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.

I'm coming to terms with my age:
Memories are the captives of Time,
Nostalgia is but a hazy, rose tinted wallow of the mind,
And no matter how tightly shut my eyes,
I'm never really back on my childhood street,
With the ever-present puddle,
The goalpost van,
My friends and our stupid siblings.
No, those times are lost to time.
But lost is fine,
They're out there, somewhere,
Unanchored and adrift,
And I can live with that...now.

You play with your fringe
Curl it behind your ear
Oblivious to the miracle
That bought you here
A fast five years ago
"Time flies" parents often say
But I remember every day,
Not as a blur
Or through half-shut sleepy eyes,
But with high definition
And surround sound.
Yes, I remember each question asked
Each tantrum and cuddle
But most of all, each kiss on the cheek
As you slept the gentlest sleep.

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.

No need to worry about
My culture
My language
My identity
There is no threat to my ethnicity.
My mother tongue is dominant,
The cultural lingua franca on each continent.
But at what cost, this monoglot monopoly?
Maybe I unknowingly lack empathy?
Do not understand that other languages need to breath.
Other cultures need the space.
Other identities need support.
That they face existential threats.
That my neighbours feel squeezed.
But what can I do when I am surprised
Each and every time when I am told
That not everyone speaks the English at home?

Plastic fantastic
Sits in my wallet
Waiting for flirtatious contactless action.

My personal details emanating constantly
From my ruminating flexible friend,
From my ruminating flexible foe.

Never ending debt
Leaves me a slave to a monetary master
Piling on the debt faster and faster.

Battered worn leather houses the card
That screams a constant binary plea,
Begging to be heard by an electric mate.

I need to silence this traitor
- This debt facilitator -
But I'm hooked on its fleeting ability to buy me that which I do not need.

My card constantly screams my personal data,
Broadcasting 1s and 0s endlessly,
Betraying and exploiting me through ruthless efficient binary.

My friend is a very good man,
Nothing to hide
No terrorist ties
But still,
He really looks like Carlos the Jackal.

I'm my own worst critic:
I think my 'work' is good.

Why do I stick to it?
Because I'm sure to think I'm good.
It's the best I can offer
All I have to proffer,

I know why I bother,
I quite enjoy my own poet's corner,
Which for me is a sanctuary;
In which to spend a stolen private moment
From a day tending to my children
And retaining gainful employment.

"The rash keeps coming back!
They've given me a cream,
But it keeps coming back"
Public symptoms announcements:
It never ceases to amaze me
The willingness to declare illness.

I saw a photo of you yesterday of granular colour
Fading fast, poor in quality.
Hurriedly taken, poorly processed:
It was one I'd never seen.

A second glance made me pause.
You were not quite as I recall:
Strange, that I would forget details;
Laugh lines here and there, and the sheer whiteness of your hair.

My own memory's snapshot is a composite.
A mish-mash of impressions developed by my mind,
Fading fast as time goes by.

Nature/Nurture
Which one hurts ya?
Born a ***** or raised a *****?
Take your pick.
Mother Nature can be sick,
But so can your mother and so can your father.
Look at yer brothers
Look at yer sisters
All of 'em idiots
None of 'em got jobs
What's your prospects?
A life of desk jobs?
Nah, dealing and stealing
Taking without feeling
That's what you'll do
No dreams of being well-to-do.
You were born poor,
Raised to be poor,
Cos you're forgotten by the government,
No votes to be gained from givin' you a helping hand.
Born poor, stay poor.
No cultural capital
To help cast off the metaphorical manacles
That shackle any sense of aspiration that might give you inspiration
To defy nature
To defy nurture.
------------------------------
I'll prove ya wrong!
I was born poor for sure,
Raised poor is right,
But my folks weren't sick,
They raised me not to be a *****
My bloodline shows no decline
Just not born with entitlement,
So don't judge,
That's just ******* lazy
Don't believe the argument:
Nature versus nurture
I am me, now,
So don't get frenetic about my genetics.
I have free-will
I will pay my bills,
Not be defficient,
But be self-sufficient.
And what about you?
Sat in your Ivory Tower
Indulging in your power to judge those you don't know,
Believing them to be a product line of people scrounging,
Needing hand downs from the Crown
Doing nothing but clowning around,
Smoking dope
Being without hope.
But I will be someone,
And prove you wrong,
So put your patronising way to bed
Coz I'm not lazing away until I'm dead.

My neighbour's a big hitter,
Within the Chartered Institute of Bullshitters,
He tells me he's a spy,
But he knows I know it's a lie!

Why does he say these things?!

Like the time he defused a bomb,
Or when he came first in a marathon.
I do, though, admire his conviction,
When telling me these outrageous fictions.

