The past a millstone of regrets
permeating, like a rosary-beads
of penance, the present.
The future a misty dream
of fading ideals.

A girl up the way
has entered puberty.

One day she wears
the most outlandish clothes and colours
and the next
black, gray or blue.

Fond of protecting
the little ones, in one breath,
she stands separate from adults and everyone,
in the next.

Perhaps,
she talks with classmates and girlfriends
about the changes to her body
as she throws fierce energy into gym
and pursues intensely with pimples and glasses
her various and numerous studies.

Recently,
she was halfway up
the Everest of a lamp-post
before her mother came out
and roared her down.

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.

Backwaters.

Violins and pipes
played together
abreast
of different rippling
waters;

Uileann throttling
forward
over hills and downs -
the hunt, chase, ****
or loss;

thrill of being,
spontaneous
in hilly jump,
stream, rock,
hedge, mountain,
mud and pebbled with soup,
partridge, pheasant,
trout and salmon
horizon.

Family life.

Great aruments and debates
concerning mundanities
and trivialities -
the all-conquering
world of pettines
and , of course,
the taken-for-granted
comforts and cosiness.

Cigars from Summatra -

100% tobacco, strong in flavour

and catering for the hungry tastebuds

help

in between

putting on one's thinking cap

and an unadulterated

course of action.

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

The village sleeps
when I retire.

The village sleeps
when I arise.

One man's land
counting grains of sand

while travelling towards eternity.

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.

A Granny Smith
a day etc.;
pears left to ripen
on a window sill
are worth waiting for;
1 kiwi = 4 oranges
in vitamin C -
do eat the skin!

Fruit for the eating -
elliciting a little homesickness
for our lost Garden of Eden.

Ah! the light
and a day
beginning with Bach;
the clicking of fingers
and immediate dancing
welcoming life's mysteries
yet again -

with joys
and adventures
bearing
new fruit,
new delicacies
for the soul's
digestion.

Handel

played on a concertina

in the dreamy hours

of a June night

spent

on the shores

of the far reaches

of Connemara

as we confessed

many sorrows

and ample joys

with a northern glint

in the sky.

Reaching out
in a waste
of dark spaces
time endures
in the fervent hope
of a meeting
with Your
celestial brightness.

A pea
fell on the floor -
I picked it up
and ate it
because of all the hunger
on this 'green' globe.

Lulls
and intervals
interspersed
with Your
divine
touches -

illuminating
the night's
marathon.

Sandals.

Probably seeing
not much future in anything;
direction, conspiracy or destination
they play ball with indifference
and walk along,
feeling comfortably ignored
and alone.

Wise nouns
who live neutrally
in a downtrodden world.

They have seen
the scratches on their buckles and their hides
outlive
the downfall and demise
of innumerable generations.

The placenta of poetry.

At 25
still young and arrogant
but with some modesty creeping in

more fully fledged
in the void's vale
of dropping foundation blocks
into pools of quicksand

tenements are always prey
to vulnerabilities of one kind
or other

if someone sneeze
I am uncomfortably cold

one sleeve of my pullover
is rolled up above the elbow -
it is threadbare!

Snapshot.

Cheerful
cloths-pegs
of many colours
hanging
against
a background
of bare trees
and a grey
sky.

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

6 degrees Celsius

From my balcony,
yes! the atlas
of my balcony;
with the music
of the masters
pouring forth,
from within,
I follow the stars
direction Norway
and Sweden
while around the corner
one looks
towards Iceland
and 'those islands'.
Cleeve is just across the way
and Paris and Brussels
down the road.

This is my mainland!

2 and 2 is irrelevant,
3's and 4's are ridiculous -
feed your furry bears,
your Ollie Elephants and quack-quack ducks!

They are days
spent in pure learning,
though you may not know it;

no fractions, A-bomb formulas
or historical disorientations -
politics and religion
are mingled into one and nothing.

A world of splinters
embedding themselves in the flesh;
the spirit surrounded by a crown of thorns;
pangs of received and on-others-inflicted wounds
tormenting any hope of durable reconciliation -

the birth of wisdom is suspect to mockery.

Maybe, it should  accept and succumb
to ignorance and impotence.

A colossal ****** -

a symphony crashing
in the heart's mind
and in the mind's heart;

into a momentary harmony
and unity of mortal being.

Music
flowing
in
and out,
around
and around,
weaving
and
transcending
into
eternal-like
circles of bliss
on a new
God-given
summer's
morning.

Our local publican
comes from Amsterdam.

Because of his heart
he has to watch it.

Yet,
once in a blue moon
he gets very drunk.

His
favourite trick then
is to shake
every customer's hand

and tell them
with an assinine grin,
insultingly,
to disappear
and never be seen
again.

Ah!
Nobody
takes offence

and
the next day
everything
is back to 'normal'.

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.

The white-horses of the mind,
approaching the shores of the body,
never, ultimately, reach their destination
but break and disappear
leaving time's waves
to slowly erode
our animal allotments.

With the ever increasing tempo
of time sprinting forward,
like a thoroughbred gone frantic down the course,
the years of yesterday
dress in both the most alluring colours
and the most heart-rending sorrows.

