as they
shuffled by
she told her friend
“i always look
forward to this
time of year
when the first
tinge of yellow
touches the leaves
with the contrast
between shade
and sunshine
a comparison
of polar opposites
where a gentle breeze
can chill
or relieve
one making you
appreciate the other
once it has gone”
i couldn’t help
but take note
of her poetic words
as i surveyed
those same trees
glad to see
swaying hues
of green against
shadow-dappled green
feeling fingers
of sunlight
still breaching
filigree tree-shadows
to warm the skin
of passers-by
while overhead
a pastel blue sky
mottled with only
staccato wisps
of gentle stratus
paint the vista
leaving thoughts
of the days to come
when this spectrum
will shift
and these colours
must change

there is no order
the golden ratio is
just coincidence

there is an owl
out there
   somewhere
in the darkness
kept secret
by whispering trees
shrouded
in shadow
by leaf
and cloud
it seems
to have a question
for any
who will listen
politely
but persistently
it inquires
pausing briefly
awaiting
an answer
before asking
again
and again;
whether intended
or not
this interrogation
has infuriated
the old boy
and seemingly
every other canine
in the vicinity

i was late
through no fault of my own
at least
that's what i tell myself
just one of those occasions
where try as you might
the universe won't allow you
to leave on time
standing at the threshold
one final pat of pockets
to check i had
all that i needed
looking up
to gauge the need
for coat or umbrella
i witness
an inhumane globule
of avian faeces
viscous and creamy
in colour and consistency
exploding upon the path
two steps ahead of me
i see no sign
of the culprit
hearing only its cacophony
of enjoyment
or maybe disappointment
drifting
into the distance

I can't help but wonder what you will remember of me.
That's every man's fate, isn't it?
To become a scrap of detail that snags or escapes a stranger's memory,
Stuck in a grate in the floor where it fluttered, discarded,
Or lodged in a permanent frame, dusted off every so often
to be a reference point
or to be a defining moment.
It isn't up to us how we are remembered -
- what is a rainbow to the blind but a refreshing mist on the skin?
And that's why we obsess: we have no control,
hard as we try, contour, conceal, and coordinate.
And that never stops us from trying.
But for a moment, consider this superpower that others will never have:
You can remember them.
You can't escape yourself, but you can remember them.
Will you remember them kindly? Will distaste be tattooed in your mind?
The things that are going to happen will happen.
And we can act according to how we want to be remembered.
But we cannot change it.
But our remembrance cannot be changed either.
It's a little spiteful optimism, isn't it?

I am
the center

The center
Of the world
Of the universe

My universe,
                        at least

For who else could I be
But me?

I see the world
Through my own eyes
                the lens of my own experiences
                the shades of my own perceptions

I feel only
through my own heart

Just like we all do

If we each are the center
Of our own universes
What happens when universes collide?

Will I see through your eyes?
Feel through your heart?
Or will I don blinders?
Deny your world’s existence?

If you believe that seeing the worlds of others
Only expands your own

Then come
Explore the multitudes of universes
Each of us centered in our own
But ever seeking
                               new eyes
                               new hearts
                               new worlds

wading through
the shallows
a dip
in this sea
does not
at first
look
particularly appealing
beneath
the surface is
a microcosmic tempest
of shingle
and sand
dashing
upon toes
upon ankles
upon shins

a tickle
of seaweed
leaves paranoia
burning
where sense
and logic
should reside
suddenly
i'm wondering
where sea snakes
are usually found

tiptoeing
against each swell
to keep shoulders
above water
somebody calls out
   jellyfish
and laughs
clearly
they are not
surrounded
by these
alien forms
drifting
ever closer
leaving me
no option but
to struggle
to remain
statuesque
as they pass
too close
for comfort

when the depth
forces me
to give up
my toehold
of sand
or shell
to tread water
and embrace
the solitude
finally
i will see
how truly clear
the waters
can be

Being objective

is easy, less scary as --


being subjective.

The Oracle knows

what I want, that's what she gives --


me as her advice.

What is the point of getting drunk
Like it doesn't make sense to me
Why drink to the point you stumble
Why drink to the point you can't speak

Sentences half formed as the words sluggishly leave the lips laced seamlessly with the poison of alcohol,
smell of alcohol hugs tightly it seeming as though the words were being choked,
your message diluted in slurs and repetition.

The burning sensation as is slivers down the windpipe
The heat radiating through the chest dispersing to all corners of the body
This feeling is meant to feel good
This feeling is meant to be addictive
This feeling is meant to be the reason people drink?

Or is the reason people drink the effect
It causes you to forget slipping in and out of consciousness,
Memories half baked turning minutes to hours and hours to seconds,
Momentary flashes of event passed with no sense of order that must be pieced together the morning after
They drink to escape.

"I don't drink" is what I want to tell you
That me being able to distill, filter and brew on this topic lead to some sort of realisation,
That I don't conform to peer pressure or give in as I too fear of missing out,
So as I continue to live I also become addicted to society’s legal drug.
What’s your reason to drink?