A poem for cyclists with tech.

When one is by-cycling,
And the wind is anything but charming.
The direction that doth wind blow
Is the SAME as on your Garmin.

When one is by-cycling,
And the wind propels you like a teen.
The direction that doth wind blow
Is OPPOSITE as what’s on your screen!

Goodbye cruel world
take away my soul.
I wanna go home
this sunny day,
a rock and roll refugee.

The silent reproach
your favourite disguise.
Put through the shredder
in perfect isolation.

Swollen hand blues,
fat and psychopathic.
No drugs to calm me.
Tight as a tourniquet,
a warm thrill of confusion
coming through in waves.

Itchy feet and fading smiles
put me in the firing line.
Toys in the attic
fill the empty spaces -
a snapshot in a surrogate band.

Is there anybody out there,
in this brave new world?
No dark sarcasm hid behind
some mad ******'s wall?

Time to go.

I have a memory as a child,
of propeller planes droning lazily in clear blue skies.
In the field, lying down squinting up,
blocking bright sunlight with one hand to see the planes up high.
The moment seemed eternal then, and preceded responsibility.
So many seconds have ticked by since,
I can’t be sure if the memory is truly mine,
or is captured from a book, or film or song.
But as I hear that drone again today, the sun warms my bones regardless.

She comes to me, with eager tread, desiring my return. 
The old routine, each day evolves, that both of us must learn. 
 
Atop the post she deftly lands and murmurs fond affection.
I marvel at her agile grace, her clean, precise perfection. 
 
She offers me unerring trust, lays curled around my shoulder. 
Each day it grows, the mutual bond, I find her ever bolder. 
 
My hand enveloped in soft, warm fur, content she is secure.
The boundaries of possession lost, does she belong to me or I to her?

Only the good die young, they say -
How ‘good’ are those who go at 31?
She went before her time they said,
The ones who knew my mum.

See now I have a different view on this,
That some might find outspoken.
But it’s my right to think this way -
T’was my heart at eight that got broken.

Our time on Earth is not divined,
By any book or scripture.
It’s not defined, an absolute -
The future’s an undeveloped picture.

Don’t judge me harsh, or waste your time,
Searching for rhyme or reason.
We can’t protect all human life -
to think so is not treason.

Had we but opportunity, and time,
this wanton indolence would be no crime.
We could choose at length, how best to earn our crust,
an inchoate passion, an absolute must.
Ten thousand happy hours spent on traditional grip,
cross stitching, flat-picking or mastery of whip.
Virtuosity would be in our reach,
if inane mundanity did our lives not breach.
In time I would acquire a second language or two,
with a year in each country, just to absorb the milieu.
And in those dwellings embrace their distinctive cuisine,
the sautée and flambé, their palette pristine.
The costume and customs, an utter immersion.
The nuance, their pastimes, a total conversion.

But all around us, we see and hear the seconds fly,
as sands of vast desserts run the hourglass dry.
No lifetime well spent to study: a celestial passion -
that universal canopy, always constant, in fashion.
No time to render from it, a purpose, some meaning.
Or just gaze in stupor, in splendorous feeling.
That desire to leave an insight, impart some great reason;
comes to nought, bears no fruit, the ultimate life’s treason.

Now therefore, while your middle age is sailing on,
and your youthful hue is virtually gone.
And while your dreams, your hopes, are yet expired,
and still inside you lie latent fires.
Now let us cast off life’s binding shackles,
dispose of ignorance and apathy that so raise my hackles.
Let us become coherent, aware of the important,
eschew the trivial and seize the moment.
Dispose of the superfluous, the fleeting sensation,
embrace the devout and devour the vocation.
Thus, though we cannot live our lives afresh,
yet we can ensure life’s iron cogs still mesh.

Give him the benefit of the doubt,
Let’s say his bat was grounded.
He was clearly in, not out,
your appeals are quite unfounded.
Let’s make excuses for his life,
when things didn’t go to plan
Let’s blame his troubles and his strife,
for why he robbed your Nan.

Let’s blame the wind or blame the rats,
for the litter in the street.
Let’s not blame your lack of effort
for things not falling at your feet.
Let’s not state the obvious,
that’s clearly plain for all to see.
Instead let’s just ignore it,
accept ignorance and apathy.

Let’s pretend we did not see or hear,
and turn the other cheek.
Let’s tolerate zero hours contracts,
that pay 30 quid a week?
Let’s spend 67 million dollars,
for artwork you can’t queue to see in droves.
Let’s not say it how it really is,
the emperor’s new clothes.

Let’s embrace gesture politics
and clap or light a candle.
Let’s ignore the honest facts,
the truth they cannot handle.
Let’s believe the Whitehall mob,
especially the Tories.
Let’s devour their covid word,
and swallow all their stories.
Let’s wear face masks for ever more,
and laugh and sing and dance.
And not forget the unheard ones,
who never stood a ****** chance.

Back yourself.
In.
All that you do.
Put yourself.
Up.
For steep, lofty climbs.
Take yourself.
Out.
Of dark, negative equations.
Let yourself.
Down.
Gently, from tall orders.

