Green cathedral bells
are felt more than heard
though some tolls chime audible
to stomach depths
heart breadths
last breaths

Geese fly by in a V
watched by laid back clouds
coloured flamboyant pink
by a sun that says
“See you tomorrow.”

Fat snow tickled us
and we forgot all that
for a string of heartbeats.

Sharing a lost freedom
you gave us a fleeting,
distanced touch of colleagues,
friends, your girls

free laughs flowed in honour
til you passed us for the last time
in this grey world
and we choked a little

but even then, the technicolour
of next time rained,
irrepressible as red laughter
and leopard print

The fat, the grease,
of these in between days
stills my pen a little

So even if I wrestle
with another monumental year tick,
like the crack of doom

I look at the stuff in the fridge
and shrug

The existential crisis can wait
til the brie is done
and the crackers
have gone soft

If you had diarrhoea
got caught short, took a ****
in that drawer where you keep all your cables
and bits tangled vociferously
then later discovered you needed
a spare micro usb,
so you had no choice
but to roll up your sleeves,
that would be this Monday

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

Get the angle right,
and the light from a wan blue sky
reflects on the sodden ground
like a disco dancefloor,
pathfinding to somewhere
with umbrellas in glasses,
sand between toes
and baked skin

That it is February
in this upper latitude
can do one for a minute,
let us lounge, sweat loose
and remember our grins

As nightly, screens scream,
buckle, near break
with images of blistered humanity
abroad
with normal folk caught
in quick-quick-slow anxiety,
at home
a fat clown
knights a *****

A slight huff descends at today’s candy cane pic.
Those abstract blues,
lost along with childhood,
of time moving way too slowly.
Still a whole week of school to go,
stretching vast like an ice shelf,
with only a hint of impossibly brilliant things
in the far, far distance

Cook for me,
put things in the ***
that make my tongue go
Hello Dolly!

Rock ‘n’ roll flavours
savoury sweet and acid hot
so lips smack and I get lost

It’s not the quantity that counts
just the beguiling intensity
of spice blends, herbs
and the nerve to let the metal smoke

One side obscene in ignorance,
the other sanctimonious
to emetic effect

In the mid ground we most of us sit
whiplashed necks crying
as each rabid side bays allegiance

shut up, breathe clear air
drink tea
read
be fair

We’re waiting for you, little pearl,
not that we need you to rush
take your time as the arms to catch you
will cwtch forever

Your mama has laid layer and layer
of love on you,
egg-shell cautious love

So be rambunctious on arrival
and we’ll mostly forgive sleepless nights

Just come little pearl
come in little girl

our world awaits x

I saw my knuckles in sunlight.

Seems I’m doing alright,
in that their crocodilian terrain
showed survival

I recall a science class
where they asked us to pinch skin
on the back of our hand
to see how quickly it returned

now, it appears
I’m learned

#age #skin #morphology #longevity #content #knuckles

A spell of bone cold
to remind us that a magic
rules all
our knotted muscles contract
as the frigid air kisses
with wool and other matters
we try to defend

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

Do you know what’s good in this world?

You, you ****** idiot,
expending all your energy
whirling and worrying
about what others think
while your very industry stops them sinking,
you almighty dingus

You bally fool!
Your absence injures
in increments felt by each person
you vex for, who miss you
which add in mounds and scores
and you shaped piles
while they would run for miles
to keep you in their orbit

So,
you massive plum,
let yourself feel it

We sat and sounded beliefs
as the leaves chose to dance
with an almost panic
as if the chance wouldn’t come again
and the floor would be cleared

Clarity, for now, only coming
from this brittle winter light
that in high contrast picks out sad details
that murky days hide better

I will cry, I guess, tomorrow
or another day that would’ve been ours
the hours will let me know
I’m sure

Most of us wrestle our ball of twine:
the more we struggle to catch an end and untangle,
the deeper our fumbling takes us

for some the fight twists dark,
the yarn becomes barbed wire
and they bleed loose in many small ways

for others the yarn dwindles
microfilament caught
eternally wriggling on the end hook

I call to you now and give quicksand advice:
stop still and calm and rest,
look about you and a hand will come

*******
hear the words from my beak
please
above the chatter and click
of these other feathered *****
as they plead for wheat, sans chaff

every single one of us
the same
except the stupid branch we’ve
ended up perched on,

early or not the worms are earmarked
and the **** always falls down

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

Two paracetamol
washed down with Gaviscon
from the car stash, 7:57

Later, at break,
if I’m feeling cheeky
I’ll pop a couple of Nurofen
from the desk drawer
and ride that mild alleviation

At lunch, if the planets align
and I reach the toilet,
in the muffled cubicle
my eyelids will flutter
as I stretch and let the Anadin Plus
do its thing

Medicate to educate

No pressure to be up today,
blessed or cursed, hold on

the hands in yours may be tiny,
of passion, steady, familiar,
frail or memorial

they touch the same
and need you here x

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

Dusk inside, sometimes

Sometimes out

A heart shout, above cloud thrill

Given infinite patience

Standing still, still, still

I roll your name around my tongue,
try it on for size and fit
and note the heart-flutter it gives me
before a gulp and swallow ingests you

I ponder and digest your vitamins
as sense prevails
and I return to business as usual

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

A slow skull, but steady
as four pull by in unison,
the river readies me for another day
with current confidences
quietly spoken

In comparison, the busy chat
of small brown birds seems rude,
but cheek and charm
forgive a lot
if not all

It’s to the bees I’ll look
for industry this Sunday,
though if their lead will be followed
is yet to be decided

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

To the average working stiff
the mouth feel of Saturday
always popped and fizzed

a day to get on with the business
of being
without being defined by your business
(shout out to all in retail and shift work
your heartache is saved for other verse)

This Saturday has come
with revised terms and conditions
that seem to have rather stunted
the former purpose
like a PC revision
gutting all the cheeky dirt
for contemporary sensibilities

Fine, but understand
that from behind closed doors
a million folk are figuring
how to **** about in a myriad
of new ways

Ye can take our pubs,
but ye cannae take
our shenanigans!

