If one word was to define who you were -
Not what you were like or how you come across -
But what and who you are,
I would strive for sincerity.
Capturing the nuance of being counter-cultural
(stark against the world we live in);
Honest to the point of perfect precision in what I say and mean;
Genuine in openness and lacking deceit;
Firm and unmoving against the tide;
Secure in the validity of that on which I stand;
Disciplined for integrity and truth;
Heartfelt and reliable (despite frequent shortcomings);
Prepared not only to go the distance but to run it,
To invest and care through thick and thin,
Not to forgo earnest in the buffering and buffeting;
Wholeheartedly honourable, the man others would wish to be;
Virtuous and steadfast in quality and character,
A rock to hold onto, a solid foundation,
A dedication to being authentic and true.
No false wax to the visage you see,
An artistic and inhuman ideal.
-
Sincerity has been under attack, besieged as an unachievable goal
In a world focused on the self - to be selfless seems foolishness.
Attention in this life lasts the sum amount of difficulties;
We flee from the floodplains when the river comes
Rather than endure and be refined by rich streams.
Sincerity does not crumble under commitment,
Nor erode in the face of effort:
Prepared to invest, forgoing instant gratification,
Persevering under pressure whilst all else fades.
It does not shrink from the fight but turns its cheek,
It forgives the slight and suffers for the lost,
It carries the cross for the rejected and the weak,
It sacrifices all it has at great personal cost,
It stands up to scrutiny when it stands for truth,
It lives and dies in unfathomable love.

Prowling through the undergrowth
In our barging juggernaut,
Ploughing the rolling hills of water,
Which crease as the narrowboat sluggishly gliding past,
Brushes the bulrushes like a tiger in the reeds.

For four intrepid days
Our film and photographs are empty to show,
No sign, only missed whispers,
Of the hummingbird blue blur.

A darting flash cresting the morning chill,
Regal turquoise stealthily steals
Our attention, our focus, and our tiller
Noses toward the bank hugger.

And we have him.

Small amber-royal fisherman,
Eclipsing his heron heralds
And the swans silent vigil
In majestic lapis lazuli.
Swift and sure he graces the water,
Fisher King,
Which bends beneath his dive.
Resurfacing, his golden breast
Mottled with silver minnow.

There recluse in his exclusive spot,
Fish foundering still in the ******,
The kingfisher's poise frames his catch
Aperture, shutter, captured shot.

A waxy, dimpled orb in my hand,
A tiny sunrise, sweet and sharp.

One nail-blade incision and the
Peel tears away when you find the foothold,
Then coursing acid fires through your cuts and bruises,
Burning and tasting wounds with sharp recoil taste,
An acerbic spark.

Pith lodges under my nails,
Tang cloys beneath my nose.
The fruit now pulled apart, the ceremony over,
Segments of the sun lie exposed.
Eat half and half a year you'll remain.

The stringy web of white
Latticing the fruit-flesh
Is a pain to unentwine
What with the juice.

An explosion when you pierce the pocket,
And the gamble of what the burst will be.
Hedge your bets by eating the tasteless ones too.
Then the bathos of a pip
(the pebble inside the fruit, too small to be a stone)
Punctuates the sweetness you'd been enjoying.
Now the fumbling spat to get it out.

And after all the effort it's flavourless,
And you ask was it worth it?
Wasn't even really orange.

A dot outside the circle,
Isolated.
Feeling as if I'm
A puddle on the beach.

So close, almost the ocean.
So close to the sea it needs to join,
Otherwise it will evaporate
Unfinished.

I am the one who waits for the time to speak,
But opens his mouth once the moment passes. Too late.
The tide of conversation has gone out,
Leaving just a puddle on the beach.

When the rain comes to drench the soil,
It's the crop that grows offside,
Not a ****, but un-harvested nonetheless,
That's yearning for a transplant into the greener side.

And if this flower was to be picked,
Would the field realise?
Eventually.
You don't realise something's there until it's gone.

There is a reservoir of perfect words waiting to be touched,
But I cannot scale the dam.
I can't get up to this water of life,
No matter how profound I am.

There the greats sail,
The poets who shall survive
The erosion of time, but
Will I see this ocean whilst alive?

I can only drink their gilded overspill,
The aftertaste of nectar from the brim.
I must take in as much as I can
And store it deep within.

Would that I could grasp the heights
And stride the distance set before me!
I want this wall to hold fast against the tide,
But it's as impregnable as it shall ever be.

Alchemists, behold.
I have found your precious gold.
I have found the fleeting fame of immortality.
It isn't found in baser metals,
But rather in the ink;
The blood of the souls of ideas.
My pages stem from me,
A lifeblood to my thoughts,
As it ever was and evermore shall be.

I adopt these begotten thoughts which I had forlorn before I kept.
Some inevitably left me behind,
To never quite be forgot.
They'll follow me eventually,
And catch me in some quiet unexpected café.
Do you remember me?
Will you remember this?
Or will I fade again this time
Into your mind's abyss?

I must stop.
Before all the oceans of ink
That are in my heart
Dry up before they bleed.

A tragedy.
Or perhaps a romance, a comedy.
We would never know.

They say that love is blind.
Evidently it also has no sense of smell.
And come to think of it,
Love has poor taste as well.

You can't compare,
You can't complete

The line, the sentence, the poem, the life.
You can't comprehend the mind of a poet,
Speak not of what you don't know.
Overspill reconnecting gilded twines of truth,
Splashed and dabbled into ink,
Paper soaking in wisdom.

Lacking inspiration, strayed away from the sacred muses.
Desecrated the holy routine, violated -
The sacred spring of inspiration dried to a dust bowl.
You've had the draught and drunk it dry,
Now scraping the base for drops of dew,
Underfed and underdrunk, afterloved and now
The plate is empty.

Starched dry of opportunity, for progress' sake.
Busy lives no longer free to mingle with life,
To drink the horns of gilded mead.

To write poetry, to bleed the music of the heart.

But I must cease,
For I speak of what I know not,
What I no longer know.

One of the things I can’t stand
are poems.
That break
off the line for no real reason.
If it were to rhyme,
that’d be fine,
we’d all get by.
But no. Now
poetry is like this, which doesn’t
flow,
flow,
flow,
for any reason.
It’s the same feeling as listening to “music” from artists
which all sounds
the same.
The same reprocessed junk
labelled
a masterpiece;
by the snake tongued producers
who just want to
make money.

O!
I pause
to think of how,
nay verily, why,
poets think that this,
this,
this,
is acceptable.
To waste paper, trees, rainforests, lives, time,
while people,
politely
read
and try to comprehend
the tangle
            of
                      words,
indecipherable to man.

We can’t
(any of us)
understand.
So we all nod in amazement
and call
it
art.