Disconnect yourself.
Unplug.
Recollect a life, before the web.
Inter the net, below.
Raise your head.
Meet their eyes,
and say, "Hello".

His story, was one of contention
A life made from indelible scraps
Of morsels that make up a life time
Bad choices, the good, and mishaps.

History, a path we all leave behind us.
One version of events from the past.
A record of things for the future,
an effort to make our yesterdays' last.

Each day we each write our own chapters
Without giving much thought at the time
To the imprints we leave in their margins
Regardless of how big or how little the crime.

History, written mostly by victors
Their version of events that went down
Such an innocent word of few letters
An innocuous yet duplicitous noun.

I don’t like the tone of that engine.
I don’t care for the cut of your jib
The colours that make up your palette,
Or the ink that flows from your nib.

Your reason to me sound like excuses,
Devoid of a single attempt
At anything remotely productive
Yet you hold the whole world in contempt.

You strut like an arrogant peacock
Feathers all plumped up with pride.
With an ego that’s bruised like an apple
Eccentric vision off to one side.

So brief your fleeting existence
What beauty, some horror, much pain.
The squandered gifts you were given
Washed away with yesterday’s rain.

Obstacles can be found.
Here. And there.
Or all around?
But, however,
With one's might,
You may cast them
From your sight.

Satchel strap, knotted, both ends -
bag slip, not good.
Wrecking my shoulder blades,
too heavy, 'nough said.
Weights made-up, by drivers, usually.
Chasing the clock too.
Daily, endlessly.  

Man on bike, best combo, feels right:
By car is faster of course,
walks timed using them -
quads like an Olympian
and you've no chance, of matching 'em.

Heavily-sprung, hinged - left, right or top!?
Vertical ones, ridiculous, seriously?
Letterboxes, they bite,
literally, metaphorically.

The rain IS a pain, horrendous.
Letters become scrambled mess.
Smeared addresses.
Renders postcodes illegible,
M14 2WZ.

Snow is worse, laughs at wheeled transport,
making every step treacherous.
Don't trust the slush and the frozen mush;
Others sent home, but my mail must get through, apparently.

Part-timer equals second-rate citizen.
Lifers get the best walks, which aren't equalised,
no matter what they say.
Bosses, incompetent morons,
promoted through ranks like in WW1, clueless.
****-up, brewery, nuff said,
they tolerate too much tom-foolery.

No dignity at work, none, zero.
Sexist, racist, homophobic heroes.
Mindless chants about *** and ****, penises and ****.
**** this ****, juvenile morons.

Overtime's a crime, claim it before it's earned,
then argue the toss over 2.5 hours for the next three weeks.
Costing them a fortune, like this ****** welfare state is;
money for nothing and your hits for free.

But I'm fitter and slimmer, more toned and tanned.
Take in my pants at leg, waist and the seat, one size down.
“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" is mostly appropriate.  

Blind, ****-offs, flats, notice-lefts,
Recordeds, specials or regis, if you're old school
Gone away, RTS, addresee not known,
"He died, he died, he died!" Funny, but sad.

Households, door-to-doors, hated by one and all; deliverer and receiver.
"The customer wants them” -
that's why they bin them as we turn our backs to deliver more unsolicited DM.
Sell outs. sold out. The customer, quite simply, don't count.
Royal Mail, epic fail.
I die with each one I deliver.
Do my best to avoid them,
sign up customers left & right to refuse 'em.
Unite, posties, unite.
Untie people, yourself from these mindless bundles,
dropping through your doors.
Say no, no more, please.  
No.

People like to vent their spleen.
On social media, you can come clean.
Express thoughts, opinions
without consequence?
For what it's worth,
give your two-pence.

It’s a right of course, to have one’s say.
But surely we can do it with civility?
Cruel words can sting, and wound and stab;
we’re not all equipped to slip the verbal jab!
So take some time before you send your words abroad,
and remember - the pen is mightier than the sword.

I do confess,
I did frown and cringe
When I glimpsed the needle
Of the steel syringe.

Long and pointed,
And perfect to impinge
Its liquid content,
Agent Orange.

Just for a moment you were. Perfect.
A butterfly beat of wings.
The acrobat betwixt trapeze.
And then that exquisite point in time was past.
Precious few saw that moment and knew it for what it was.
You were not one of them.

Just for a moment you were. Vivid.
Pathways of unknowable potential lay ahead,
tenuous as a gossamer thread, whose fate is blown by winds.
Dizzying, myriad opportunities stretched out like plant tendrils;
vying for purchase on decisions of small consequence that you wrestled for eons,
and blinked in an eye the ones that could have made a difference.

Just for a moment you were. Vital.
Oxygen rich blood coursed your veins, engorging muscles,
quickening your heart, lengthening your stride, improving your sight.
You ran fast, aimed high, hit hard and scaled heights.
That zenith was average. Mediocre.
And you failed to grasp even that.
Glancing too late, backward over your shoulder,
as one on a raft might search for grip on the oar that floats by.
Irrevocably gone, hands outstretched.

