Stitching our times together
threading patterns through the day
leaving nothing to chance but ourselves
dropping stitches of thought by the way.

Putting feelings and failures aside
pleading pressure of work not to play
bleeding our time through the void
wasting our minds in the fray.

Are we abusing our strengths
leaving fallow to follow the clock
letting means transcend the ends
should we now be taking stock.

Some say we are all islands
solitary lonely shadow lands.
Some claim a community.
Is there a sum of humanity?

Poems - causeways between castaways
constructing insights into language
link lives, as well as brains can contrive,
summoning minds to share and thrive.

Some sit turning handles,
minds lit by candles.
But do their arc lamps flash
when freed from making cash.

While some are wriggling, book worming,
their minds inflamed, brightly burning.
The difference, some time to think,
nature's race or nurture's link.

What should I write about this life?
Should I think in terms of strife?
When I write should I add gloss?
What should I leave as dross?

It can't have been a life of gloom.
He must have had a time of bloom.
Where others jibe, should I proclaim,
or blind myself to shame?

'I'll see that plate clean,' she said,
'Or I'll send you straight to bed.'
Liver and onions lie in wait,
two choices up for debate.

'I won't hear a word till you've finished.'
It lay there still undiminished.
It's cold, unfit to eat, congealed,
and nowhere can it be concealed.

'You should have thought of that before.'
When I grow up I'll eat no more
of that cabbage, liver - lousy crud.
Give me sweets and crisps, perhaps rice pud'.

She should have thrown it in the bin.
Now I'm stuck, a locust for my sin.
I must eat all, my waists expanding.
Though Mother's gone, her ghost's demanding.

She says she's hungry again,
but her lap tray gives her away.
Innocent rations remain.
Ignored by the mind astray.

She asks for the time of day,
but the clock stares back dismayed,
for the day, the month and the time
bear the guilt for the aging crime.

The future's guilt may be greater,
the unspoken final negator.
Not heard, not seen, not feared,
not blamed, not cheered.

All day it rained,
watching through the window, pained.
Children restless, stuck inside.
Nothing doing in this tide.

To the shops, join the queue.
All the drivers in a stew.
Parking chaos, anger raised,
deftly weaving through the crazed.

Money flowing like the rain.
Credit cards delay the pain.
Mac sales up, swimsuits down,
hunting bargains like a clown.