Royal indeed it is my Scottish mile,
May I borrow your body awhile,
Your brew gives me just the smile,
I'll save you forever in my travelers file!!

Another year now, another year new,
whiskey, one too many a few,
like strangers who haven' a clue,
one more night, at the backpacker's blue!!

Now or never, those eyes shine forever,
in my senses, in my heart, in my pyre,
bagpipes printed over the hogmanay's flyer,
singin, hey ya'll, cry me a ****** river!!

softly humming and deftly proceeding
unobtrusive like a shy one at a gathering
i make myself obscure and inconsequential
though my heart tells me it's only a matter of time
before i make my mark and cause a stir among my peers
and before we hear the distinct sound of the bell's chime
as it calls upon all and sundry, far and wide across the land
to declare their love in soft tones and hearts serene and sincere
to look upon love with wondering eyes that burn with longing
and drink to the love of a lifetime in a sunset glass blown by a master
thereafter to sing a song that is a tale of love unlimited and hope eternal
the thing to remember is the image of a backpacker at some lodge
sinking with the yellow sun in an obscure room where he lays his head
though he knows it not, his ritual daily enacts our final days

I must be incredibly wary
and alert
and I gotta follow my gut because there’s a reason to why
it aches
or jumps with excitement;
it knows
much more than my head does;
and I must hold myself firmly like a proud statue, but I can’t just stay in one place
I need to tiptoe on a tightrope
I mustn’t fall, but if I do, I mustn’t fuss
just get back up again,
just get on with it

I went to an art gallery this afternoon
and the theme of one small contemporary art room
was,
“just get on with it”,
(I decided that myself anyway);
there was a painting of an airplane, resting on snow,
that one was obvious
I said, “just get on with it, then, fly”
there was a painting of a snowy road,
that one was obvious too
there was a painting of a sad girl
again, obvious
but then there was a painting of a person
with a large smudge of green on his face, he barely had a face
and a large smudge of white on his waist, he barely had a waist;
I concluded,
“sometimes you don’t have a face and you just need to get on with it”
because my mood was easy breezy silly this afternoon;
but now I’m thinking
sometimes you lose your identity
and you just need to get on with it

I can barely take anyone serious when they ask the question,
“who am I?”
the answer is obvious if you allow simplicity into your heart,
“you’re what you are experiencing and feeling and being right now, and it’ll change all the time in every moment”
so,
I feel kind of commiserable
and much of a parody
for sitting in a busy mall foodcourt, with a cup of coffee I didn’t even buy at that foodcourt,
remixing an old song on garageband,
then looking up and realizing I’m surrounded by all of these kiwi strangers
and finally asking the question
“who am I”
oh I’m a lunatic, aren’t I?

I must be open, but not too open
and easy to get along with, but not too easy to get along with
I must catch a wave on the first try,
but if I wipe out, I mustn’t turn red;

I need to watch what I say
before I say it
but also find the courage to speak
when I’m shy
and I must be considerate
but not let people walk all over me

I can’t be a pushover, and I can’t be too much of a leader
because I don’t know what I’m doing
here;
I can love but I shouldn’t fall in love
at least for awhile
because I’m still high from the transition and I’m dubious of how
authentic and sincere
my falling in love
would be

worrying is the most unnecessary thing
money isn’t an issue
(right now)
and loneliness is a blessing
but it’s also a sickness
and I must remind myself that I’m worth not being lonely
and instead being free
and above all,
I am capable of anything I set my mind to,
even if I forget
“who I am”
or “what I wanna be”
above all,
I must always be me.

I felt like a backpacker that night.
I think it was the katydids.
At home it’s the frogs,
all shouting over each other, but somehow
finding a rhythm.

But here,
a pulse presses into me in my sleep
and I roll over to face the seething embers.
I know I’ve drawn things out with X,
but this is what narcissism means to me:
stoking the embers each time.

