Wandering eyes
Creeping over the page
Avoiding me
Glancing sideways
Catching nothing
Yet seeing all
Ambling eyes
Hiding in plain sight
Delaying time
Advancing slowly
Catching all
yet seeing nothing
Straying eyes
Alert, wise, and sharp
Procrastination twinkles
Sparkling shiny
Emptily vacant
Frozen moments
Departing eyes
Frosty, glazed, and lifeless
Withdrawal confirmed
Fleeing entity
Frozen moments
*Emptily vacant
End the battle. End all wars. Lay down all your tools of doom;
Tuck your weapons in your belts. Better still, melt them down.
Factories and dealers move away from producing death;
Instead create bridges and boats and border-fence cutting breath.
Let adversaries cuddle and hug down the local pubs;
Wage laughter and reunite the exiled in communal hubs.
Change your hearts and minds to gentle call;
End refuge, opening up nomadic homes for all.
Feed the rehomed homeless, give orphans homes;
Stop Idris Elba making films about childhood soldiers (on phones).
Respect the woman and the women and the girls;
Marginalise nobody, empower the disadvantaged
Equal rights for all not just the healthy and wealthy;
Deliver truth like mail,
Reconciliate
Bring mercy and compassionate use of power to every picnic
Respect all whether they choose faith or none at all
And stop using the word woke as a joke to soak
Up all your petty vibes and tirades you sad old gammon bloke.
Strive to be better and leave this world a better place;
That would be ace!
Disaffected, dissatisfied, and disgruntled, I plodded along;
Discontented, frustrated, and restless was my last year;
Each passing hour filled my malcontent mind.
Alienated, estranged, and fed up, my heart grew disloyal;
Rebelliousness, sedition, and dissidence clouded my vision;
An insurgent dread dampened my nature.
I could be up in arms, a renegade, hostile to all;
Insubordinate, mutinous, unfriendly thoughts cast over;
I feared the darkness and its insurrectionary guidance.
Listen, I know you could hear
I saw you looking
From the beyond
Memories of you are treasured
No matter the bitter end
We all make mistakes
But those wrongs pass
As did you
Farewell
115 charges! Cheats! Empty seats. Typed, chanted, and slung at us like shit.
Where’s your European Cup? One charge and you fucked it up. That feeling when the ball hits the net.
Is this a library? Empty seats on tour. Name your greatest hit.
It’s going to VAR. How much did you pay the referee? The head beaded in sweat.
Where were you when you were shit? Your fans are from London. Remember the first time as you emerged in the Kippax.
Who are you? Small town in Stockport. The away day journey debate.
Programmes, get your programmes. The ruined weekends piled in stacks.
That painful loss. Old Trafford rocking. Swallow me up by eight.
They let us down. Why the fuck are you still here? Football blighted.
Replays of 93:20 Magical cheats! Fresh air or an armchair.
Tension, glorious tension. Squeaky bum time. Love City, hate U****d.
Squashed in at trophy parades. Feels unfair. Just a sack of air.
The Old Black and Green, Steve Moore selling programmes, the Dias stand bouncing.
Editor’s deadline, adverts flowing, whistles blowing, and Abba playing loud.
Winter’s away days over land and sea – and Stretford or Llansantffraid for a trouncing.
The full time shriek and the roar of the faithful crowd.
The hugs with Paul Lake, the ground that did shake, the moments.
Sergio, Silva, and Kompany alongside Lee, Bell, and Summerbee.
Moments we did. Moments we didn’t. The newly built monuments.
Trautmann out-stretched, Bell on a stand, Book End it should be.
Years from now moments in the stands with mates, old and new.
Holding fanzines, that’s where we’ll be: stretching out cheering you.
Don’t go against your own. Play on. Play strong. Play in Blue and White.
But most of all, Boys In Blue Never give in: do it right.
Dominating presence, distant popularity;
The Everest of Gogledd Cymru.
A classic climb with countless stories;
One more will follow.
Spring blossoms paint a thousand colours in vain;
Threads of emotion entwine aimlessly, reaching far and wide;
Past events bind and entangle my soul ever deeper.
Summer moon cannot soothe even a sliver of my heart;
Impartial Heaven and Earth are are not my obstacle;
To know and act in harmony is enlightenment.
Autumn waves drift across a thousand mountains of lost leaves;
Antlers lay fractured on soil ripening with fungal growth;
Colours shine yellows, reds, and browns signalling life in a new light.
