cervical radiculopathy
paresthesia
spondylosis
dermatome
worsening neurological deficits
occiput
pinched nerve
pins and needles
aging wear and tear
the nerve path
clumsy hands
headaches
poetry
Cold moon.
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.
Fall.
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.
Wilfred’s Nature.
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No protection: coverings withdrawn; hunted by the weather, we, the repressed, cower;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
Sensationalism
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?
Newton Heath
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
31st
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.
Notification.
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.
Crumpsall.
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.
Platform 14.
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.
Directions
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
Intrusive Thoughts
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.
Playground Blues.
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.
Hunt’s Pot (by Pen-y-Ghent)
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.
Glydwr Fach
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.
Glydwr Fawr
Fifth tallest heap of stones.
A rocky outcrop summit.
Scramble hard. Scramble long.
A new height:
views abound.
Drystone walls and paths of gold.
Vagrant.
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.
Lost in Nature
Lost in nature, we forgot the time; Chasing mountain hares along a line; Admiring butterflies hanging on fine; This was a day where we forgot the time.
Let out until darkness, we lost our way; Plenty of words we could speak and say; Through flags full of colour we did pray; This was a day we could play our way.
Under stars that shone down on us; Hands in hands feeling the buzz; Taking the moments, each one a plus; Not one feeling deemed superfluous.
These were the places, the times, and the escapes; Swallowed within sprawled landscapes; Every connection spans and takes shapes; These moments, these memories: wonderful escapes.
Lured
I’m lured to this corner, for what reason I do not know.
Tempted by all senses.
Drawn out of my shadows and head unburied.
The sand parts for my steps.
Distant engines roar into activity, tensing my every muscle.
Hope sits at the departure lounge.
A new day awaits, fresh with pineapple juices and greenery.
I return to you.
Battle.
Read my eyes. Read them carefully.
I heard you. I really got your gist.
I’m not talking. My words are silent.
I am trying to think. And block out your sounds.
I heard every little thing. I am not deaf.
Why are you so unkind? Don’t you see me?
Look at my face. Read the expression.
A plethora of scribbled emotions. Keep out of my path.
Think I’m deaf, do you? Look at me.
Look closer. See my body raging.
See that deep upset. I won’t speak.
I don’t want to erupt. I am close.
I have plenty to say. I hold back.
You push me and push me. And some more.
Keep on pushing and pushing. Pushing the hate.
Nothing positive to say? Thought not.
Can’t you shut up? Think of better words.
Don’t I have feelings? You hurt me.
You really have made me sad. Unbelieveably angry.
I count. Don’t I?
Outside in.
How do you find yourself when part of you seems lost or missing?
What if being different is the thing you ignore: your greatest strength?
How far into the abyss would you go to protect someone you love?
What if the world doesn’t make sense, would you still abide by the conventional rules?
What if the bravest thing you can be is yourself and no-one else?
Can your gentlest whisper say more than your loudest shout?
Where do you turn when you feel that you don’t fit in anywhere?
Who said being a mature grown-up had to be anything like perfect?
When everything feels torn and twisted, can you still believe in hope?
Is there only one way of life (that’s your own)?
Read the trees.
Read the trees.
The remnants of a once flowing life.
Given air, giving words.
Read the trees.
Calling
Farewell to the stars
My eyes blur with sleep
I don’t invite them on in
Nor do I allow their shouts
I couldn’t hear it
A misdeed so true
I couldn’t feel it
A transgression of angst
A silhouette I am
In a pale concrete box
A Pompeii blast-mark
Solitary without you
Unable to see you
Prevented from calling out
Unable to hear you
I could no longer call
No call possible
Answers no longer reachable
1915
Guns have won
Childlike show
God listens no more
Debased figures rot
Angry
Shorter indented lines
sense of grim order
Monstrous ANGER claiming victory
Ripped from life. Unfriendly
Bittersweet
Disappointed nature of war. Unobservant
Ultimate victory of foes by cold steel
The devoutly religious with no time to pray
Ineffectual begging given no moment
Depressed
Order gives way to chaos loose unreachable
No survivors walk the squalid trenches
GOD cannot listen
Your voice unheard
Helpless
The unfolding scenes of death. Stripped away.
Erratic sounds in battle
Frequently breaking patterns.
Disruption coupled to disorder
Tortured
The pain goes on.
Light blues.
Woke up one morning and the sun refused to shine.
Woke up, head slumped, joined another line.
Got up and went on, but the day didn’t play.
Tried to talk about it but the words I couldn’t say.
Need a little sunshine for the day.
Need a few more rays to shine my way.
Need a little lightness to say, “Hey!”
So, send some sunshine and break the grey.
The will to go on heaves less and less.
There are more problems that I must address.
My passion to battle often does regress.
Yet, all I want is your love to bless.
Need a little sunshine for the day.
Need a little lightness to say, “Hey!”
Need a few more rays to shine my way.
So, send some sunshine and break the grey.
The drum beats firmer in my ears.
The drumming brings forward all my fears.
Surrounding myself in proverbial beers.
Listening less and less for positive cheers.
Need a little lightness to say, “Hey!”
Need a little sunshine for the day.
Need a few more rays to shine my way.
So, send some sunshine and break the grey.
Send the sunshine.
Send it my way.
Send it.
Send it today.
Frustrated
Pause.
I’m married. Yet alone.
So lonely. Not together.
No hugs. No kisses. Just a phone.
Miss you. Miss one another.
Pause.
Apart. Far away.
Cursed. Dreams on hold.
In limbo every day.
Torture. No hand to hold.
Pause.
Painful. Desperate at times.
Denied a shared life.
Treated like a thousand crimes.
Soul screaming. Cruel bastard strife.
PAUSE.
I’m married. Yet alone.
Pause.
I’m married.
Pause.
Yet alone.
Pause.
Alone.
Life goes on.
Life goes on.
Where are you right now?
Accompany me every day
I accepted the parting, but underestimated the missing! It is destined to be an endless dampness!
古
Williams Duo & Goodwin Too
Oh, hey now is this a sign?
Have I been here before?
Oh, why should I care?
You can hear the silence drone
I still thirst
I looked for some guidance
Some beauty in my heart
Trying to accept the person I am
God knows it ain’t easy
Who knows the reason why?
Seize the time
Here comes my day in the summer sun
On summer days like these
But it slips through
What did you want?
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 