Tonight I am a backpacker
on the west side of a mountain.
Having slept through the sunset,
now I’m lying awake—
sleepless and small—
as ants find their way across my skin.

If they’re not sleeping, they must be working—
long jaunts between brief naps—
while the queen sleeps.

When I’m home,
I’ll close my windows and,
drown these embers in dry reds—
shiraz and merlot—
and sleep like the queen for once.

It's been weeks since I last recognized.
I haven't had a buddy sit across me
Enthusiastically chomping while moving his mouth.
Neither during times when I traverse stretches of land
Have I had a Second to push me along,
at the same time un-bore me.

Yet my problem's solution is simple:
GO out, OPEN the door, LET everyone in and everything out
But that
is not who I am.

Backpack strapped back to my back packed up ready for the next destination,
got a train then caught a plane from Lisbon to Budapest but got no rest,
now it's time to go again & I’m all out of answers but I do have a question,
if I’ve been awake in this American Dream for so long then when do I rest?

See,
people on the outside say my life is great & they say it with a hint of envy,
they say that I’m who they want to be or at least that’s what they say to me,
& honestly I'm too tired to thank them nor have the patience to engage them,
because I'm racin' to the next destination on a spaceship with a window seat,

daydreaming awake & gazin' out the window wow this view is amazin',
see it's more about what you leave in than it is about what you came in,

but honestly,
I’m depressed,
& honestly,
now that I've got everything else I'd like to finally get some rest,

I'm upset,
still having a good time though I must admit,
because I'm blessed with the rest of the best of the Jet Set clique yes,
but must confess I'd like to find a nice nest where I can get some night rest,

because I’m tired of going whichever direction I'm pulled,
tired of going wherever the wind blows,
& I know it's an honor to receive all these invitations,
to all these events all over the world,

but it's as exhausting as it is awesome,
so I'm searching,
for redemption & as God's son,
through my sins I am praying,

God,
please take me home,
if life Itself is a prayer,
& we bless everywhere that we roam,
then it shouldn't matter that I never made it to church,
it should only matter that I'm a Believer that believes in redeeming his soul,

oh no here we go,
I wanted to take the time to marinate & elaborate,
but I'm writing this at a fast pace with haste because I’ve got a flight to catch,
& if I stay here any longer to take the time to elaborate I’ll be very late,

& once again I put down the pen in order to make my next date,

so I’m back packing,
I’m backpacking as backpacker not a back tracker,
so I'm moving forward because I've got a feeling that I can’t ignore anymore,
which is that there's more in store to explore & everything's still exciting,

& I want to share all of these experiences with you,

but I can't take you with me so instead of inviting you I’m writing cues,
to help you find the clues in all these experiences I'm going through,
as I live it up to the limit of the sky no gimmicks I'll admit to you why,
it's because I’m only living this life & visiting these towns for you,

so come spend some time with me,
so we can be together before we both go away,
because we all know what They all say,
baby tomorrow isn’t promised today,

tomorrow isn't promised today,

& that’s why I’m back packing,
getting ready for the next destination & always ready for action,

backpack strapped back to my back packed up ready for the next destination,
got a train then caught a plane from Lisbon to Budapest but got no rest,
now it's time to go again & I’m all out of answers but I do have a question,
if I’ve been awake in this American Dream for so long then when do I rest?

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

New Book FREE:
www.scribd.com/document/388173677/The-Holy-Trilogy-Volume-2-Mandalas

Bio HERE:
www.amazon.com/Aaron-La-Lux/e/B00ODPJAOK

without veneration for what i already censored and ensured that what Christianity venerates as holy, in curses, or oath words - in newspapers aplenty, f%&@ - and i would venerate that? why not the little censor backpacker with the tetragrammaton word forever hushed, thought about? enough fucky-fucky-sucky-sucky i'm sure - it's so much eloquent to censor speaking something sacred than something debasing - you can just claim to be speaking pardonable French - and i rather a humility be indebted to something that can take intellectual promises and fulfil them, than have to play peek-ah-boo with the murk of Cockney slang - so childish... so ****** childish i reeks of sulphur in what's to be achieved by "seeming" polite - even with oath words censored, people have no greater vocabulary - and i really do like to see a great respect of spelling.

