Home sweet home -
pendulum clock
ticking and tocking
quietly on;
while the ulcer
and heart attack
haste
of impending businesses
sets forth.

Storm at sea -
fishing boats
tossed about
in the spume
of giant waves.

Each pause
in the onslaught
like been offered
a last cigarette
before they blindfold
you.

The owls line up
in the vicinity,
the street lamps
switch on;
traffic trundling by
with homeward bound
hungry crowds.

The kitchens hives
of domestic industry
as broadcasts
prepare to invade
the living rooms
of the temporary retired.

Night falls.

Night's journeyings
through the unfathomed
depths
of the mind's basements
lead
to the immeasureable mysteries
of more than this, our temporal
existence.

Today
in the dry harbour
of my mind
the words
lie on their sides
incapable
of setting to sea.

As an actor on the stage of life,
in the daily flux of time,
continually crossing frontiers
I move from one space to another
endeavouring to fill each one
with some semblance of normality.

With the mind
turning and twisting
in the agony of a heart
squeezed dry like a sponge with despair
I pace to and fro
in a bedroom's dimly lit silences
as a caged animal
hungering and thirsting
for the scent of a liberating oasis.

A clarinet
brightening up
the night
in the cheerful
freedom
of it's numerous
variations,
makes the heart
light
as if it were
dancing
over fields of spring.

Barcelona in the siesta:
two alien idiots walking
the dry deserted streets
in search of mineral water -
like infants in a land of gentiles.

Another seascape.

The occasional gull
glints in a cheerful sun
against a sky
not hungry for clouds.

Everything smells of salt;
there is sea-****
and companionable cliffs
while the backbone of distant mountains
is drowned in an azure haze.

Heatwave.

Dust whirling,
after mobile departures,
in the decadence
of our innumerous crows'-feet.

The sweat of humidity
dropping on neutrally carpeted floors.

Beer lubricating
many a rusty throat
as human optimism
and pessimism
make friends with each other
in a warlike fashion.

Rain-drenched
with the bad weather of tiring moods
I dream of landscapes
and shores drowning
in an abundance of sun
and simple sand-and-***** castles
and silhouettes dancing shimmeringly
against an immense horizon -
blue and blue and blue
dotted sparsely by pure white sails.

Doorwerth 0400 hours.

Far from pomp and ceremony,
this village -
here in the night
while Amsterdam throbs on;

the local fox prowls around,
an owl speaks his mind
and my light shines
in a vacuum of privacy
as Hilversum 4
calmes the nerves
in the background.

Yes! oil burning
with expectations
from the world of words.

My books are alive and well
and talking amongst themselves.

A cool breeze
shaves the contours
of my face
in a night lit
by a thousand warm
stars.

Sailing on blue skies
of music
composed all of 300
years
ago -
then,
swooping down
from the orchestrated
heavens
into the depths of
Aegean
green waters.

Wombing
as always
into
all that joy
is and was.