It’s about now that my brother,
like some atomic clock for childhood illness,
gets the annual razor blade throat of tonsillitis.
As much as it’s a pain for him,
has he no consideration for me?
Who’ll be better than me
at playing with my toys now?
Dad?
Pfffft.

You need to cook

to think about what tastes good
and shop with tastebuds, textures and time in mind,
challenge your palate
with things you might not like
but just maybe through salt, fat,
sweet and vinegar
you’ll begin a journey with no end

Start with basics:
pick a thing that as a kid you loved
and muck about with it
add stuff, take stuff
reflect on heat
(too high is the trap we all fall in,
or too low, through fear)

Most of all cook, as a ritual
make victuals that force a grin
that draw friends, families and lovers in
and with greasy fingers and chins,
grand sustenance and common guilt,
we’ll smile and rise

Bone tired, petal and stem
still crave the light.

The fug has muted us
putting aches where shines were
but the yearning for the thorn and burr
of every normal day persists

My skin is ready to be kissed
with burn and nettled rash again
to give me pause for actual thought

Breathing cold vibrancy,
the earth and sun remind us
that whatever prattles on the surface
will be layered over,
fossilised,
and judged as advances
or fat, white dead ends
by the clever folk ahead

Sometimes, tides behind teeth get stuck
as if the moon, distracted,
looses its inexorable pull

then all the weight of water
sits stagnant
while each pescatarian thought
from the zipping, inconsequential minnow
to the ponderous whale bulk
sulks, sick and stuck

If you see these green gills,
or the overspill in the eyes of those
you know
maybe sit awhile, harbour side
and cast a line or two

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.

Not lost as much as misplaced,
gone from where you should be
in bosoms of families
and conspiracies of friends
still adding your narrative arc,
your author’s hand

It is for us to ape your style,
continue your quirks and syntax
so the story, like these spring bouquets
will bloom well

Hey! Teacher! Leave them kids alone!
We’ve all earned our time in the sun
to let tense necks and foreheads unfurl
and remember that even though it’s a bit busted
there is a world

For the love of heck, turn off the laptop
stretch legs and do you
even if it’s tricky to remember
there are plans outside of planning

Your role is essential, even while
fat white men who went to abusive schools
will tell you otherwise

You need your energy to lift the eyes
of those who feel low, forgotten and rotten
so please
recharge

We trusted you with what we love
and you broke it

jammed a fat stick in its spokes,
overwound the mechanism,
twisted the arm at a funny angle
til it snapped

haphazardly snatched at the parts
applied inappropriate glue,
pointed to one or two others, then skulked away
pretending to have never touched it,
or even been there that day

even broken its worth can still be seen
with eyes that choose to,
heard with ears not deaf from
formless brays of sycophants
who may or may not be in the mirror

we will stickle it
every little bit of it
we will fix it like new new new

Indigo shades steeping
to Indian ink blackness
******* thought
to a beautiful, terrible singularity
where words struggle
to escape gravity
but on we fly

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

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

Ach, my amygdala
agglomerates ridiculousness,
a ****** laden froth
of other possibilities and lives
and loves, loves
and mitigated losses
to address the hurt

Skimming and scanning
the grammar of the riverbank’s
brown leaf, new shoot syntax
a bold type wren,
like the old bouncing ball of singalongs,
led my eye to read the waterline
and yet I still couldn’t discern
if smiles or tears were written
while the branch tips still scribed

The lies that autumn tells
it hides in these leaves,
like a sleight of branch
you’ll be misdirected
from the dun, dying land
as you revel in amber and gold
falsehoods

We grew in this yard
in between the broken glass and dog ****
vine inches
minutes by hours by days
roots crept in an inconsistent soil
and growing despite

To arrive now with weekend garden centre eyes
you may see weakness in some leaves
that belies the truth of a fragile fruit
long nurtured from blood
and uncompromising viticulture

And if you try to claim the bouquet
or the legs on that glass
or the complexity of hard fought tannins
and subtle warmth
and lasting aftertaste

Then you will see us spit

The rains come heavy
often every side
and you might dance
like Instagram cushions suggest
or you might just gaze
through eighties music video panes
I ain’t missing you at all

Afterwards though
the sodden ground dilemma,
paths erased
muddied water
that flows regardless
while your boots lose home

It’s true that sometime
bare limb and sprig can be beautiful,
that dun lands can show stark heart,
but for this diurnal chimp
the cough of leaves remembered,
a view engorged,
is deeply needed

Good morning.
Lean into the good,
even if a hangover fug
has you in its grasp,
breathe deep.

We still have grey days
to argue with, some tears,
til greenery ensues
when lost, hidden and new truths will return.

So make the morning good,
with toast and jam
or salt, fat and shenanigans.

And for your soul,
despite the impotent bitterness
of prevailing winds,
prop open the door a little.

The brief needle in my arm
and onwards
the dog with the slobbered tennis ball
the boys braving bare feet in the stream
and onwards
soft wind still with a sharp edge
the brief needle in my arm
the tumble song of the ice cream van
and onwards

Remember the need for navigation?
when you rolled your silly guts
outside of this?

I shoulda guessed there’d be
a sorta dumbening
that comes with dark times
sitting in a sofa groove
that coulda been made by Adam

but then whadda I know?
I voted for this,
huh