in practical terms - i sort of "lied" about how how Hebraic
schooling hides vowels - they do indeed,
hide 4... i once wrote a poem entitled *two Adams -
prior to investigating the matter further, only
today i stumbled upon the meaning - i was intending
a story of Eden with two Adams - a homosexual
affair - perhaps Satan the surrogate mother -
so less myth including the second Eve (Lilith) -
but the Hebraic school doesn't hide all the vowels -
it has two variations of the vowel a -
aleφ (א) and ayiν (ע) - hence the premonition of
the two Adams was subconscious rested in this
observation, i've seen a Hebrew alphabet prior -
but i didn't attach much detail to it worthy of furthered
inspection - it would seem natural that out of 5 vowels
four are hidden as if diacritical marks akin to
the umlaut or acute stresses ( ¨ or ´ ) - by
hiding four vowels you are bound to get a tetra-
something, in this case a -grammaton - further details
also emerge: why are two identical vowels apparent
among the consonants? aesthetic purposes? a full-circle
effect? a closure? i was in north London today and
i was spotting orthodox Jews, i don't know why
but i seem them with their curls either side of their heads
and think of Italian Mafia - they really do look
like the Mafia - call them Dactyl Mafia (not a foot
in poetic meter, or the sons of Cybele / Rhea -
but as in that sweet fruit - a date, plenty of date trees
in the middle east) from now on, i will - so with
4 vowels hidden as diacritical marks, 1 vowel for
whatever reason ~mirror image given the cutting up
of a- from -leph and a- from -yin - yang bangs
the saucers for a symphony impromptu as if Jamaican steel -
hence i'm supposing the deja vu of the H hey'tches -
and from that you get the perfect storm for perfect
laughter: עה אה
                          עה אה
                                   עה אה! (alias of a definite article -
looking at the world, no talk of philosophical veils and
ultra-realities - it's just definitely there and you might
as well laugh about it).

3:23 until 3:58 - Muse's Stockholm Syndrome -
in my hand Milton's Paradise Lost -
that grand Greek style epic that really bit off
William Blake's tongue and ear with self-improvised
jealousy - concerning book iii - Satan's entry into
this world - indeed through t book iv -
guiltless he, for the chess piece was already made -
and what only kept it from a sacrificial bite
was the motive of the game being begun -
the nudge of a pawn could have made a rook fake
advance across the line of pawns - yet man's
pawn also took charge.

no daytime interruptions this time - 400 years by
the pyramids and 3 years in Auschwitz -
the latter: no purpose, our insider was there, Eva Braun -
my grandfather visited Auschwitz, from the stories he
recounted... none of my relatives died there,
most of them on the front, don't expect me to go,
I AIN'T GOING! i'll go to a Kosher bakery -
i'm not going out of principle, on the principle that
it wouldn't be personal, or so i heard, impersonal,
catching Pokemons in that facility - as you might
have guessed weird things are happening in the night
at times, moving stars, appearing and disappearing
without a fixed zodiac - pretty common these days -
once i watched a triangle of such rebels move across
the sky, once a Gemini variations, most of the time
one star moving... then another -
happened to me in Venice, keeps happening
in Essex, happened in Ostrowiec Św. in Poland too
(my grandfather watched with me... thought they
were satellites at first... and i was like... satellites?
really? give it a day, you'll come to your senses - we can't
see satellites from earth! look again, same size and brightness
as all the other stars in static zodiac, to the naked eye
and not a telescopic eye, the same size) -
so i'm sitting there having a beer, and giving up my
thought to the altar of what's happening -
three proofs during the night - star of Bethlehem -
the Koran - come on! total darkness - we're talking
using phonetic encoding by an illiterate person -
good at numbers when it came to being a merchant -
but in terms of letters? total caveman, Khadija (Muhammad's
first wife) must have written the first few Surahs -
Stephen Vizinczey's in praise of older women -
learning a foreign language aged 40 must be hard enough,
this is Prophet Blind-man in Reverse - it's a completely
different story being literate an being illiterate, esp. when
looking at sound encoding - less damaging for the latter,
even more damaging for the former given universal
education and the lost monopoly on literacy by the priesthood.
so, those two proofs (after 40 days in the desert without
food or water, any idiot could make water into wine -
imagine the dehydration, alcohol dehydrates, hydrate
and you'd be jumping-jack any time, esp. at a wedding,
with so much joy euphoria adding to a sip of water after
40 days in a desert).

