This canvas captures my heart’s breath;
Stronger as remains blanket the grief.
Acts of kindness, love, and selflessness.
Portions of souls shared.
The best yet made.
Endure and carry on.
poem
Benchmark.
I used to pass benches by.
I used to chuckle how you’d all sit there.
Nothing seemed to happen.
Yet now I understand.
Now I take a moment to sit.
Reflective thoughts and hypnotic dreams.
Lost voices surround.
Farewell friend.
I want to thank you.
Thank you for opening my eyes.
Opening my eyes to a new lens.
A new lens capturing moments of time.
Moments of time caressing tender memories.
Caressing tender memories that led to this day.
Led to this day when we said farewell.
Said farewell to you and thank you.
Thank you for being here.
Self-discovery lens.
We each have bad habits, and it isn’t my place to judge.
I ain’t ever smoked a cigarette, although I’ve breathed in far too many.
My not trying drugs is an issue I won’t ever budge.
Sometimes, my focus loses its antennae.
I am not an alcoholic although I do enjoy an odd drink.
I wouldn’t say I look to fight, even if I feel ready for a hit.
I like to avoid conflict, passing on kicking up a stink.
I can not tell a good joke or come across as full of wit.
I try to give more than I take. Whatever it may cost.
I prize friendship over profits.
I treasure memories but worry about opportunities lost.
I get frustrated at times. Throwing all kinds of fits.
“I’m not a racist but…” No. Not all all. I hate racism.
I’d like to protest but found my hands tied up.
I question capitalist ways, leaning my ears to socialism.
A bully bullies because they’re bullied and hold no club.
I am, however, a disappointment.
I am a disappointment.
I am.
Drawers.
At the bottom of the unit lies a spring-loaded drawer with all my deepest and darkest utterings and thoughts.
Above that, another drawer, less-sealed, more-opened to tuck away memories warm and cold.
On top of the metaphorically wooden system, a drawer for the here and now. It has future dreams, brewing, and stewing.
One drawer shut tightly contains a world of marvellous thoughts.
Above it is an open shelf of optimism. A sliding glass door keeps in contained. Often, it is open just a tiny sliver.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I can keep everything, but what I need closed.
Mostly, however, my drawers are left open with socks and underpants spilling all over the floor.
If I were Napoleon, I’d shut the drawers and nod off.
I’m not Napoleon.
Words – The 2nd Batch.
Too many. Too few. Clumped together. Read askew.
Too often. Silence broken. Paired wherever. Empty token.
Too strong. Ground shaking. Poor weather. Earth raking.
Too desperate. Atrocious intentions. Painfully clever. Ancient inventions.
Too delightful. Descending torrent. Delivered endeavour. Willfully warrant.
Northern Rail
Points failure. Delayed.
Late from the depot. Cancelled.
Staff member unavailable. Denied.
Leaves on the line. Complained.
Due to a landslide. Declined.
Snow, ice, fog, and high winds. Failed.
Extreme heat and railway line buckling. Inconvenienced.
Overhead line equipment failure. Uncovered.
Signal failure. Terminated.
Poor Victorian planning ahead for population expansions. Unconvinced.
Heavy volumes of rail traffic.Backlogged.
Overrunning engineering works. Poorly planned.
Speed restrictions in place. Underdeveloped.
Trespassers on the line. Stupid.
Telecoms failure. Apologised.
Animals on the line. Departed.
Lineside fires. Transpired.
Death on the line. Expired.
Another tannoy apology by a robot. Delay repayed.
The good old commute.
Immigration.
Wouldn’t mind more migration and less borders.
Wouldn’t mind a little less bombing interventions overseas.
Wouldn’t mind peaceful values and ideals before responses get dished out.
Wouldn’t mind capitalism paying more taxes and seeking less havens.
Wouldn’t mind a shoulder to cry on.
Wouldn’t mind a living wage and more opportunities.
Wouldn’t mind fewer inequalities and a smidgen of hope.
Wouldn’t mind a hand of help reaching out to those who need it.
Wouldn’t mind thoughts before actions.
Wouldn’t mind understanding before judgement.
Wouldn’t mind smiles over frowns.
Wouldn’t mind less wealthy controlling corporations.
Wouldn’t mind a boom in small traders.
Wouldn’t mind dreams and dreamers discussing ideals and progress.
Wouldn’t mind more and more and more and more trees.
Wouldn’t mind water so clean you can paddle and drink in the freshness.
Wouldn’t mind the words and wisdom of the deceased generation that loved us all.
Wouldn’t mind no babies in hospitals, displaced by bombs, disease, and warmongering criminality.
Wouldn’t mind translators and cultural exchange bringing people closer.
