A life played on taut strings,
high-pitched and staccato
to breathlessness,
a break-necked tempo
that often feigns chest pains
and the vice hand we 3AM anticipate

Find a way to twist the machine head,
hear the cartoon sound effect
of boinging down
so your strum sounds loose,
slow, forgotten,
truth

For my mother friends:
my good gosh you are amazing.

Kids in general spew and hurl,
flail utter ******* at you
and forget the next day

boys stink,
think in straight lines ‘til they don’t,
girls twist all sorts of hate
and then hug your very soul

you are the world to them
forgoing all others
to be kicked and kissed equally

which is why you have my envy x

Bullace
hedge haematoma
blue-black against the fading,
once young green,
bruising for sharp winter thoughts,
clean frost lines,
untouched snow-blank focus

but before, to swell and drop
in the last pale suns,
feed the field mouse, rabbit
and endure the muds

The answer “Ok, just tired.”,
like a reflex action,
as knee-**** as the daft decisions,
naïve, fear driven, not yours,
that put you here

In that “tired”, a million branched to’s
trigger a billion possible do’s
flowing like black sand
while you run on fumes
trying to clear
just
one
space

No one wins
digging holes on the beach
while the ignorant tide comes in

Sometimes you just have to rattle
outside
like an over excited child
or pup with energy to spare

You’ll feel the breeze there
and smell leaf and soil
all seasons

Though the language changes
with the days
the message is consistent:
stay

This is where the wet will be
when my wellies come out of hibernation
(though, technically, it’s aestivation,
every day’s a school day)

when someday soon, this loop,
this recuperative walk
will weigh heavy on my feet
with the mud of thought
and of the mud of actual mud

til then I’ll wend, mostly light footed
with the rattle of mowers
and threat-cackle of magpies
to score me
and though not Oscar worthy
the kite-screech soundtrack serves

A cello’s open C
nearly derailed me.
Cerys snuck it in,
slow Sundaying,
nearly made me stop the car
and howl
as the bow drew on my guts
like blissful punishment,
the sullen throb
calling human

Saturday afternoon with borrowed sun
that we’ll miss another day

I commit to develop my cooking
by using stock
which seems to be the unspoken gap
between stuff that tastes OK
and stuff that tastes ace

they should really tell us that

I would scorch the end of the cork
and score bags under my eyes
if the black of my tired spleen
was not already weighing

Like the luggage of the ******
packed in haste, always in haste
so that essentials are oft forgot
like health, or peace, or dignity

As it is, the cork stays unburnt,
but out of the bottle
as a gentle “**** the lot of you.”

Mist chose to linger a while,
though mild air belied October.

Overwhelmed by birdsong,
loud against the abstract silence
of these adolescent sentinels,
stood like arboretum trees
filled with the gravitas
of no age, no age at all.

The year passed as always
with them growing taller,
bolder, a little more aware
of wisdom’s cost
and the one they lost.

It’s not really difficult:
the golden rule,
walking in others’ shoes,
giving two ***** about
the lives of others.
It’s right there.
Has been since the days
of squatting in caves
planning mammoth takedowns

But the clowns have weaponised caring
to become a choice.

It’s not. Raise your voice.

We can’t blame words
for showing us truths
that make us cry
or selling us lies
that make us fall in love so hard
the north wind knocks from us

We can’t praise words
for revealing paradise
allowing us to stroll there
quiet, some days,
and know better

We can only intone the syllables,
wrestle syntax to some semblance
of meaning
for the clicks, croons and chatter
we utter, or fix in lines
for others to know us

A full throated howl
as the dark returns
keening as witch or warlock
at their organised religions
their doctrines and strictures

I’ll gather the hemlock
and the red cap
to lace their tea and platitudes,
their pious attitudes
of bell ringing shame

in my mind’s eye
the rictus grin that takes them
is sweet as autumn fruit

This hikikomori soul
seeking to curl up
in silent conversation with a duvet
and two fat pillows
as the petulant winds blow
arguments

I don’t know how
but I’d forgotten days
when rain falls forever
and in every way

so you sit and you look
and you look and you sit
and your mind asks some questions
you’d often forget
and you twiddle and bicker
and hover and thrum
and you start ten endeavours
with no solid outcome

and then night comes and rescues
as pretence can be dropped
and you put on pyjamas
and stop

Hey guys!
Remember not to **** or **** anyone.
I know modern life is hard
with, like, credit cards and stuff
but just because you can do
something unutterably terrible
doesn’t mean you should
Ok?