You can only dream of
places I have been
Mentally,
All the things
I did for my family,
All they did,
instead of helping me,
Is trying to
put sense in me,
When I come to a point
Where I am
about to plead insanity,
A room of variances,
Out of body experiences,
Mental *******,
Heart full of spasms,
The ones
my past couldn’t fathom,
This ain’t a struggler’s anthem,
But I can’t help but,
Generalize,
And I can’t undermine,
That I felt heaven,
At least on my fingertips,
I found hope,
At the brink of disbelief,
Don’t blame the postman,
If you put the wrong address,
Life is a *****,
depending on how you dress her,
Let the broken glass,
Mess up the dresser,
Rosewood, Redwood, any wood,
If I could I would,
The more I clench my fists,
the more sand I loose,
But I choose not to,
just my screws,
My life is like a travelogue,
No just ticket needed just travel along,
Like a broken pen and a moleskin,
A DSLR and an eye to watch closely,
No backpacker,
Just a bad actor,
Modern day rye catcher,
Self financer ,
A mere puppet on the string,
That life hangs by,
finding questions to some bad answers,
Putting up with bad promise makers,
When a promise may curse,
Life is just a makeshift,
Life is what you make it,
Or make of it

With each poem,
I get closer in becoming a lovable Golem.

So what's hot in the streets
I’m mean
I beat women,
OG
I’ve seen prison
I even eat kittens
We winning
Mr. Kelly met me
he let me *** with him.

I’m so deep with words it could sound like an eternity
one day they will close read my rhymes in every university
I only make vinyls
and I serve emcees that burn CDs,
I’m so undergrounds even my fans haven’t even heard of me,
nah,
I got money son,
all my watches are custom done
by the time
I set the time
my butler comes with another one
I’m gutter son,
the razors in my mouth are just to cut my gums,
My facebook is set to private son
you don’t know where the **** I’m from

Imma poet,
roses are red
Moses ovaries bled
Supernova explodes,
when my pen exposes it led.
I once mounted a soul, when its body was chemically dead,
If you don’t know my poetries dope, its because its going over your head,
nah,

I’m so Hip Hop I crip walk in flip flops,
Imma mix of Rick ross, and lil kris kross,
Imma gang banger
nah,
scratch that, imma backpacker,
rap is just a stepping stone in becoming a bad actor,
imma crack rapper,
actually sponsor by arm and hammer
I **** with some proper grammar
make government propaganda
What ever it takes to get my face in front a hundred cameras
**** rap!
I’ll tell everyone in the stands to throw their hands up,

What I am
should be obvious.

Imma positive rapper I swear my mom is a pastor
I got a pocket quran
I almost read all of the chapters,
and Imma get a couple grammys,
yep and an emmy,
I'm family friendly,
even your old freakin granny gets me.