Winter snow builds to gently bend a single blade of stubborn grass;
Life on hold as survival becomes a testing testimony;
Throughout this long year, I have stood strong: I go on.
Onslaught
Grotesque
Long-forgotten
Excrement rotting duckboard
Lice-infested vermin blurred within our souls
Stagnant distorted mirrors fractured without reflection
Obscene suspended fates
Pointless sorties advance and retreat our limbo
Slaughtered soil shelters no seed
Incompetent with fear for the front
Incomprehensibly unable to step backwards
Confusion reigns
Glory to the flag
For King and country
A noble death awaits those called to the shallows
Amongst it all, the known and unknown shoulder to shoulder
Rhythmically pulsing
The fine line between a tent and a council flat.
The missed payments, stacking bills, and demanding phone calls.
The desperation of a meal ticket that hangs just out of reach.
The humiliation of going to a food bank and asking for help.
The indignation of waiting in a hospital corridor.
The hope and fear of never quite reaching your goals.
Went to a foreign land to teach a language;
Came away a pupil enlightened;
Yet deep down, insecure, lost, and frightened.
Returned once again, a teacher of sorts;
Exchanged words through gained culture;
Yet inside parts lay torn up like leftovers from a vulture.
Empty dreams, wayward walks, ambitious ideas;
No urgency to take first flight;
Stood there looking up at everything bright.
Hope came along, a bundle of delightful fears;
Taught by all, time to tackle doubt’s countless chapters;
For the next part, praying for aspirational longing raptures.
I got myself variety of problems, for my soul, and my body, and my mind can’t take it anymore.
But here I stand, future in hand, cherished memories at hand, and the future is closer than yhe door.
The winds blow long, the heart beats strong, the path I follow is one I fall for.
For all I see, taste, and feel, and all I hear, touch, and smell, is hope and hope reached for in restore.
The days of dark, are out of the park, no longer distracting me with feelings I abhor.
cervical radiculopathy
paresthesia
spondylosis
dermatome
worsening neurological deficits
occiput
pinched nerve
pins and needles
aging wear and tear
the nerve path
clumsy hands
headaches
Bells clank and clatter
far off on the hills up high.
Above the wild white wonder
as large as the sky.
I departed for a walk
on a winter’s day;
Scattered tufts of frozen blades
guided the way.
I tasted the excitement
on the wind’s frozen air.
No animal moved freely
under my glare.
Children slid, jumped, and threw
their newfound toy.
Ran my hands through the powder
embracing each flake of joy.
The trees groaned under
weights as heavy as a house.
Soon the sun would say goodbye
like dying flames shining on a winter’s grouse.
Their arms wrapped up
against nature’s blanket of chalky dry milk.
Glistening fields of brightness
reflecting the overwhelming beamed sun on silk.
Keeping gifts in mind beyond
the long-passed autumn nights.
The excitement of finite December
filled with hope and delights.
The leaves fall.
They embrace the ground.
Their fall is one of love.
They nourish the soil.
The roots return.
Branches stretch out.
The sun warms.
New leaves grow.
Ready to fall again.
A company dressed head to toe in pain: fatigued by angry winds.
A far-off rumbling battle ignores the deadlier than bullets elements here.
The ferocious roaring winds build repeatedly dispatching misery, suffering, and pointlessness.
No protection: coverings withdrawn; hunted by the weather, we, the repressed, cower;
Our suppressed trenches the shape of graves.
We each imagine our death: isolated hope. Gone.
You’ve abandoned us. Betrayed us. YOU!
Our faith in You: departed.
Our soon to be omitted faces freeze. You witness us empty. Our minds swallowed.
Into the void march the many.
Faith forgotten and faded.
We the forgotten turn to soil.
Our voices scream no more. Tears boiled once dry within buried pockets.
You have cast us off. Obliterated. We the erased
Phenomenally mad and angry,
they got themselves into a balmy.
The shouts and the screams,
Drowned out the dead dreams,
All because of another land’s army?