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.

I await,
like a weather-beaten statue
for impregnation.

No angel of annunciation
dares to haunt
the sadness of my dark corner.

Outside,
a mountain-ash in blossom
looks forward to bearing
it's fruit of red berries.

I have difficulty in looking that far ahead.

Thundering on,
thundering
and thundering
on
the charge of spring
is begun,
riding over the plains
in a feast of virginal
and tender life;

vibrating and vibrating
with no stone
left unturned -


every space of goodness
in creation
fermenting
into abundance
and fresh, fresh
breathtaking
greener than green
growth.

Gliding
through the fresh snowflakes
of my mind;
feeling
warm and sociable
in the taverns
of my contented heart
I embrace this winter's day
as a benevolent gift
chosen from Your inexhaustable
chest of treasures.

The hundrum existence of millions of lives suddenly ceased
as did their obedience to the drudgery of habit -
taking to the sea, to their gardens, to boats, cool drinks,
sun-tan lotions, ice-creams, cool dresses,
to light and shade as dictated to by desire.

Sand scorching to the naked foot glitters like gold for the having
and every square of every town shelters under a haven of umbrellas
and lazy liquor assisted sensuous talk.

The farmers work on a Sunday too
and weekend traffic jams sweat it out
to the blaring of radio cheerfulness in the extreme.

Spotless blue skies progress to star-lit canopies
and barbecues are the dominant feature of the early hours.

Sun and good humour, honest abandonment, salads and heavy foliage rule.

Cellophane shining
and flapping
in a dusty wind;

overshadowed
by distant blue
hot heavens and mountains.

In the awesome arrival
of your transcendent brilliance,
with all storm-clouds driven away,
my soul ignites into profound conflagration -
being endlessly consumed with raptures untold.

It is your birthday,
not that you really care -
you  never were a man
for giving or taking presents;
only at heart
you appreciated being valued;
for you the wishing
or being wished
was sufficient.

It is not your will
that I am a self-chosen exile,
devoid of ambition
and with no
visible interest in anything
that you might hold dear.

Yet, like a Polonius,
in the wisdom of your years
you desire for me
what is best:
security, health and prosperity.

Maybe, the Creator,
whom you most devoutly trust in,
does, after all, move in strange ways
like your son
who has begun to pray again.

Hard boiled eggs.

Fill the saucepan
up with water;
boil and boil
till everything is dry;
then run
the cold tap
so that
the inferno
cools down.
Peel
gently,
add
salt and pepper
and
devour.

A
gastronomical
delight
for
anyone
in
a garret.

With this darting pen
the meandering streams
of my associations
become clear rivers of thought

before being engulfed
by a sea of unadorned paper.

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.

Writing.

None of this
is important.

The poetry
of flesh-and-bone characters,
immunization from what is -

a comfort
in the recognition of ourselves
and realization
that we are not completely
alone
in our aloofness.

The drums pound away
as an army of associations
and disconnected thoughts
invade the, already seething, chaos
of my enduring self.

Occasionally adorned
with glasses of brandy
and appletart and cream;
while cigars are passed around
stimulating very good storytelling -

a highlight in the life of a coffee table.

A piano sonata
echoes
from the valleys
of a heart's
optimism,
in a night
winding down.

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.

In time's ebb and flood
we are like puppets
falling down
and being pulled back up again
by the powerful strings
of our own primeval stubborness;

Yo-yoing back and forth
while the shooting gallery
shots of fate and fortune
hit or miss.

Tragicomedy in the full!

Then
there were no barriers,
inhibitions or obstacle courses
to be scaled or completed
before the advance was made.

Now
every inch of progress
had to be measured in reams and miles
of pure print and aimless wanderings.

Then
action was!

Now
it is a Calvary gone
numbly insane.

In the void of our ignorance
we see ourselves as objects
floating in the helpless realms
of Einstein's dot
infinitely robbed of ageing transcience
and comfort in a happy-go-lucky existence.

Now
we live not to die
and lie not to live
but lie to survive.

Then
none of that mattered.

Then
time ignored clocks
and man-made habits,
complimenting
the agnostic-god of system.

There was something comforting
in being back in London;
crawling out of Euston station
and climbing into a cab.

The taxi-driver was polite and diplomatic
as I soon warmed up to the idea of beans on toast.

Bliss.

A
chamber
orchestra
exulting -
with
football
results
coming
in
over
a
silent screen.

I have another friend.

He was intensely unhappy
and jumped from a bridge.

Now he sits
in a wheelchair
and is intensely happy!

Another day will pass unnoticed
by this stranded and shoved out being
who, from a soft chair in the night-shade,
sits churning up the past.

The spider in his heart
weaves dreamlike webs of ancient death
and hangs them high above the stonegray vapours
that pour from the Vesuvius of his mouth.

Rapidly rising rosetinted images
explode into the infernal fire
that soon consumes the insipid blood
made passive by someone's contempt.

And the shell survives the light ******
that issue from a bathroom bulb
through holes in threadbare shut curtains.