Back in the day when life gave us lemons
we made lemonade
never straight
never made a track that was second grade
In seventh grade
it was never about getting paid
thats why we spend more money than we ever made,
I used to love it but **** it,
I’m giving up
imma puppet,
I’m anything,
I’m everything, if you got money in your pocket
Congratulations to sponsors on creating a monster
All you haters are just making me stronger

And now all my fans hate me,
They say “I liked you before you were mainstream”
******* so did I somebody should of paid me
Imma Iconic,
byproduct,
And no ones tryna buy product,
Ironic,
want my chronic
but won’t put five on it,
but I promise,
give me an idea and i’ll build it,
I make your eyes pop out of your eye sockets,
so y’all can go ahead and be some hip hop heads,
pressing free download’,
until hip hops dead,
Please,
just keep on spitting
just keep on spitting
make sure you keep on spitting
just keep on spitting
make sure you keep on spitting
just keep on spitting
just keep on spitting
Please!!!

Motions croak in crimped t-shirts
Peace hurts the leg of 3 wheelers
Spit in a book, carefully holding hands over healers
Frosted articulation of bricks hitting off buildings
The doctor resumes surgery on the filming
Actress gummy mouthed backpacker sharing rooms with a jet-lagger galvanizing goo
If I phone myself, I’ll phone you too
Ad-hoc hop around dentures holding saxophones, laziness is the common king around here
Match the sketch with the deliriant fear free freedom and sneer
Shut the promo drunk and dolo
Potions of pogos bouncing so low
Both bones focal, keeping in a smile from an eye perched over the edge spitting on the populous
Attacking formulas with cruel gruel from the oesophagus
Wilting oxalis wooded in obelisks
Mortal coil in amphetamine greed for the sleep
Positioned slightly awkward and barely out of reach
Been seen being dreams piercing holes in the purple of the seeds
Peace is deemed green, free me from the iron between the sheets
Coins flipped in a river and an etude rings out with a profound sense of urgency
Won't wake up faces blindly painted deranged by a 5 sided box that gave fame to what was contained
Warp the wattage, walk in nervous
Hold cosmic stardust in one hand
Another a phone to call the best man
To marry the two hands and I’m sure the priest will understand
Hairs on the ceiling float through the window and provide an outspoken account of how they are feeling
Canisters of friendship huffed in the backs of vans till passing point seizures explain themselves
9mm film reel candy bars and ring modulation skeletal structure cat gut harps
Never finish a walk to work without beginning the start
Trolleys of Dolly Parton facelifts
Knife cutter butterfly anaesthesia makeshift
Hollow bellies of pardoned mop heads becoming a commodity
I can't say sorry if I begin to speak so oddly
I’d say probably yes if you lit a fire beyond the fence where the old man gambles drop-***** with 50 pence
Bite down on copper, synchronise the action
Winter comes and goes like conversation going out of fashion
Morbid, terra-fin switches waterbeds
Hints home at spit-roasting ostrich heads
Cost and effect, cause and intellect
The castle puts his foot down only to find a horses neck
Zipped up in honey, the combs hive mind should reconsider its self lucky
Unorthodox autodidact naturally diffracting compound eye composes paranoia and lies
The patronage of the savant is murderous and contrived
Its better out than in
The constant metaphor for unluckiness
Is where we begin
Radiance in a hot water semi permeable membrane crescent
Strokes the backs of frogs in the desert, stars iridescent and sun bears a weapon
Hammocks, ****, sweat on the brow, split lips on cornerstones of the solstice in the dead of now
Space-age ape on the country road lets out a cough
Caution to the hissing hills ****** in hidden zygotic havens
Actors have no time to cut themselves shaving
Austro-Bavarian chemical burns Molotov cocktail sewers
Crayons let me draw this face on, paint the day on and on, it gets newer
Its the context at which you and I notice the separation, that cues canned humour

oto historja z kantem, co podwójne ma dno, gdyby napisał ją dante, to nie tak by to szło.*