Why does he say these things?!

One day I will challenge his ****-and-bull stories,
Tell him I know it's all jack-a-nory.
But for now I take delight in stories, like:
His solo circumnavigation of the globe...on a tandem bike!

So I ask for the last time:

Why, oh why, does he say say these things?!

I took you for granted,
The mass of grey
That makes me rebel,
That makes me obey.

No matter
My silent partner
Present like deep waters,
A distant rumbling ignored.

"Don't be political" the Maestro said,
"It don't age well and it sure as Hell don't sell"
So I gave it up,
Called a by-election on my insurrection,
Lost my deposit
But couldn't give a ****.
Now I switch off the news
To focus on my muse:
The little things.
Yep, meditating on the minutiae
Is where it's at,
"Embrace the boring"
The Maestro added
"Politics will leave them snoring".
So here's to the mundane,
The housing estates
Where cars clog the streets,
The lunch deal brigade
Staring at the sandwiches,
The workplace kitchen
Where hygiene standards vanish:
A land called Mundanity,
Where the seemingly sane
Are all insane.

Night's aria plays 'til morning's chorus.

Sunlight's stretching fingers
touches and illuminates all for us.

With such speed does morning arrive,
the calm of night seems but a distant playful dream.

These lines should allude to
My feelings at this present time.
So, filters off,
Stick to a simple structure,
No fancy words
To polish turds.
Let's drop the contrived rhyme
Truth-telling isn't a crime,
So here goes...
Life gets dull post-40
And, like my body fat content,
Time is spiralling out of control.

She cared for no one,
Stood tall and aloof like a single poppy,
Resisting the wind and rain
As she stood on the lawn of asphalt.

Around her she surveyed the weeds of the city,
The fake trees of the city,
The smoggy air of the concrete forest,
All choking and stifling her future.

Not for her this poisonous place
This ****** city,
This filthy forest of stone and metal.
Her kind need space and freedom.

For her kind are flowers that grow alone.
No one understands them.
They have no empathy.
They have no moving parts.

During my summer of discontent,
I discovered a comedian who wasn't malcontent.
A revelation,
Not in humiliation,
But of deep thought disguised by a folksy charm,
Cloaked in banter that means no harm.

I hate the twenty seventh
All back to normal
Tweets from President Crazy.

Such a people person,
Such a kind person,
Such a loving person,
Such a sociable person
A well loved person.
Yet, not a curious person.
No questions asked of others,
No intrigue as to world affairs,
No who, what, where or when
Of matters outside of family.
You nurtured me,
Protected me,
Literally saved me once,
Yet my curiosity has no bounds.
I waste time in tangents,
Learn a lot about nothing,
Shoe horn facts into conversation.
Yet you are always content,
Like a lioness watching her cubs.
Lionesses' weights can vary from 150kg to 250kg and may give birth to four cubs at a time.

The two of you rely on the two of us.
Such trust you place unknowingly.
No other life do you really know;
No yardstick but the notched door
That charts your slow-quick-slow growth.
But read between the notches:
The spaces between them represents nurture and nourishment,
Sustained by our love for you both.

Eyes sting
Words fail to form
The plea of the mind
Echoes in the closed mouth
Fingers linger above a too-bright screen...

Struggling for a gift again,
Every year a new idea needed.
What can I get an agnostic who has everything?

Another Tiffany charm
Won't do any harm.

A clay pigeon shooting experience couldn't possibly miss

How about Afternoon Tea...
With me?

Wait, an idea that's viable,
A personalised Bible
Where, rather than 'God',
Her name instead:
"In the beginning Doris-Ann created the Heavens and the Earth"
Right through to:
"I am the Alpha and the Omega, says the Lord Doris-Ann"

What a revelation,
A new gift to sweep the nation!
A personalised Bible
Whose sales will rival
The good book itself.

Such a gift might be great,
Until, at St Peter's gate,
Doris-Ann might have to explain
That she was once God on Earth
And that should be good enough
For an agnostic not to be rebuffed.

When the torrent was weathered
A gentle bobbing on the calmest river followed
Where quenched fresh sunlight nurtured
A navigable peaceful joyous course.
But, as the first bend in the river approached,
The river's passenger sensed the current's change
No longer the bob-bob-bobbing of nursery rhymes,
Instead, ahead, a threatening rumble of waters deep and heavy
Where many a previous daydream had floundered.

What would life be
Without that twenty-three?
No seasons cycling,
Birthing, rearing, draining and renewing.

No heralding cries of labour
Harsh lives lived and vacated
To summon the next new cry
Of life unasked but bestowed.