Just for a moment you loved.
Your hair fell just right, your breath fresh,
you looked, good.
In that nanosecond you glowed.
Eyes met, smiles swapped,
hands held, kisses soft and wet.
Impossibly intense.
Physically red hot.
You had the sense, to see and know
that this was, as good as it got.
And yet it unravelled, regardless,
in spite, despite of,
because,
your efforts, worst and best.

Just for a moment. You lived.

“We’re not gonna make it,
are we?
Humans, I mean?”, said he.
“It’s in your nature to destroy yourselves”, said the robot.
Sadly, I tend to agree...

I never tried to wear it as a badge.
Of loss, or honour, or shame or hurt?
Though like its pin, each one has pricked my skin,
and I cannot deny this.

Of course it must have shaped our clay,
the moulding of our being.
And dipped us in the liquid glaze,
then fired us in the furnace.

I didn’t know how set apart I’d feel,
upstage from those around me.
It’s not conceived, to make a scene
I’m not learning new lines daily.

I’ll give my hand to those who look,
and see the heart within me.
The me it made is just the deal,
Our cards all fall differently.

Why do certain memories abide?
And remain with me, clear in plain sight.
Like the cat almost lost,
Impossibly found under a bush,
Cowering & cold in the night.

What is the essence of recall?
The ancient past brought suddenly to mind.
Unearthing the memory,
displacing the soil.
Lift the lid, and peering inside…

How is it that some memories remain?
Whilst others slip from our grasp.
Appearing for mere moments,
awash in the static.
Tune the radio dial to the past.

Marlbourough. Olivia. Martinez. Bel Azur.
Decades-gone distant destinations I recall,
like rusty old number plates,
of cars my dad owned,
Line up like old soldiers for roll-call.

Why are these memories still in me?
Lodged like a recalcitrant stone in the shoe.
In sticking them down here on paper,
They bind me together like a glue.

Barbed, twisted roots,
gnarled with bitter bile.

Cutting, stabbing tendrils,
snagging purchase with cruel guile.

Winded, wounded outrage,
stumbling, sagging, overloaded.

Doubting, nagging insults,
confidence imploded.

Is it just me, that yearns to be,
As young in body, as my mind tells me?
When life was lived with little care,
For brushing teeth and combing hair.
And loving hands wiped tears I shed
And soothed my sleep, tucked up in bed.

The ‘growing age’ I found quite tough,
Too much push & too much shove.
The mine-field of the teenage years,
Dreams unfulfilled, irrational fears.
Faltering steps, failure to act
Naively sealed my future pact.

Adult’s coat worn before I’m ready,
Immature in mind and steps unsteady.
Resulted in some recklessness,
For which I’m sorry, I do confess.
But later on, through good friends made,
I found an equilibrium that has remained.

Past twenty years have gone so fast,
Dark chapters fade, bright memories last.
For good and bad I’ve left my mark,
In people’s minds, on lover’s hearts.
You can’t undo what has been done,
But learn from it and continue on.

You thought you were going to change the world.
With hard-won knowledge,
gained from lofty institutions in earnest,
with brave new convictions and bold assertions.

In the end, you settled for finding your place in it.

Just like the number of the stars,
our days on Earth are unknown to each of us.
But if we shine our light on others' souls,
When we pass, we live on in their hearts.

I write the date, upon the sheet,
Then do the daily round.
I stare at it, in disbelief,
The past cannot be found.

I climb the stairs, and close the valve,
place the lock inside the hasp.
I blink an eye, two decades gone,
Too impossible to grasp.

I drop the needle and find the groove,
a smile upon my face.
The vibe so rich, the pathway back,
So vivid in its trace.

Upon the stool I sit and thrash,
Limbs work in sweet accord.
When it began, three decades? More.
With time I could afford.

In summer sun, in early morn,
a pigeon calls my name.
And stirs in mind a younger me,
with prospects there to claim.

The march of time, the grains of sand,
Relentlessly they fall.
They make the sound of voices past,
I surrender to their call.

That word, juxtapose.
Oozes from your lips,
Like lava flows.
Or melting snows.
Yet usually, it is supposed,
to show contrast in those,
that are apposed!

Life.
Insufferably long,
yet
cruelly short.
Life.
Insanely difficult,
and
easy as laughter.
Life.
Selflessly caring,
but
brutally harsh.
Your life.
Wonderfully poignant,
whilst
utterly pointless.
This life.
Excitingly unknowing,
and
ultimately fatal.
All life.
Delicately fragile,
yet
fiercely resilient.
Life.
Ineffably beautiful,
and
unspeakably ugly.

Life.

The line is crossed,
like a hull breach, too late.
The damage, after impact,
impossible to negate.
All involved, lost. At sea.
You clearly weren't thinking,
not thinking clearly.

The truth is writ large,
a beacon in her head.
The words lie unspoken,
between them in their bed.

The knowledge sits amongst them,
immutable cold stone.
Superficially united,
in reality both alone.

Soldiering on together
through the cut and ******.
A case of put up or shut up,
go home or go bust.

Hold them, bind them, fix them tight.
Pull them ropes with all your might.
Nail your colours, hard to the mast,
Or else lose your memories to the past.