This way to the motion
This way I finally go
God hand me a chance to reply
God deal me a possibility
Grab your thoughts and let’s go
Round our way
Drabness wraps silent days
Buried beneath, I could be
Time to escape this forgotten place
This way to set motions
Pioneering experiences are rife
We should seek our recompense
We should escape to seek luminescence
We slide a pathway downwards
We slip on stones downwards
The supermarket lay dormant
Even the pound shops sag lazily
This way full of emotion
This way we cannot go
God hand a hope in hell
God deal out and show
Drabness wraps silent nights
Dull broken tower blocks sagging
Buried beneath I could be
Dull broken tower blocks flagging
The market is gone
The library fades from thoughts
The canal is filled with unwanted waste
The bars have barred-up broken windows
Long left the football team
The cemetery has been buried further
The old spire stands unsighted
Its stained-glass soul shattered
The locos are rusting beyond repair
The Vale’s trees collapse in gales
Brookdale, a car park of gas-heads
This way for our motion
This way we finally go
God hand us a chance to fly
God deal us a possibility
A whisper from the wind; a rustling beyond the grasses; the shiver down the spine; a flutter unlike an owl.
The head switching to alert; the echo of muscles tensing; a twined strand of cool mist; all senses firing at once.
Musty tastes of autumnal rot: the creaking strained lean of trees; light depleted skies; under a clouded moon.
Gentle steps struggle to find silence; leaves, twigs, and earth cast sounds; like drumming snaps to my ears; uncovering creeping creatures.
I should have stayed in; I should have cast no shadow today; and now the evening arrived; my shadow has departed.
When I was much younger I wore a purple shirt
With a sky blue hat which didn’t go, and didn’t suit me at all.
I spent my pennies on Aero cappuccino bars and magazines where you had to collect each issue to make a model. I never completed them.
There were times where I had no money left to buy bread, milk, or cheese.
I used to sit down for a day each month when I was tired but never rest for long each day.
I’d ring door bells and leg it, and eat Chewits until the dentist would shout at me.
And I kicked balls against walls
And drink full bottles of Tia Maria in one go
And I’d accept every dare knowing risks would follow.
I’d swim butt naked in lakes and never wear a jacket in the rain.
And always wear shorts.
I wore shoes of ill-purpose and eat without worry
And demolish cakes and chocolate bars like breathing air.
My morning would be filled with coffees and Vimto in excess
And beers, beers, ales, and beers would pass my lips daily.
I’d hoard Manchester City badges, shirts, and programmes.
And now I find myself paying rent, bills, wearing sensible clothes, not cursing, and trying to be healthy
I try to lead by example. Set a good name. Play the good game.
Less football, more rest. Less TV, more reading. Less news. Less worries.
Maybe I don’t really wanna know how the garden grows
I’ve lived and practiced and made mistakes
So now I’ll live, love, and make new mistakes
You’ll be shocked and surprised
Am I slowing down? No. Just starting.
When I carry on, until I’m old, I’ll try to wear shorts.
Inspired by my Mam’s love of the 1961 poem Warning by Jenny Joseph.
I was born here.
Today to help someone.
Yet, I feel like a product recall.
Seen some come and go.
One day, we all know.
Unmoving floor, a walkway without tread.
Far away and far off. Platform 14.
Almost to the horizon, beyond a travelator.
Up stairs and along a fair way. Platform 14.
The timezones crossed often lead your way.
Rammed carriages versus spacious misplaced trains. Platform 14.
Visit the world, a gateway to Blackpool.
Delays, delays, delays… and freight passing. Platform 14.
Is the moon closer or the sun further?
Pass through the bowels of Piccadilly. Platform 14.
Exposed to the elements: a wind tunnel or a sauna.
A detached island left hanging outside. Platform 14.
“STAND BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE!”
Platform 14: visit Manchester some time.
I’ve been stuck in standing traffic
After going twice around the roundabout
Unable to find my turn off
I turn into the wrong lane
Heading against the flow
Headlong into you
Saturday was a tough day. Tough to get out of bed. Tough to put one leg in front of the other.
Heading to the ground, I suddenly felt the need to cry, and slip away somewhere alone. I’ve always found it easy to step back and find solace or pull myself up. Today felt different. It was as if some gremlin was hanging on my toes inviting me to slide under ground into a pool of blackness. I dropped my friend Nat a message and went for a refreshing wander. I thought about calling my best mate Dan and realised how much that I didn’t want to speak. I sat and stared at the bleak Ashton canal. Its uninviting tones warned away those beyond water. I peered at leaves and their array of colours. Autumn’s cooler breezes had arrived.
Motivation is limited. I feel energy levels have sapped. I don’t want to do anything. It seems like every day is a push against a wall that won’t budge. I have so much to live for. I have so much to be responsuible for. I am incredibly lucky. Yet, the coolness of autumn and the shedding leaves feel unwelcome right now. I know days and nights will improve. I believe things will get easier but today, like Saturday, it is okay not be okay. A cliche maybe. But, that is how I feel.