That such a celestial charade exists,
Governed by an arbitrary number,
Amuses and disturbs me
As we would be naught without that twenty-three.

Thank you for the memories,
The unexpected, sudden hits of nostalgia
Taking me back to carefree days
Of playing football after a summer rainstorm,
Of laughing in woodwork class,
Of my grandmother's awesome cakes.

Like time travel on the cheap,
You weather away the years,
And the strata of cynicism and regret,
Momentarily eroding my reality,
Revealing the manchild at my core,
Allowing him the briefest chance to once again explore.

But these are unpredictable reveries,
Three dimensional snatches of memories.
It's time they developed some kind of smell recorder,
Just like sights and sounds can be held for posterity.
But such technology would not compare to my physiological wonder;
Magically transforming scent into vivid memories.

Abandon the failures,
Imperfections are unacceptable:
Loved ones were perfect in shape and spirit
(in imperfect, idealised memories).

Flawed not flawless,
These bespoke folk:
They are and are not that rotting loved one.

'Failed clone'
Society's latest stigma.

'Orphaned clones'
The lowest class.

What to do with that patch of earth?
Dig in with unlaboured hands
With fingers the opposite of green?
Doom vibrant plants to early graves
In a macabre memorial garden
Of flowers dead and dying?
Toil in futility to yield only
A commemorative patch of Earth
For this reluctant gardener's outlook?

You sat there, sure of your part in this play.
Smirked as he was dragged away,
Arms flailing, legs kicking and mouth frothing
As countless robotic guards carried him aloft.

A charade of a parade.

He was off to the unknown,
His life out of control,
Destiny scattered to the wind.

And so, it was was with such ease
That you released a butterfly-effect rumour
That gathered momentum
Causing chaos beyond your darkest hopes.

Where is he now?
In some granite and iron cell?
Living on a bread and water diet?
You do not know.
You do not care.

You stole the life you craved,
His Human Rights you waived
Not a moment's thought
Of this man's despair do you give.

That youthful streak in you
Cared not for its state of repair.
The risk and reward of a joyride
Was irresistible to your impulse.
So, with a pickpocket's grace,
The key to car and fate was yours.

And so, to the moment
Where you left our reach:
Youthful daring did dictate
That the narrow asphalt stream you would take.
A hard black shimmering Styx,
That offered you a deadly deal:
Beat me one more time
Or your soul will be mine.

We're still unsure what occured,
That sunny, hope-filled evening,
The hedges and trees caught you in their grasps.

I like to think that this world knew your path,
That the trees and hedges' limbs were trying to slow you.

But their warning you did not heed,
Faster and faster
Not slower and slower.
Your treacherous instinct had kicked in,
The wounded car a wild horse
Who knew only one thing:
Run, run, run!

We knew it ended at a passing place,
(the irony won't let me forget)
A car driving the opposite way.
No room for you both
On this narrow stretch of the Styx:

You lost control,

Nature and mechanics lost their grips,

You went into a roll,

Your steed unseated you,

And, well...

We miss you.

Deconsecrated, inevitably 'haunted'
This ex-Church shorn of dignity
Whose stone is soaked in prayer
Stands forsaken in its field;
A laughing stock among the villagers
Whose descendants walked a weekly pilgrimage
On a well worn path to its open door
Seeking succour and assurances
That hardship would be rewarded
But whose rotted corpses
Are visited but once a generation
By Daredevil schoolchildren
Irreverent spirits on their own pilgrimage
Buoyed by bravado
Nervous of the paranormal
With not a thought for the former Land Lord.

Today you experienced, for the first time...
Pins and needles.
In just one leg.
You didn't know what to explain -
Numbness is a hell of a concept to grasp for a young mind -
You could only stand lopsidedly,
Wanting to laugh out of panic,
Shooing away invisible electric bees.

But you're only three,
And it's a weird sensation,
That you'll never get used to.
Still, it was pretty funny,
Knowing you were fine
Watching you try to process a strange sensation
That always disappears eventually,
Leaving you to wonder, "what just happened?"

**** those clichés I never thought would apply to me,
But my love ebbs and flows unchecked   as routine keeps its hold
But on days like these when the whirlwind stops
And as your lifetimes coalesce into a loveful mass
A plumb line is thrown and tells of a soothing depth
Which, on this day of rest, I sink into.

Buzz of costly light hurts
Pockmarked rocky currency
Buys a quiet night

Poems on pain,
Poems about strain,

Versus

Verses with puns,
Verses for fun.

Don't get me wrong,
I like the highly charged,
The deeply confessional.

Expression through art
Plays a huge part
In improving Wellbeing.

But should we also strive,
To derive
A little humour via the poems
So kindly shared here?