existentialism never caught on in england,
it was under the scalpel of an autopsy,
divided in the extremes,
i style magazines, or in the saturday newspaper
edition of gloss, ensuring the world knows
about modern gladiators' (footballers') antics
with boyfriends at home and the girlfriends
on the prowl - feminism's by-product - hmm -
there's a common saying in england:
'i have an existence, i don't have a life',
well... ex- (out of) every instance, it's a life,
i know the big words sound foreboding,
but let's not make it a life of any concern,
unless you're dressed like Mr. Portillo
traversing the American continent in yellow
chequered shirts and pink trousers and green blazers...
style... gotta have style walking in Wisconsin...
the pretty english 'have a nice day' air about
you without perfumes... yes, Mr. Portillo is
the epitome of dressing like an englishman
cursing Voltaire... lollipop goo to my liking, mm...
hey, i'm just a drunk with an itchy feel for
language... me poet, me poet de facto...
ever heard of midorexia? me neither, until today...
even the rich aren't immune...
tan-lines and short shorts aren't enough to
define this odd anorexia of lost youth...
it's supposedly defined by wearing sunglasses
anywhere than on holiday -
see... this is where french existentialism led
the english - it led them to an answer: itemisation,
overt itemisation - born from every believability -
born from every centric to the the european
continent measurement loss exporting flesh from
the ivory coast to the florida measurement -
a pint for above half a litre - the statue of liberty
had many ******* under her skirt...
including king john as one of the fathers...
they really didn't think about existentialism,
no thought invoked made the shopkeepers sigh
and say: excess itemisation is required -
we need cuff-links, orange juicers via ponce,
we need smartphones, we need leathered shoes
(18 carat-hark pig), and belts...
we need all these distractions to go against
the french suggestion of a 35 hour working week...
live to work, don't work to live...
it never caught on... they decided to protest
against Sartre... because he lived with his mother...
**** me... i should have asked for a surrogate too,
and two daddies... and I.V.F., i should have,
because suddenly everyone became neurotic
with Freudian misuse of the Oedipal theory -
Mr. Portillo and Alan Shearer just left the game early,
one's a backpacker with a camera
and the other is a football analyst - left the game
of chance political slander... wise guys; bravo! bravo! encore!

We're all ok
With the wind on our backs
But misdirected anger needs a home
And it needs it fast
(Silver string turning grey)
A backpacker walking
Ain't no walker with a knapsack
No more snappy fingers
******* another's soul
Call it your own
(Silver string turning grey)
The network of loneliness
A bunch of faded glories
Doing time
For the pain of another
We beg for contact
And we know we'll never find it
But it's out there
We beg for mercy
When we've already found it
Within ourselves
(Silver string turning grey)
Cynics are dreamers
Watching the shiny happy people
Float on by
In cement shoes

the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
detention lasts an hour,
how many times do you think
i'd write the statement?
this is before the dark-web,
before Contraband Anonymous,
oh hell, i can write you Orwell's
1984 in nanoseconds,
about how you should drink and not
ingest hallucinatory drugs,
not least the pharmacist quotient
available...
but prior to... hmm... the N.S.A. is
still my friend, they have the conversations
of the culprits, and Tsar Putin jacking
off to the sound of Apollo 13's mission failure...
and have i the ***** to say it?
i think i do.... unless a Martian descends,
or Jupiter encrusts into a ball of hot
cranium of fire, then we're left with Pluto being
the penultimate ice-ball before
the thing that killed the dinosaurs comes
along in hookah Kiwi haka style
for a fantasia of the Parisian catwalk...
chew wee a mega fibia, aye Scotch,
aye Ben Nervous - mega choo backpacker
and mm, hoo see the Nedtherlands!
and then we all get to nibble on our excited-lower-lip
the French revolved around to hark:
oriental in Romanian: h = r = haaark!
agling to a gagging too.
poetry - you make sounds, you don't
intend to make sense... it's your *******
tongue as a trumpet... what else?!

