Drop it, mate. Just drop it! Drop the act.
The audience has gone, the theatre's closing.
Get back to the dressing room and change -
No! Don't change, just take the costume off
And hang it up behind the door.

Outside the theatre it's useless-
Prince Hal buying beans in the late shop,
Cleopatra tucking children into bed,
Madam Bovary putting out the bins.

You got the house and set the stage
Brought on the family and dressed them in their parts,
Planned out the series,
Laid the clues for story lines to come,
Dropped hints, blocked routes, built tension as
The plot evolved and let the story board grow legs.


It walks away and sometimes backwards, looking backwards
To the previous acts.
Draws different pictures from the plans
And looks back past the plans
To the producer and director
Asking why? And How?
And 'What's my motivation?'

Unloose me
Gently.
Untie the knots and make a bow
That with a touch I can release.
No flying high, no soaring,
No losing sight of earth, no roaring
In the ears.
No mighty wind
But stillness.

I cease and hover and hear.
My thoughts are still, my mind is clear
No ripple
Just awareness of without-
Inside out.

Unhooked, untethered, letting go.
Untangled, stepping back
And moving on.

industrial lights that glisten and gleam
Shine and shimmer, sparkle and preen
We're the footlights of her growing up.
The clang of the American swing; iron on iron
Formed the incidental music.

No aroma of roses or apple blossom
But industrial pong and fog scented the air.
No silken lingerie to kiss the skin
But grammar school knickers that left a green stain on the ***.
In pantomime the slipper gifts
In this story brown lace ups rub
And ankle socks slip under the heel or grey 'pull ups' slip down.

In the wet night black iron railings and soot blackened brick shine
As does the peeling paint in somber tones of maroon or green.
Oil stained cobble stones glow iridescent in the entries and rain smears the light from lamp posts.

A gabardine Mac and a good hood and the night is hers, walking home from the swimming baths with sweets and a good friend.
No style, no shape, no ' je ne sais quoi' ( no French yet)
No self- consciousness, no cynicism, no act , no role;
Caught between childhood and puberty.

Daft and funny and giggly
Laughing till it hurts, with tears streaming.
Making up stories and fascinated by 'what ifs?
Loving friends unreservedly and having no idea that 'now' would soon be 'then'.

A time when innocence and intellect met and each enjoyed the other,
A moment of balance
When two sturdy legs in brown lace ups stand slightly apart
And a scrubbed chubby face looks you in the eye
And dares you
To see the world from that standpoint.

A small boat bobbing
In a calm sea;
Light breeze,
Gentle sun
Oars at rest.
At one, the body bobs
Adjusting itself and adapting to the sea's motion.
The sun warms and the breeze fans.

An island!
A distraction,

A new direction,
A possibility.
The mind rises and floats and lands
On the island.
Searches for wood to burn,
For trees to hack and fences to build,
For chickens to pluck, for fish to net
and boar to chase.
Shall I be chief?

If I leave my boat, my feet will be wet,
If I stay I might lose my boat.
I might never bob along again!

Sand and shells between my toes,
Clear water lapping at my ankles.
Keep moving or your feet will sink.
Smell the air, taste the air and keep the boat in sight.

The white sand is hard to walk on
And leaves and imprint of every move.
The boat beckons
Back on board, away to sea.

No land in sight - a storm gathers;
Thunder and lightening and driving rain.
Crouching in the boat now, lurching through the waves, drenched and frozen,

Waiting for the lull
Which always follows.

i sit and watch
The rain
And love it
Silently falling,no storm,no stir, no chill;
The beautiful copper leaves
Still.
Holding their breath as they
drink
Standing still to be washed.

And the birds
Still;
Sheltering,watching from high nests
Huddled,
Waiting.

I, still
And silent
Following the flow of my breath,
Waiting for the stillness to engulf me
Empowered by the stillness
Strengthened by the silence.

Those hands
Speak more than does the face.
They clasp or lace,
They grip or poke
Hold firm.

They open in enquiry
Or close to form a fist
Or furl and unfurl to try and give the gist
Of some internal land.

Those hands I love
Are square and brown
With rough and bitten nails.
The finger ends are blunt,
The skin is coarse
With work.
Those hands are always warm and strong
And mine in his makes me a child again.

Sometimes life flayed you
And no- one bound
The wounds.

You kept them clean by gouging out the
Soft soap.

Only deep cleansing
That searches out the grit from every sliver
Of raw flesh
Can keep the gangrenous pus at bay.

That open wound
Heals from the deepest level
And gets to know each layer as it heals.

Beneath the skin all humans are alike
Are blood and sinew.

Deep sorrow can fashion
An internal telescope
That peers into the inner core
That we all share
Or else it plasters over
The pulsing wound
With platitudes.

And pain avoidance
Derails empathy.