And yeah, we don’t have a monopoly
on being shitbergs
In the general pissy sea of life
but statistically, with numbers and stuff,
we ****

So, y’know, try not to.
See how that feels.

An afterglow read
in leaves fallen
as long shadows, earlier than before,
stretch tales of easy warmth
to breaking

We are here

Toe roots touching soil
that’s gathering in
at the sharp memories
of ****** frosts

Across the rec
the final shouts of bike rides
and punted ***** are heard
to defy the dry prickle of central heat
and the long, magic dark

We stay in the meat grinder
as kids are mostly good

we give our time to causes
that no other buggers would

we shoulder the weight
as our colleagues keep us up

we try to raise a thousand toasts
with nothing in our cup

we don’t do it for league tables
or targets plucked to reach

or for managers who do their jobs
as they do not/cannot teach

we do it as it’s in us
it is simply who we are

and we’ll do it til indifference
goes just one
                      step
                             too
                                  far

For a moment,
a minute maybe,
an hour,
my head went under

it wasn’t thrashing gasps
or clawing to froth the surface,
just a steady,
non-negotiable weight
that spoke to my ankles
of depths

I tried to keep my eyes up
following the lipped bubble trail
to the howling truth above
but when my head dropped
the blue belows almost soothed

finally, before lungs gave,
tired fingers relented,
worried the knots,
freed the old strokes loose

There aren’t many jobs
where Sunday night
cold grips your guts
and has you palpitate

while midwives are called
and antiques are roadshowed
every inch of will is bent up
in figuring the impossible

if we all know how leading horses to water ends
then can we not give the stable hands a break?

As I watch my own digits shake,
stable hands seems like a joke
no one lets me in on

Aghast in the AM
as my friend from youth ago
reminded me of what I know,
and know I’d forgotten

my impulse is to call all:
ragtag and happy,
still on the
line

them good girls gonna go bad
hey Jonny?

snug tired is enough for now

We don’t often visit
the pit of our stomachs
but when we do
things just aren’t good

Panic buuyyyyy
paniiic buyyyyyy
go on!

Then none of us
worth any of us
will get anywhere

douches

We try to sink into the crepuscular
as behind, another working week
picks us out of its teeth

we throw a couple of weaves
into the route to the sofa
for a headful of peace, maybe

though home has deaf ears too,
we love them
and through years of gaining favour
we’ll keep bruised hearts open there

beyond, you’ll see each aortal latch fixed,
each ventricular bolt slid
and each arterial snib
locked

if sweat and tears are the currency
you’d better ****** earn it

Calling all ears
all guts and sneers
every daft-deft writer who would be
poet

Write your soul, your boots
your fight, your fears,
your misbegotten loves
tucked behind your ears

Roll with punches,
belch and rattle at your stars
as they are truly indifferent
gaseous, asinine orbs

Pull rank on the nothing
my lovely, living friends
as your truth is beginnings and ends
and I love you

#poet #writer #write #love

Sunday morning
sluggish streets blink
and whisper to themselves
that there was sun, yesterday

the jagged methadone
of a bad night’s sleep
giving all the weight
none of the peace

technicolour memories
seem to be made false
by this overcast sky
so happiness lies

in the old days
a cigarette and a cup of coffee
would smooth edges,
in the good old days

Toward the end of it all
my knackered earth beds
sit dishevelled
like a mother’s rushed haircut

tufts of the next growth
brace for another brown-grey winter
while the last redcurrants hide,
blood dark rubies
tucked in dying leaves of neighbour bushes

in the middle, the supermarket spruce
of three years ago
waits its turn
growing done in the throng of all
while the sun played favourites

soon, in the cat pad darks
the ground will be given back to rule,
cold, empty and silent

Sometimes tears
don’t come from grief
or sudden pain,
from moments moved
by others’ stories
real or sharply imagined

