Bored bored bored bored bored.
Here I am again. Same seat, same computer, same segregation from the rest of my working world. My face is open with a desire to help. The expression is real - I do want to help - any interaction is welcome. But as time ticks by the smile grows vacant, eventually freezing to a rictus.
People pass me, unaware.
Hundreds - well over a thousand.
The odd nod of acknowledgement and a few genuine requests for help keep the monotony at bay. But the steady stream slows to a trickle, and my smile dies with it.

Everybody is different. From the moment of conception to the dying breath - no two lives are alike.
But in crowds individuality takes a knock. Some are lovely, some are friendly, some are *****. Most are oblivious, blinkered into their own world or lost in the collective one - made nervous by the proximity to so many others.
Like sheep.

The worst they can really do is ignore me - at least the odd rude one is entertaining. Nine times out of ten I'm surplus to requirements, but I thank my lucky stars I'm not dealing with their empty bellies. There's something about buying food that brings out the very worst in people.

For me though, it's not the people. People are just people - the world over. It's the monotony that sinks my spirits and sabotages my smile.
But all is not doom and gloom.
Sadly it's not my colleagues that lift my spirits  on these long lonely nights - I barely see anyone. It's not even the computer that sits in front of me - with its world wide web of ones and zeroes encoding the entirety of human knowledge - it only really serves to change the boredom from upper case to lower.
What lifts my spirits is the view. The arc'd metal icons that span the silvery snake of the river from bank to bank. The fiery sunset echoing the shape of the bridges, it's light catching the shimmering water and exploding in every shade, glittering from red to gold.
Some things never grow old.

Right.
So I did my ankle in on Friday.
****.
Thought I'd see how I was to drive by nipping to work and back.
Ok. So far so good.
The tyre pops.
****.
But I get there.
Ok - it's cool - change the tyre:
Spare wheel? Check
Jack? Check
Security socket? Check
Tyre iron? No.
No?!
****.
So.
Now stranded outside work with a buggered ankle, a popped tyre and without a very important tool to change the wheel.
And for some reason nobody else seems to keep that vital piece of equipment in their boot either.
****.
Anyway.
As Lady Luck would have it (in her mysterious way), a chance encounter ended with a lift home.
WOOHOOO!
I will return tomorrow fully prepared.
With luck I won't get a ticket sitting on a double yellow all night.
Hold on.
Luck?
Luck?!
What?!

Dear Lady Luck,
Make up your mind.
Please.
Yours,
Joe Haydon

Romance is not love - they are different things.
Romance is a subtle gesture, the turn of a head, the twinkle in an eye, the electric charge between two people that sparks on contact. Romance is desire, seduction, passion and lust. It is restrained, spontaneous and exciting. It is not on the menu of a fancy restaurant, or on the receipts of expensive gifts. Romance is found in little things, special things, and it is far too elusive and precious to be bought or sold - whatever the price.
Romance is not love, but if tended to and nourished, romance will take root, grow, bud, blossom and bloom. And when it does, love will lie in it's petals.

From a smile shines the sun.
So grin and bring the good weather with you.
In your glow the seeds of  happiness will grow in those around you,
and leave behind  a trail of the green shoots of peace.

My night, my day, my darkest black and highest noon.
My dawn, my dusk, my brightly shining sun and moon.
To a life once comprised of only black and white; you brought such vibrance, such colour, such saturated light.

So caring, so thoughtful, such generosity of spirit.
To me - you see - its clear; your essence is exquisite.
Never mind skin - this is soul-deep beauty - one that shines from deep within, one that I love absolutely.

Your shining eyes, your smiling face, how we get lost for hours in sweet embrace.
How when the beat of life demands it, and with barely a sideways glance, you'll take my hand and we will rise and dance and dance and dance.

My nights are bright, my days are lifted, my eyes alight at this new life gifted.
And it's down to you my graceful swan, and all you are and do.
And for this - with all my heart...
Thank you

The blank page lies open,
Like a freshly fallen field of snow,
Ready for me to leave my mark
In mucky prints of ink;
Dark across it's ****** slopes

I have little issue with speaking the unspoken,
But begin to falter in breaking the unbroken.
The page is inscrutable; oppressively immutable,
But it's inexcusable to deny its aspiration.

So I must bite my lip and gird my *****,
Break the unbroken and spoil the unspoiled.
But if I set off will I stumble?
What if I fall?
What if the penprints I leave across the field of my page go nowhere after all?

Well there are many fields, and many pages;
And on this long journey; many stages.
I roll in the snow and make a mess;
Start with a word and see what comes next.

So just explore where the blank page leads you.
It may not go where you expect.

I was planning to write today.
But I talked, and talk got in the way.
I search for stories, something to inspire
But it seems all the tall tales are lost in the myre.
Anecdotes, like dust motes, can drift with the breeze,
And for some the words come with a natural ease.

For me words arrive with rhythm and rhyme,
But in no special order; they don't stand in line.
Mumbled and jumbled its hard to pick and choose.
And my mind emerges; battered and bruised.
They don't stand on ceremony; they don't mess around
With their speedy advance like a great wall of sound.

I try to be measured, thoughtful and slow,
But my hand can't keep up and leaves illegible prose.
I shake the page, try to wring out some sense
Like panning for gold I look for recompense.

Hold on.
A nugget.
Here,
And there.
But it's me; I get distracted.
And they get lost somewhere.

From proud stallions to foals, the white horses ride the rolls,
Heavy hooves crash, break and thunder over rocks and stones
and grind this land to sand and dust.
Wind-whipped snow-white manes trail as their speed leads them on,
Over the blue-grey foam-flecked fields, to smoother calmer pastures.

But not to be so.
As the strength of their lives surprises, they are but short lived,
and as quickly as they come; they go.