To make a long story short
Is to make a poem

A life of self-censure is life
on a knife’s edge,
balancing, filtering,
hesitating, holding self back,  
placing pitiful tack over ruthless honesty,
hedging truth seeking to closet self
and not out of self-modesty,
but honestly, out of self-doubt,
coupled with arguably
some reluctant scam artistry.

A life of fearful self-censure
is no life at all -
I think you’d agree.

Like buying Irish tea bags in the 'World Food' aisle
I like to take my jeopardy close to my native Isles

I do buy silky underwear, but only M&S
- trying something sexier will only cause me stress

I stick to those experiments with familiar ingredients
You'll never mistaken me for some sort of deviant

I like to take my journeys only slightly off track
I like it when the menu includes a Big Mac

Don't judge me for my caution,
you’ve no idea what it's like
when my mother keeps on telling me,
cosmopolitan is hype

confident embracing failure
comfortable with self-doubt
curious about bumps and scrapes
convinced I've found what counts

balancing needs with desires
encountering more than I sought
wondering if it's really about
leaving with more than I brought

climbing beyond the summit
flying above the clouds
reaching where I aimed to be
least there or thereabouts

The paper weight will hold
my ink down
in a way my fluidity never could.

No matter how violent
my metaphor, how heady
my imagery, how blistering
my narrative - it will hold
the reader's attention,
ensuring my thoughts reach
each reader's own resolution
a little before the weight shifts
and the burden of their eyes falls
heavy on the turn
of the page

and then their eyes will lift,
burdened with new meaning.

This morning tomorrow won't be as expected - it will be far from this tonight and nowhere near as planned.  There's no telling when it will be back to its old self.  So for now, we'll make do and sleep and dream of another yesterday, because today won't do.  It never did.  It never would.

Easter will be late this year.
It's still cold and the blossoms
shine pink,
carpet bombing indiscriminately.

Easter will be late this year.
March paces itself
striding to the end
of the tax year, the start
of price hikes and a train
of trans-continental refugees
from some god-awful war
just spitting distance from Lidl.

Easter will be late,
but Mother's Day will bring
a distraction of blue elastic bands
bound around barely blooming daffs,
happy in damp sticky hands.

And then they'll be the anticipated
crucifixion.

Resurrection
can't come soon enough.