SOFT CHAINS

Heaviness in life is a weight to carry
No chance to shed it and let it drop
To just leave it, and then walk away
Yet strangely, it will help to balance
And anchor a soul trying to be free
Although that may be short sighted
As any prisoner will become restive
And the focus sharpens day by day
A chance to breathe fresh air again

POESY

All this poetic flim-flam, it’s enough
But if something inspires, then write
Yet many chosen words and phrases
Seem to ignore metaphorical mazes
And slap on paint that is off-white
Unlike artists who know their stuff

With the rhyme one selected before
Adopt a rhythm that says the most
If one sets limits on a syllable count
Then pick the steed one can mount
Galloping hard to the finishing post
Should it be all about the metaphor

Known forms can try stealing hearts
Emotion reluctant to follow the rules
Yet if it’s unstructured is it free verse
None stop to salute an empty hearse
And seeing a gap between two stools
Spelling and grammar play their parts

MEMORIES

Can memories really be made
Maybe they just happen at will
Does tempted fate decide it all
To be another brick in the wall
Making a crease in cotton twill
And stains that will never fade

Forever subject to recollection
A memory may be permanent
Its place is not only in the mind
But even as images one can find
And out there in the firmament
A kind of studio backprojection

Could they be subject to change
And be self-adjusting over time
Perhaps some censor is at work
In thought, wherever it may lurk
Without a voice, it is just mime
But with age, open to rearrange

SPENT WORDS

As a hail of bullets from a gun
The words keep streaming out
One follows another, no pause
It’s an almost infinite magazine
A never ending belt being fed
The whole nine yards expired

Then quiet, and steaming hot
A single moment of reflection
Holes pepper across the page
And was any of that worth it
Perhaps all missed their mark
All now gone, into the ether

Eventually they fall, exhausted
On the distant soft dark earth
Someday, seen and picked up
Retrieved, yet not quite trash
Each one adds its tiny weight
To an odd growing collection

Together now as blobs of lead
Sad, and unsuitable for re-use
Yet each had its own purpose
Allocated a meaningful target
The short freedom of release
And a trajectory to remember

But each leaves behind a case
Shiny brass that was its home
With an almost perfect shape
All selected for their accuracy
Everything was about context
And for their intended impact

RECOLLECTIONS

So why, as we get old, do we remember
Is it just that we have that bit more time
Other than living, having little else to do
And risking the recall of a distorted view
Even looking back it didn’t always rhyme
But for some of us, it’s already December

There are also things some try and forget
As it wasn’t all stuff worthy of celebration
A win, and that occasional feeling of pride
So long past, now a distant memory inside
As we wait on the platform at the station
Take a breath, there’s a bit more time yet

I know why the birds will follow the plough
For some, it is buying the final lottery ticket
A wealth of experience, so they might claim
But all the served daily meals taste the same
For those who were stuck on a sticky wicket
It is true that age shall not weary them now

FAMILIARITY

Comforted with what you know
It’s what to do, and where to go
Viewing the same old TV show
Familiarity is like the warm scarf
Worn with a smile if not a laugh
Yet, a cool fresh breeze is good

All classic jokes, funny and slow
Always reinforce the status quo
In an aisle seat, never front row
The pleasant nod from the staff
Avant Garde ever off the graph
Try something new, you should

Through change, one shall grow
Step sideways to go with the flow
It will be experience, high or low
To realise in full, not just by half
And not sacrificing a golden calf
Don’t be looking under the hood

TRUTHS

With each day that now passes
Truths are getting ever nearer
Just a glimpse is never enough
With all the boring detail stuff
One day soon it will be clearer
Hopefully I won’t need glasses

They do say that full realisation
Comes only with accurate vision
Like translating an ancient tract
The focus isn’t so subtle, in fact
It can make a very deep incision
No anaesthetic for an operation

It comes from a very cold place
And melting ice forms a puddle
Insight could be a powerful blow
At least from above, not below
No confusion, nor in a muddle
Yet will always haunt this space