Negativity at football seemed magnified. Impatient fans failed to cloke their dislike for Nunes and Nico. Neither did much wrong. Both put in a shift. I felt like turning on fellow fans. Instead I applauded those players louder and more passionately. Armchair and stand managers should still back their team, no matter who wears the shirt. It didn’t improve my mood. Then I pondered calling Dan again but realised I had no desire to talk. Sorry Dan, miss you matey.
I want to thank my friends at City, the ones I bumped into and nattered to, and remained with after the game for a while. Chatting to my mates, I happened upon a chance to talk to and get a programmed signed by the modest and splendid poet and author Lemn Sissay (OBE FRSL). His book Tender Fingers in a Clenched Fist has always stood out in my mind. Rain is another example that I can’t forget. And Daz, for the lift to Gateshead to see City draw with Newcastle Utd in the Subway Butty League Cup – and win a bonus point 7-6 on penalties. Daz, Haguey, Alison, Hagred and co have kept me sane for the last few years of football. A great bunch that have distracted me. I love my friends and those I encounter at work, at football, and in my life. They make me stronger and I hope they feel my heart.
And back to Saturday morning, collecting Astrid at the newly opened North View mental health hospital at Crumpsall. It was opened by Ricky Hatton. I couldn’t help think about his departure from life. I was born in Crumpsall, and I caught my vision and thoughts about my own mortality. I fear death. I have too much left to do. I also know how close the fine line between here and the next life appears. That void or whatever you believe isn’t far away. And at Crumpsall as I waited for my sister. I found my overactive mind imagining the ripple effect of my death. It hurt. It shook me. I questioned my own mind. It scared me. I’m not ready. I have much to do.
I played football again tonight. I didn’t want to play. I felt numb. I went to clear my head and pull my socks up. So, what now? Think I’ll call Dan tomorrow.
Winner stays on; bell has gone; looks like Champion is our John.
Clock is ticking; defender is nicking; choice of the picking.
Up steps Daz;
gives it to Gaz;
who crosses to Saz.
The goal is gaping; the truants vaping; all of a sudden net is shaking.
The cries are heard from afar; teacher shouts, “nul point”;
Damn – VAR.
Beneath the grasses: legs held dangling,
Soft earthly ledges of rich limestone with pure airflow.
The smooth voyage by rail no trouble at all
With striding pathways of steel, through vales of appeal,
across lands cast in green carpets. Beneath cloudless skies
Which beam light into deep crags, the cracked fragmented
Grounds of eternity. Dramatic streams fade from surface
To run a course beyond that of passing eyes, under
Forgotten routes beyond roots. From within the crack
Above life embraces opportunity and greenery reaches upwards
Tumbling automatically without consideration.
Its eagerness to devour air and grow stronger.
Survival of beasts under leafy drapes and salient
Canopies of loath shade across clumsy stacks of statuary shattered stone.
This emerald-laced cauldron sways with breezes lightly.
Winds have bombarded, ice has frozen the past, and much matter
has been dispelled. But today, in the soft sun, this Hunt’s Pot
is Heaven on Earth. Savage not now.
Suitable clothing essential; weather forecast doubtful.
Rise upward substantial; pathway gladly delightful.
Leisurely windproof defences; innocense heartfelt sails.
Purity overlooks consequences; understanding enormous fails.
Symbolic titular crests; hearing howling gales.
Passion references requests; waterproof wandering fairytales.
Fifth tallest heap of stones.
A rocky outcrop summit.
Scramble hard. Scramble long.
A new height:
views abound.
Drystone walls and paths of gold.
I see myself in the faces of the homelessness.
I see the long stares and uncertainty in their eyes.
They are we and we are them.
Treading a fine line between have and have not.
I see the hunger, desperation, and worry.
I see the lost love, the failed support, and a state that has abandoned.
They are we and we are them.
The line so fine it hangs on a cliff edge.
I see the need for help and belonging.
I see the pathway to drowned dreams in pools of booze.
They are what we are and we are what they are.
The fine thread line dangling from a torn jacket.
I see the hope in your eyes when human kindness embraces.
I see the joy when words are heard.
You’re like me and I’m like you.
The line between have and have not closer than you know.
I hear your songs, your rants at pigeons, and your belly rumble.
I hear your tears near-silently fall to the floor.
You are me and I am you.
The damn line we crawl in life.
I feel it all.
But not as they do. Not yet.
Maybe soon.
And you’ll be like me, just like you.
And I’ll be you.
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 