Basking in a borrowed light...
too short is the conjuring of joy
while infinite degrees of freedom
tumble tombola-like elsewhere
out of sight and out of mind
Can there be beauty in the rot?
Is that not enough?

I had forgotten that such silence existed
one that lets me hear so much
over distances my senses cannot gauge...
the bark of a dog doing its job
the clanging of trailers and gates...somewhere.
Birdsong, of course, is a constant
But I leave them to it...no need to disturb.

Not a socket in the house is on by the way
a sudden Sun generates comfort enough.
No Telly, no phone, no radio required
instinct tells me to hear the quiet...
better to receive than broadcast.
A bright orange book lies beside me:
It confessed all to me this morning.

I'll remember this silence always.

The ponderance of non-existence
depends on the soul's resistance.
Is death an altered state,
or is unknowing nothingness our fate?

I had forgotten this silence existed.
One that lets me hear so much
Over distances my senses cannot gauge...
The bark of the dog doing its job
The clanging of trailers and gates...somewhere.
Birdsong, of course, is a constant
But I leave them to it, no need to disturb.

Not a socket in the house is on, by the way
Spring's sudden Sun generates comfort enough.
No Telly, no phone, no radio required,
Instinct tells me to hear the quiet
To receive not broadcast.
A bright orange book lies beside me:
It confessed all to me this morning.

I'll remember this silence always.

That mask of beauty
Unchipped flawless marble
Sculpted by aged chemistry
Intimidates but seduces me
Chokes thoughts, obstructs words
A simple mind disconcerted by
That mask of beauty.

Ink dried quick
Art's potential energy
Music = MC²

Art can bide its time
Protected by the brave
Until primed

To explode off the page
Out of speakers into minds
As a weapon of mass attention

A cackle of Crows in her craw

On his frame hung the rotting fruits of his experiences
A living carcass bejewelled by hate and spite
Candied fruit soured by the fermentation of bitterness and regret.

Silken shroud of flowing water
Softens rock to rounded pebbles
Much as time sooths the memory

Inverted scene of coast and air
Granite cliff clouds and sky of sea
You and I inbetween watching
The topsy turvy, roly poly play
Of two who cast their cares away

Each passing day is an investment
A sacrifice of the present for the future.
As for the past, frivolous times forgotten,
Consigned to the bin of social media
Doomed to be infertile digital compost
By the time you are ready to bloom.

Dead leaves drowning
Leaping like Lemmings
From Tree to Sea

You wanted to spare the blushes of the little boy
Who had ordered the book with the explicit cover
So you called him into the privacy of the corridor:
"Dyra fo yn dy ***"* you suggested gently
Handing over a book warm to the touch,
Wrapped in sellophane (as if to try to contain its power).

I've never forgotten that one-act play, nor its elements:
The subject compressed within its covers,
Your understanding and thoughtfulness,
The bewilderment of my ten year old self,
The discernment of Sbondonics**
But mostly the Hellfire unleashed by Little Boy fifty years prior.

What wonders have my wasteful eyes overlooked
Over thirty years of fleeting footfall

A hungry desire for fitness and weightloss
Now yields to age and acceptance.

This blue dot, home to **** Contrarius
Custodians and abusers of Earth
Who named everything seven thousand times
And created seven thousand differing deaths.

Reality rushes to a single point
A concentrated truth ovewhelms

Am I free or imprisoned in the now?
Options become the stars and clouds

But vanish in a flash of lucid thought

Your careworn heart broke
When death came to claim
The life it had coveted so long
The life you shielded for so long

An end to a doomed purpose
Anti climactic? A death and a half?
The shackles a tightened privilege:
Release did not bring you peace.

House and soul were empty that night
No shallow breath for company
The thermostat's click a reminder
Of the warmth he enjoyed.

My wonderment is on hiatus
I have no time for the timeless
The age of starlight is a luxury
Unaffordable for the foreseeable

Children alter everything
But nothing really changes
I still occasionally glance upwards:
Orientation courtesy of constellations

On the breath of twilight's yawn
Rose the star of dawn
Tireless in its cycle.

Passing, always passing:
People I wish I'd met,
Met long before their passing.

I take a crash course in their existence,
Personal history, wishes and outcomes
Scribbled for a rudimentary assessment.

They are but scrappy souvenirs,
Notes that barely scratch the surface
Of lives that cannot be summarised.

Passing, always passing:
People I wish I'd met,
Met long before their passing.

The Narcissist's roof caves-in as delusions collapse into reality.

When has this man-child ever had to face reality before?

I love the smell of inevitability in the morning.

I have placed my childhood bibles (that aren't Bibles) on your bookshelf; hidden them in plain sight. A cheap subliminal trick I know, but one meant as an investment in time and knowledge: to peck away at your curiosity like the Woodpeckers I hope you'll read about in that Illustrated Encyclopedia of Birds, which to you, right now, is just a jumbo colouring book too heavy for your restless hands.

Irrelevant years of existence
Vast drowned numbers
Swimming with the fishes
Your blue-hypnotic drowns my eyes
Offering nothing

I dive into your cold embrace.

As I type
My body is investigating
A tiny fraction of a tiny virus
That has conquered a world.

His mind's pained pleas echo
The brain's chosen words fragment
Inside his closed mouth

You weren't quite with it this morning
You bled Red-shifted light,
Soaked the clouds and stained the hills,
Startled a three year old
Not yet wise to your nature
"The birds haven't painted him yet,
He'll be Yellow again after Breakfast":
The reassurance of a father
Who does know your nature.
Of course, you got your act together
And, by eight o'clock,
You were basking in your own Yellow brilliance,
Like the celestial Emperor you are.

I thought He whispered in my ear once
Ghostly sounds shaped like words
Too brittle to hear, too gentle to fear
Could His words be so fragile?
I never heard them again.

Just a little illness,
Something that gets me off my feet,
A friendly virus partial to good deeds
To leave me bed-bound for a day or three.

A minor car crash,
No one but me,
A harmlessish accident arranged by the Gods
To leave me bed-bound for a week or three.

A break is as good as a change they say,
So maybe a real hospital pass in 5 a side
- a wrist-breaker on crash landing -
So no more typing for four to six weeks.

Chest hair is really useful for creating a lather quickly.