Sometimes it’s just the steady
incessant
tap tap tap
of life that just won’t pause
for any cause or reason
for any chance of respite

We’ll often deny those tears
as weak
but listen as they speak
or they will never, ever stop

No poetry on Mondays
sorry
thems the rules
not even a half rhyme
a poignant metaphor
a little alliteration
or assonance

******

My blackberry love
you stain fingertips, lips and tongue
bittersweet purple
grown on a summer of promise
to end by watching the day
retreat past equinox
feels like loss
and though the longer night has virtues
there are dangers too
behind the fairy lights
and dazzled trick or treat
the immutable cold waits

Just one iota
of that teenaged brio,
utterly fearless in the way
slim life allows,
would power our souls for
whole years

fears, as they come,
are whispered on sharp minutes,
on slow hour memories,
on broken days, lost
in an oubliette
desperate for a single glimmer

youth can be reckless
self-sabotaged and trite
but by god,
there are lessons in the might of it
in spite of it
if we stop,
look
and listen

#emmaraducanu #youth #joy #riskreward #thrills #liveloud #rageagainstthedyingofthelight

To balance a justified arrogance
built by decades
against quixotic bosses
who pass through quicker
than a bout of diarrhoea
is tough

wrap your arms in the rigging
you intrinsically know
so when siren song sounds
or Scylla and Charybdis boil
you’ll still be on the boat
when spat back
to calm seas and good winds

The fabric usually feels the same
a cloth that remains soft
similar to everyday
until, perhaps, a stain
a rip, a tear

I would love to wear the world
as was before all this
but perhaps my prior idiocy
is why we remember

Here is a carrot
we made it from sticks

eat it

eat the stick carrot
or by gosh
we’ll hit you with
this stick

which is not made of carrots

now
here’s a survey about how you feel
which we also made from sticks
although
it doesn’t matter if it’s glass or gold
we won’t look at it anyway

so
eat the stick carrot
and try not to look over there
where they’ll give you actual carrots
and sticks are frowned upon

oh
you’ve gone

On the cusp,
heat on heat on heat
breaking to snot ridden storms
and hoarse, blasted throats

the following cold front
isn’t ideal
but in its heavy blue resolve
lowered pressure leads
to a duvet covered peace

No sooner through the door
than spider-legged anxiety
scurries back haphazard
like a frenemy whose cactus skin hug
begins in September and ends in July

No age
no age at all
never a justification
a reason to placate us
just an implacable, non-negotiable theft
of love, histories and too much still to be

the solace, a skinflint’s compensation,
is that for a short while you had them
and they had you
and that was life

but that’s as much as you get
to try to make it through

September heat to melt the
sealing wax, closing off summer
as grasses, golden as they die
still whisper with insect thought

the trees reply in kind
though the greying of their temples
can’t be hidden
reminding of the irresistible slide
to winter’s wide silences

Caulk these broken bows, please
whether salt or fresh water,
it has weight, presence
and if allowed to pour in
it will sink me

Trying not to think too much
won’t work
as the only perpetual motion found
in this empirical life
is in our anxious minds
so as life jackets go
it’s a no no

To ask for a shipwright is unfair
but to have you there,
tar brush in hand
is enough

Correlation does not imply causation.

Solid, strong, fact.

But when the month long grey veil
that smothered our holiday is hauled back
just as we return,
sun and fat heat to grill us in our ties and blazers,
I’m inclined, for once, to thumb my nose at science:

nature abhors term time

Aspiration? A tricky call.
I’m more than willing to give you a leg up,
but I can’t define where you’ll climb,
or I’ll be the *** who assumes

your *** might become an astronaut,
an assassin for hire,
or just gain enough cash to survive,
or be proudly working class,
or to clash with the establishment
and bring them crashing down
your *** might want to work
hard and fast
or be happy to rock up comfortably last
the amount of possibilities are vast
and equally valid and yours

I’ll lend a mind, some thoughts, some words to help
but for each self to realise themselves,
I’ll not assume,
we know what that would make us

Commute recommenced,
the verges rekindled their
annual morning conversations,
heard twenty times

As my muscle memory drove,
I sought the last red comments
of poppy heads cheering,
but the long, dry grasses
sounded familiar tired whispers
that threatened to drown

I could allow them to dictate the script
of another season,
clichés so often spoken
as to be silence

but I can still hear
the poppy red
I hear the poppy red

How’s it going? Honestly?
C’mon, honest like 3 a.m. insomnia?

