I am found, then lose you in the crowd.


To the girl who smiled at me today and gave me hope that not everyone’s a ****


To the person who smiled at me today and gave me hope that not everyone’s ignorant


Smile at a stranger, it could mean more than you realise


How is this train delayed!? Seriously!


…


What’s on your mind?

They’re not long out the oven, before you find them gone,
There’s nothing quite like scoffing down a warm and buttered scone.
Though I admit deception, quite a simple little con,
It don’t sound right till you recall that scone’s a heterophone.

By evelight lay lackless when by happenstance,
Moved to stoke fires by a wordsmith's en-trance.
Salute you Oh Scribe whose savour words evoke
Mellow cheese, crusted bread and drippings fire smoked.

And on to kitchen with hungergreed,
Then to see what we shall find.

Greeishly seeking  ** hum! Hubbardmum!
Remorsal to not spy no plump honeycrumb.
Hoardings bereft of gorgeulent fripwhips,
Desumed save for wholesmug and blandiment pips.

And on to bed with hungerneed,
Then to dreams alone to dine.

Ill-matched vestements, quick-foot before routine,
Grogful from slumberfast, not spruced nor clean.
Green of the wind that bites first to incense,
Cornflaked under boot, toiling towards drudgcompence.

And on to secure with hungerspeed,
Then to home with food on mind.

To sizzle, not to bake,  fits the need to be sated,
Though the tangs now unaired bring relief once it's plated.
From first ****** to last spurt no sooner guzzied down,
With all gourmeaches now quelled and all yearnishes drowned.

Picture the scene.

You are a waitress. You've been in the job eight months.
Your manager Marie spends her breaks chain smoking often getting through 3 in quick succession whilst she broadcasts the minute details of her woeful life as if rehearsing for her sob-story performance that will propel her to the next stage of the X-Factor auditions. Whilst you hold a certain amount of disdain for Marie, so unwilling to make the changes to help herself, you admire her ability to keep mental score of those pulling their weight in the bar. This is something that comes into play with holiday requests and favourable rotas; Marie is nothing but fair and will not play favourites with the staff. Still Marie is not on shift tonight, so there has been little need to keep up the false smile and can-do attitude. It's a Wednesday, 9pm and it's been a slow night.

Too far from the suburbs to be thought of by anyone as a local yet not quite within the reach of the city to be an after-work haunt. A bar such as this doesn't have regulars instead relying on the whims of passers-by. Through the glass door pane you spot an older gentleman making his way into the bar. You look him over trying to anticipate his drink order. Ageing hippy, perhaps a biker. He has a long beard and is dressed in clothes that suggest comfort over style. A real ale drinker. You run through the guest ales in your head in anticipation of inquiry of flavour notes, alcohol percentages and a recommendation which will immediately be disregarded.

He orders a Baileys; every so often they throw you a curve ball. He asks for a tab to be set up. This isn't something that is usually done. Marie wouldn't go for it, but it's a quiet night and middle-aged alternative guys in your experience aren't the type to run out, particularly those ordering Baileys. You decide to go with it, maybe there'll be  tip in it for you. You casually watch him as he sets up in the far corner of the bar. With customers sparse sometimes all you have is people watching to pass the time. You try to work out his character. You were way off with your guess of his drink order and try to piece together the story that could somehow reconcile his appearance with his choice of drink. Bar staff, waitresses... is it really so different from psychologist. You ponder on this and discern that you are a people person, not because you're sociable but because you are interested in people.

The evening grinds on. You check your phone for messages, more for something to do than any expectation that there will be any. You lock your phone before it registers that you never noted the time and concede a sigh of defeat as you check again. 10:02. Hippy man has ordered two more drinks since he first entered. No-one else has joined him in this time. Stood-up for a date or was his intention to head here for a solitary drink? Is he escaping from something? After all drinking at home is a much cheaper alternative and he can hardly be here for the joviality of the empty bar. You continue to play detective, if only you could be debriefed after each shift and uncover how close to the truth you were.

It's as if your thoughts have probed too deep and become tangible, he seem conscious of your musings as he's looks over. You begin to feel ashamed at having being caught out before your rational mind kicks in and you realise he is simply catching your eye to settle up. Daydreaming is dangerous when you have an over-active imagination. He approaches the bar and hands over his card to pay. You notice the name on the card, Bill Bailey, and his face forms an image of familiarity as you suddenly recognise his face from tv panel shows. The transaction goes through and you pull the printed paper from the till. You smile somewhat sheepishly and then hand over the receipt for Bill Bailey's baileys bill.

I get a certain mindset when I put words to a screen
Formality and sombreness there really is no need
I worry over structure, I try to seem profound
But all the really matters is how it's going to sound

So now instead I'll jot it down the way the words appear
The way I do when out with friends and only they will hear.
I'll overcome the serious, just try to make it rhyme
Even if that mean I have to fudge the final line.

I always wanted a diehard romantic, one who would write me poetry
Someone to create mix tapes whose lyrics would speak of our love.

But I am that romantic. My heart ******* in words and clever verse.
You speak a different tongue: your actions are your words:

You were there at every gig though it never was demanded.
Offered to stay with me in Brussels when cancellations left me stranded.

You share my tastes in fantasy, sci-fi, food and alcohol.
The way you lift my confidence when self-doubt takes it's hold.

You put my needs before your own, in this way you are selfless.
The gifts you give are well thought out, you're always going off-list.

You support me through the bad times, you're a shoulder through grief.
The time you turned up unannounced, I stood open-jawed in disbelief.

You never ask me to change my ways, you choose to love me for me.
At weekend you let me lie-in, then pop up with 'Morning!' and tea.

These are the actions you speak for me,
Louder than words, your poetry.