Wouldn’t mind change.
How about you?
Jitters
If I could disappear, without causing pain, I would.
Just drift off on a mountain trail, all alone.
Not a trace would remain.
That’s just insanity talking.
To be found.
I used to smile.
Instead, my face creases like contours from a map.
I used to laugh.
Now jokes pass over me like Arctic winds on the tundra.
I used to chuckle and gleam.
It’s all replaced by a seemingly eternal cold emptiness.
I used to preach hope.
But for all its worth, I let go of that dream.
Before today, I was strong.
I slink down beneath a door frame, unable to open the handle, and let myself in.
Before today, I sought new songs.
Yet now most seem overplayed and all the same: repeat after repeat after repeat.
Before today, I had ambitions.
They slipped away, leaving an endless string of survival day by day.
Before today, I loved the rain.
Now, I greet umbrellas and raincoats and wellies as sanctuary.
Where is the old me?
Lost, maybe.
To be found.
Pumice stone.
From the tone
Said alone
The sword abandoned the sofa’s throne
“Where’s me bleeding pumice stone?!”
An end.
Stones roll inwards;
Passing fiercely;
Slamming down violently;
Smashing all in its pathway;
Tossing and turning;
Without discrimination;
Rupturing creation.
Turning solid shapes to shards;
Presenting passage;
From life to the beyond;
Savage and cleansing constructs.
An end.
This land: home.
Vikings raided, settled, and persuaded;
Flags waved, distances faded.
Outliers passed over seas – islanders no more;
Old words and legends floated on seas of time.
Joy and separation folded together;
Historic sights of sites recalled;
Steps go up, and up, and up;
These dots of green on rock feed our souls.
This land: home.
Streets Apart I
Soap Street needs a wash.
High Street is looking low.
Bank Street took my dosh.
Fast Lane is moving slow.
Maine Road has closed down.
Swan Street is full of geese.
Paradise Close makes me frown.
Winter Hill, I wore no fleece.
The Road With No Name has a sign.
Sandylands is grassy still.
Bendy Lane runs in a line.
Calm House, what a thrill!
Scotland Hall Road, hall-less.
The Soapbox, stood down.
Ice Rink, only at Christmas.
Circus Walk, devoid of a clown.
Welcome to Manchester.
Now get out!
Test.
It’s like there is nothing left. I’m drained.
Between the breeze and the wind, upended.
Struggling against the tide as it drifts away.
Pushing on, step by step, yet sinking and never gaining ground.
The sapped life comes and goes. A moment’s joy evaporates.
I could have been better. It could have been better.
But, it’s not. It isn’t. It could be. I know it could be.
It could also have been far worse. It Feels this way.
Nothing worth doing is easy, right? So they say.
It hurts. It really bloody hurts. Like loss. Yet there’s no loss. Just hurdles.
The sky glows under a bright moon as lanterns drift upwards.
A glimmer. Just a flicker. That hope.
That energy I see in their faces. I can do this. I must. I will.
Just as faiths test their masses, I must believe. I have too much to lose.
For this, I am lucky.
Drip, drop, drip.
Drip, drop, drip, rain begins to fall,
A soggy blanket over us all.
Pitter-patter, drop, drop, plop, it’s quite absurd,
Each raindrop whispers a moistened quiet word.
Many flowers giggle, the trees all prance and dance,
Worms pop up, taking their chance.
A puddle forms, a tiny sparkling sea –
A stranded haven for boats made of leaves, yippee, yippee!
Splash, splosh, splish, what a watery flowing treat,
Raindrops tip-tap-dancing over the street.
Forget not your brolly, dear old chap,
Or just you might drown in your very own lap!
The rain it mocks, it rattles, it laughs, it jeers,
Sneaking down necks, alongside strands of hair, tickling ears.
But oh, dear rain, you do as you must,
For without you, we’ll be dry and towels trust.
So drop, drip, drop, and have some fun,
For when you’re gone and done, out comes the red hot sun.
But until then, I’ll wear a joyful grin –
And a very large bucket hat to keep you from getting in!
Pour the next coffee
Pour the next coffee
When the cup gapes open
And the mouth yearns for another filling.
Let us know how it feels
When the drops flow with warmth
And flow down the gullet
Each ounce a production of love
Stimulating rapid growth of irises
Sharpening senses and awakening the mind
How does it feel to feel the heat?
The steamed milk and familiar fragrances
The deep brown darkness of hope in a cup
The riot of swirls as milk blends to coffee
The sound of a sugar lump dropped deep into an ocean
The reflection of soul upon the surface’s light reflection
The handle proudly standing out
Grip me, it calls loudly to you
You reach out, and the joy begins.