Dear Don Alberto
Flamboyant Octogenarian
To a pair of weather-beaten families on the Camino
And to Backpacker Bridget from Granada via Barnsley
And to all who seek shelter from the Galician downpours
You sound
Like an Angel
As you hold aloft your otherworldly radio
And play for us Tina Turner’s
Simply the Best
On happy repeat.

Dear Don Alberto
With your doggy entourage
To a bunch of Ryanair Refugees on the Camino
And to uber cool Bridget naturalised Granadina don’t mention Barnsley
And to all who seek sanctuary from the Galician heatwaves  
You taste
Like a rustic slice of empanada
Rich deep and
Eternally replenishing itself.

You weren’t ever on our map
Don Alberto, were you?
The ID cards you offer up for inspection
Make us laugh at the farce of our controls and borders.

And so
To us make-shift pilgrims on the Camino
You show us how to journey properly
Dancing the salsa
On every roundabout.


Simon Piesse

The mind clings to forms
to hold against the silence
to guard itself from you
the secret deadly enemy
hanging out on your own front stoop
winkin’ at your little sister
and begging for an invite to dinner
you can let him pass too
onto the vapor of a conjured illusion
you can let the words
coming from here get stronger
you can hear me more clearly and louder
the self that you buried
under the rot of yesterday’s tomorrow
all that chatter is of no matter you can tell

But don’t tell of the nonsense
of nothings wrapped in desire
that’s old news
from days when newspapers were read
that talk takes the time
of a 20th century backpacker
hiking Truth’s trail
NOW is the only time that there is
for waking from the ringing of the bell
don’t stomp out the silence
the one answer screaming
the reality one is

Only in silence you remember the key
to the treasure in the chest
holding your heart crafted in love
isn’t that the whole happiness quotient
wrapped up like a perfect peace package
I just can’t comprehend the human species
and its endless repeating crimes
how many life sentences
does one have to get
to see only the Self and be free
burn off the rest of the pride
every lyin’ thought’s last roar into dust
forms can’t hold true life
it’s real light making ghostly forms known

gazing into the wavering winter sun,
earth and sky become one mantle of silver shimmering mist,
clouds hover stubbornly refusing to wander away,
obscuring the sun's caress from.my face.

the wind has decided to breeze away early,
anxious to keep some prior arranged appointment,
cattle tracks in the mud remind me of the sign on the gate
'bulls in field"
noting the 's'. (as if one isn't bad enough).

I meet a backpacker lurching
precariously through the dead heather
carrying an entire house on his back,
studiously trying to avoid deep hidden puddles.

gnarled trees with birds nest 'hair-dos'
cling tenaciously among the crags,
the birds flown off to sunnier climes
leaving the whispering moors in their wake.

heavy brooding clouds must insist on following me,
intent on hammering me with their stair-rod rain,
air distills into a denser fog-saturated mist
reluctantly my frozen feet turn for home..

Bi-polar


    He's not a wayfaring tourist explorer

        Nor a rambling ranger nor rover


   He's not a trekker nor tinker nor hiker

      Nor a vagabond journeyman biker


  He's not a tramper nor migrant itinerant

    Nor a gypsy nor nomad nor immigrant


He's not a moseying vagrant commuter              

     Nor a sightseeing pilgrim vamooser    
                                            

He's not a laggard nor hobo meandering                                

   Nor a Romany rolling-stone wandering
                                                                ­

   He's not a runaway refugee absconder

       Nor a transient gallivanting yonder


   He's not a truancy drifter out travelling

      Nor a lingering loiterer just ambling   
                             

He's not an outback on walkabout saunter                

         Nor a pilot nor mariner nor jaunter    
                                                     ­         

He's not a trudger nor slogging globetrotter

Nor an excursionist nor an ushers escorter


   He’s not a slob nor plodding backpacker                        

  Nor gatecrasher barnstormer nor slacker


He's not a fugitive nor traipser nor stroller

      He's Quixote and yes he’s bi-polar.