As the nights’ incremental dimming
draws us inwards,
how are you?

This idiot driven pantomime
of eighteen months
hit as hard as a guilt trip

So if you’re a little scarred,
a little scared,
it’s ok

They say that tomorrow is another day
which it is of course,
but the fear is it’ll send you
off course

But, my dears,
we’re all off course together

and who do I trust to help me
get back to happy paths?

Always, all ways
all of you x

I know the autumn is waiting,
pensive to embrace the loss of heat,
sweats moving on to other climes
where they’re understood

I hold til the skeleton of winter
can be seen and read
by my fingers on the sorry bones
that please me, alone

A deep pulse of spinning waltzers
burn electric thrills
while pre-teens buzzed on sucrose
and fried dough
scream hot: they want to go faster

back on the promenade
Renee and Don, eyes on a horizon,
warm themselves reminiscing in circles,
minds dancing under glitterball embers

further back, gapped tooth shop fronts
shelter ripped tents, cold on concrete,
meagre piles of trash bagged jetsam,
of those stopped here by memory’s
pernicious tides
and forgot

Still loose, my mind drifts
over coppice, brook,
past fields left fallow
to heal
ragged with sedge, ragwort,
while crickets twitch defiance

Here is where I send myself
as the keyboard walls clatter in
and time returns to rigid
and gravity remembers to hold

As a perennial here
I’ve grown and died
with reasonably quiet roots
learnt colloquial voices
that let me pass in these beds

But frothing coasts,
shattered hand held heights,
cool plains of forever
and cobbled nooks
magnetise more with life

So bring me the horizon,
you wild world
and release me of my soil
commitments
so I can continue

As teachers,
(and I know some are back already, sorry)
we are doing the equivalent
of sportsfolk psyching up

Our judo coach is shaking and slapping
while we, in denial, are still mowing lawns
and planning actual meals from recipes

In our dreams, the Bueller…?
Bueller…? Bueller…?
reels are already playing
with our classes disobeying to our faces

So for everyone’s sake
ease us in please
keep us keen and we’ll deal with your progeny
‘til Halloween

1.
I’m climbing hills today
in one, effete poet’s way
they could be metaphors
for all sorts of ‘big life things’
but in another, my belly
is about to give my knees
some trouble

2.
The sepia on this one’s different
there was sometimes bitterness
in steps made here
as the lure of the theme park rides
sat so near
but the years have done a lot
to replace the roller coaster thrill
with the heart weight of hills,
dales and rivers with tales to tell

3.
You remember I mentioned
the metaphor?
And the belly troubling the knees?
Well these things came to pass
as I hauled my carcass up the hill
turning the air blue

The metaphor? Decisions
that once were natural,
easy like breathing
now can feel laboured, burdened
when a step is placed
how can I be sure the ground will hold?

Even at the peak, where I once
could exhale at the majesty of a job well done
I’m now fraught with the thought
of the journey down

4.
This river is different
at home the stream accompanies me
on local walks, showing me the known
and keeping my chin up

Here, the bold broadness of the river
hides secrets and speaks in a deeper tongue
coarse fish, familiar to me
are replaced by those that anglers prize

I am both lost and a little more alive

5.
Looking into the faces
of teenagers dressed for town centres,
either striding ahead
or shambling behind
parents intent on extolling
the virtues of fresh air and nature
while feeling strangely out of breath at the climb

closer in, the adolescent eyes show
a plethora of emotion
contempt, depression, longing
utter conviction that life is happening
somewhere, anywhere else

but if I may offer some advice: relent
as in a few blurred years
you’ll succumb to the same fossilisation
and will need some routes to remember

To love when other people
feel happy in themselves
is the best bit of human

seeing other’s smiles
and feeling their confidence,
resilience, bliss or comfort rise
makes being alive make sense

The claws of jealousy,
covered in fibre-glass bristles,
can make you believe
that their gain is your loss
which is utter toss

Switch to embracing their joy
and you’ll employ your own