A seed of hope.
A Muslim hand could hold a Jewish hand.
White van man, Audi driver, and all around us should be survivors.
Creation and creatives devour words and art, feeding us new days and ways.
A Palestinian should be born under safe skies.
No guns, no knives, no fear: just lives.
The Scottish, English, or Welsh must walk together.
Whatever you believe, be able to show it. Be able to grow it.
Let the music of Bob Marley show one love.
Switch of the division. Let videos and lies fly away like fireflies.
Their dreams and plagues will no longer taunt and haunt us.
Together is always better. A community of unity.
Failure to success; pain to redress; broken to fixed. Live forever.
Some day we’ll find a brighter way.
It starts now: I give you a seed of hope.
At the other end.
Poor.
Struggle.
Underdeveloped.
Difficulty.
Issues.
We need to do summat.
RIGHTLY SO.
Does that make sense?
Does that sound right?
Why did you stop?
Shall we try that again?
What else could we do?
What else could you do?
Does it look right?
Does it make any sense?
Do we really understand?
Really?!
I’m not so sure.
Maybe it isn’t right, right?
Something wasn’t quite right.
Vision.
Through their eyes:
I see something new.
A vision so different:
It makes mine askew.
Through The Leaves
Through the leaves, voices call out loud;
Beyond the tufted grasses wraps ivy thickly.
Through the greenery trees stand proud;
Along the jagged walls, bramble juts out prickly.
The murky Lancaster canal flows towards the sea;
A summer’s gentle breeze casts along its top.
Tits, swifts, and sparrow fly alongside bee;
Blackbirds hop along the mud and crop.
Feet slapping in the mud sinking slightly;
A fragrance of wild garlic hangs in the air.
Through the gaps and spaces, sun rays beam brightly;
Galloping dogs along the path they share.
Chattering and nattering creaks as trunks rub one another;
Regal flowers attract buzzing and zipping flight.
A ripple waves outwards from cygnets’ mother;
From Lancaster to Glasson Flight, a path wrapped in sights of delight.
Tomorrow’s Hope.
Lovingly made by Mother,
for Son and Father,
the dedicated signs of a future shared,
and each image is an inspiration for the days ahead.
April 26th.
Icy morning, no wind blowing.
Bright sunlight, calm delight.
Dew under leaves, sparrows foraging.
Sky pure blue, clouds ever so slight.
Radiant colours, tall grasses.
Young soft flowers, joy reflective.
Branches reach out, squirrel passes.
Spring to summer, natural selective.
Hand in hand
I want to walk hand in hand with you
towards the storms.
I want to ride the roads with you
higher and further.
I want to sing and dance only with you
with no worries.
I want to share and show and tell and know
anything and everything.
Just with you.
Dream/Nightmare
What are dreams?
Broken shards of unfulfilled hope?
A dealer with an empty bag of dope?
Remnants of longed for lifestyles?
The gap along unwanted aisles?
What exactly are dreams?
A blur of shattered imagination?
A squiggle of smudged reflection?
The wings of a squashed mosquito once fit for flight?
Between day and day is there no longer night?
Where are my dreams?
So, if a dream is supposed to be positive, why does a nightmare grow from good news?
Will joyous elation ready for skews?
Is good news a mask for darkness?
Are all answers but a wild guess?
What makes dreams?
Is the craved mountain peak eternally too far to reach?
Is the hourglass open like that of a beach?
Do dawn and dusk merge as one?
Which silent bell tolls for the gone?
So, what are dreams?
Mothering Sunday
Mother’s Day is every day.
Other parents are available.
The thing is: Mum is best.
Here’s a few more reasons:
Extremely reliable and supportive.
Really warm and loving.
Mum rocks our world.
Unfortunately Dad has smelly feet.
Mother, we love you.
Mam, Mom, Mummy, Ma, Mama…
Actually, you’re my hero.
Maybe even better than Erling Haaland.
Most Mums are brilliant.
Onomatopoeia are words you could teach us.
Mmmmmmmm.
Maybe in another generation
And one after that
Mum’s influence will shine on
As it did from my Mum’s Mum.
Happy Mothering Sunday!
STRONG(ER)
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Really?
Overused and overly spoken dross.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Parodied aphorism!
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Resilience and affirmation for overcoming adversity?
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
“Out of life’s school of war…“
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Twilight of the Idols, an unread book on the shelf I’ve yet to install.
“That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”
Friedrich Nietzsche, I don’t believe you.
Take suffering as an opportunity to build strength.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Kelly Clarkson sang about standing “a little taller.”
“Aus der Kriegsschule des Lebens.—Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich starker”
It never feels that way.
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