here you are on my bed
staring up at me with your
olive black eyes.
fur that isn't really fur
has matted
yet its soft flicks
please the senses in my fingers
and nails.
Grubby.
You would seem like this to everyone else.

But here you are in all your glory.
White fur now the colour of stale tea
and the ribbon as pink as a baby's bottom is
soured by all those nights asleep.

The comfort of your odour and cuddle.
All this sounds silly.
I'm only talking about a bear.

A bear that has shared my existence.
There is no creepiness. It is a fact that my bear
has shared my bed.
But my bear has shared my dreams,
the true thoughts in my little world.
We're in unison.

And it isn't materialistic either,
to love an object.
And it isn't ridiculous either,
to love a bear.
And it isn't fair,
that fragility has got the better of him,
for what has my bear
ever done in this world
to deserve the torment of degeneration?

So now I sit here,
writing in front of you bear.
We share it all
but time has got the better of you.
You're not going up into the loft,
but honestly
soon you'll be off my bed.
cause that's life
and I need to learn that you're
only just a bear full of cramped stuffing
and not my thoughts and dreams.

News hits you in the face
Like ***** on the side of the throat.
This inescapable mess
Drapes itself over a sofa,
As arrogant as Brutus
Being fed is hourly dose of grapes.
Taunting you
In all your poor innocence.

What to make of the news
And what to do?
It can change you,
And you won't even know it.

Is it really because of the paranoia,
Or the shameful receiving of a glare,
As you eat your pesto pasta?
Don't blame yourself,
Blame the garlic.
Blame everything on anything
Except yourself
(Have no qualms everyone does it)

'Why are you having a shower now,
You only had one this morning?'
Quick. Think. Make it obvious.
'Oh, I smell you see'.
Sublime excuse.

But this is not the reason.
Shower to remove sins?
By part tis true,
Showering washes away
The layer of **** that the world
Dumps on you throughout the day.

We shower to relive.
The added bonus is that after
We smell  divine.

the copper beech tree,
rooted over the road,
seems ageless though it has been,
there since Grandfather Time,
came from some unknown place,
and implemented his power,
into the land.

the copper beech tree,
hangs over the road,
the branches move,
like a body of
fine hair in the wind,
to and fro to and fro to and fro.

the copper beech tree,
still over the road,
sees all walks of life,
the scolding *****, the
busy mothers, the
mindless teens.

the copper beech tree,
watches us from over the road,
gazing into this silent home.




It knows, it realises,
It sees, it feels,
all the way down,
to its wise roots.

Playing god (minus that divinity)
I create you.
Your fingerprint like contours on a map,
The brown eye speckled with frosts of amber,
The curl that catches the crisp sunlight.

So there you are in my mind,
Completed.
Whether you'll stay, I have no power.

I will simply remain  here
To marvel,
whilst you gleam from afar.

“The rest of us are compressed
Chest to chest, with whoever stands next.
Dislocating themselves from the mass, others
Take tricky routes,
With the idea that by veering off a little,
Round the swarming
Pack of people, that their own ‘terrible suffering’ would be
Put at bay.
“Why go through the mess and waste all that time,
when I can go around?”
They don’t wait for a minute, they push.
Push and push and
push.
They look full of silence and innocence as they slide aside,
But have the mind of a cheat who lives to attack the honest.

The crammed lot are still ‘suffering’.
We “fools” will soon form a mould for others to
Slot into place.
Though squeezed, we’ll remain fair.

Yet, there will be those
Who always go around,
As the deceptive route
Is the one encouraged now.”