This is a time of garden gates
and all new beginnings;
Excited filled minds and bodies.
Postie walks slower these days;
smiling with sunshine.
Dogs bark round the farm
always on their toes;
Brendan their keeper never worries.
And all good things come to those who wait
so patience is my watchword;
Free to walk slow like postie
and to never worry like Brendan.

Postman, postman, stay away,
Do not bring me bills this way,
Take them to the Prime Minister today,
He can afford them, let's say,
Postman, postman, bills here do not purvey,
Postman, postman, stay away!

There's a face at the window,
an old one I don't know,

I do hope he's not slow
to answer my knock;

It's late in the evening,
it's christmas and freezing,

I think he stopped breathing,
well ain't that my luck.  :0/

Post person or whatever.
Always turning up.
Regardless of the weather
I feel for the postie upon this chilly day.
Relied upon to bring with him, all Christmas in his sack.
Bringing bills and festive notes from Southampton to John'O'Groats.
No suprise from Santa Claus.
Just a chilly postman going to the doors.
Through rain and snow the postman goes.
Trotting with his smile intact.
Waiting for Christmas to come around again.
His mailbag always laden, that's a fact for sure.
I wonder when the day of e-cards supercede.
The postman may redundant, not coming to my door!
Thank you post person,
You do a vital job.
(C) LIVVI

Stained asphalt
flickering sodium lights
pavement art
ambulance chasing
motorway drone
crushed cans and ripped pizza boxes
kebab debris
scared cats
gum scarred concrete
burnt out ******* bins congealed plastic
dripping
overflowing bottle banks
used condoms hung on a line
fox ****
streetscene collapse
bottles arranged along a wall one two three
one lone shoe
in the road
sealed up letter boxes one with a message
written in black felt pen on brown parcel tape
‘If you are bothering to read this
you a *******’
kicked in door
steel shuttered shops
burnt out wheelie bin one lump of plastic
very impressive
smoking employees behind the Co-op
one knows Barb thumbs up
I return the thumb
walking
a woman shouting at a priest: ‘But all he wants to be is
a woman’
torn pages from a ***** mag ****** up arses
***** in mouths
piles of brochures newspapers flyers dumped in a doorway
a few quid scammed can’t get the delivery help
these days
someone parking a Audi nice and shiny
looks up and down the street
wary
kids slumped smoking skunk outside the library
a derelict sat on a wall grinning *** in mouth
tells me I have a happy face and offers his bottle to me
I take it and have a slug
trudging
dog crapping in middle of wide clean pavement
someone walking past muttering
‘never in Peru’
I stand opposite my flat and think of bombs
and a cacophony of alternative universes
and small candles shaped like eggs
a bald headed postman drives up to the letter box
techno blasting from his little red van
Molly Upstairs shouts something unintelligible
before throwing a small package down
the postie watches it descend from the sky
and catches it
without a smile
these are the days of unwholesome atmospheres
but it’s all I have so I don’t mind
it’s better than being kept in a box
with the lid
sealed tight.

It’s often of a christmas time
When words will dance to relish rhyme
To tell the story of demander
Sharp of dress – the proper gander

His monocle peers down at you
An eye for flight and finesse too
He flutters out about your heart
You want him but he’s so apart

Put your treasures at his Tod’s
His feathers flutter and he nods
But you’re so crass, so undefined
Your love for him is leagues behind

While you chase with mollycoddles
He’s dancing with the supermodels
A candle dinner, just for two
He’s sharing with Chanel, not you

Leave him be, for the common we
Are odious to one like he
The proper gander often finds
He’s chased for love by lesser minds

He once brushed his Boglioli
And told me that for Christmas Cindy
Would meet him neath the mistletoe
I should not call him, hard I know

So let this poem serve as warning
Do not follow your heart’s calling
When you see the great demander
Sharp of dress – the proper gander

And now that you are out the way
I’ll wait until that special day
For within the wrapping and the ribbon
I’m hiding ‘till I’m duly given

The postie will deliver me
To his doorstep and we’ll see
I’ll burst forth from the wrapping paper
For Christmas we will be together

He’ll choose me over other women
He’ll show a side he still has hidden
The other girls may chase romance
But faced with me they have no chance

For my ship has one commander
My love’s the world, he’s Alexander
Without him life would be much blander
How I want the proper gander.

I dare say it's good
to talk at times and
there is a lot of the day
that always was a blur
even before you started drinking

along this quiet island's quiet roads
telegraph poles buzz
with 8 megabytes-per-second
bringing the world
to your door these days, they say

You won't answer back
this is just the way it goes
there's the postie
and the nurse now too
and from the mobile library, there's Tennyson

You are at sea still, with his Ulysses
sailing these coasts awhile yet
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield
most days now, someone gives you a hand

Dottie wishes Willie would
return home. All night she
had twisted and turned in
his bed. She looks out of
the window of their cottage
for the postie to come with
a letter from her brother,
but there is no sight or sign.

She sighs. Later she will prepare
one of his favourite pies. He’ll
bring Sammy and they’ll go
for walks and talk and smell
flowers and hear the birdsongs
and sit beneath trees and study
the sky. She moves to the kettle
and switches it on and prepares
a cup of tea. One teabag, two
sugars, a small spill of milk.

She sips and thinks. If Willie
were here now he’d lay his head
on her shoulder and read her
one of his poems. She likes it when
he reads her one of his poems.

She knows them because she
scribbles them down as he recites
them as they walk along. I can’t
write sitting down, he often told her.

I need to walk and breathe the
air and hear the songs of birds.
She sits and imagines him there
beside her, his head on her
shoulder as if a pillow, his
vibrating voice moving inside her.

She senses a headache coming,
feels the tremors along her nerves
like a coming storm. It is a time
of bleeds. The moon’s pull drags
her down. If Willie were here he’d
say, Go lay down and I will come
bring you pills and water and kiss
it better. But her brother is away
bringing Sammy. The clouds are
gathering, dark grey and heavy,
the sky becoming black, oh, she
says, if only my Willie was back.

Goose bumps and shivers
the postie looking for a signature
parcels and cards
fairy lights and snowmen
turkey with all the trimmings
mulled wine and carols
and the birth of a child;
The Prince of Peace born in a stable
the greatest Birthday Party of all.

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.

i have a little friend puts letters through my door
i can hear the letters falling to the floor
likes a little chat likes to talk to me
such a lovely soul a friendly chap is he

i look forward to my post i know who it will be
my little postman friend who likes a  chat with me

there is a meadow betwixt me and Mankind
a beautiful living witness to solitude
only the postie comes up the garden path
but I am always sleeping when this happens.
its a wholesome solitude that keeps one centred
right in the heart of life, which by definition
encompasses and never forgets those living
outside the meadows reach.

(march)

day 13.

we are power walking each day
looking ridiculous with jeans rolled
up
stopping to look here and there
at all the new things
with spring

stopping while sweating to remove
some layers
chatting to myself

and so i answer while things fly
round my head in the sunlight

saw no one yesterday

yet know today that those out camping
in their vans will be sent
back to

stay at home

a nightly routine
is shopping
online

perhaps at 2am. it is quiet then the
website don’t stick with it all

day 13
i may have a visit at a distance

the postie says he will post urgent
letters and use his own stamps for
me
wearing his blue medical gloves

sometime i weep