“There’s a moose loose about this house!”*
In Caersws carrying a noose to juice a goose? I deduce this abuse is produce of a recluse turned loose acting footloose on an excuse.
*Dan the Man can and did this.
Words
Seasoned.
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.
Inequality
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.
Pupil enlightened
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.
Soul
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.
Simple complications.
cervical radiculopathy
paresthesia
spondylosis
dermatome
worsening neurological deficits
occiput
pinched nerve
pins and needles
aging wear and tear
the nerve path
clumsy hands
headaches
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.
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
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.
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.
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?
The Fog Of Guilt.
Are there many novels that celebrate and champion persistence? Do all cops in novels ignore authority and tackle the weight of bureaucracy through ignorance? Early reviews pointed me to a challenge.
Inspector Imanishi Investigates by Seichō Matsumoto is a post-World War II novel originally penned in 1989. The lead protagonist, unsurprisingly, is Inspector Imanishi. He is a world apart from the rebellious bulldozing Harry Bosch found in Michael Connelly’s novel series. Instead, Imanishi is methodical, modest, and clinically human in his approach. He persists without need of a lightbulb moment or an act of genius. At every turn Inspector Imanishi displays empathy. He listens. He feels the victims’ lives. He endures whilst remaining ethical and responsible. The fog of guilt lurks. Grief and shame wallow. The good Inspector appears to put himself in others’ shoes.
What happens when guilt becomes unbearable? Drawing on a contrast of a post-war reshaping metropolitan Tokyo and that of rural provincial Japan, this book uses geography, culture, and traditional etiquette to deliver the truth. Themes of memory and recollection, urban alienation, interconnectedness, societal and historical tensions. The slow movement of justice’s machine underlines the need for structure and hierarchy but appears to comment on a lack of urgency. What secrets live between city lights and village shadows? Can you bury a crime in a country still healing?
How well can you really hide from who you were? The plot features new names, misdirection, reinvented pasts to escape guilt, shame, and consequences shows disguise as social-cultural adaptation. In an ambiguous world, the detective is a constant: deeply moral. Rarely does a slow-burn of a book stand out, yet from the opening chapter to the conclusion, I was hooked. The jigsaw was essentially a lesson in the importance of detail. Like a cold-poured Guinness, “Good things come to those who…. wait.” The novel’s ending seemed more reflective than triumphant yet left me wanting more. Was reluctant justice enough? Does empathy make the best detective?
Matsumoto’s Inspector Imanishi Investigates is a novel celebrating persistence and realism. It is the antidote to flashy books filled with spectacle and glamour. The notes of fading traditional values give hints at a nation’s people suffering an identity crisis – or at least instability causing a social flux. I found myself pondering, how much of our world’s remembered reality was misremembered? Can patience solve what brilliance cannot? Is closure enough when lives have already been lost?
Read the trees.
Read the trees.
The remnants of a once flowing life.
Given air, giving words.
Read the trees.
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.
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.
Harmony
Cruel hand deals twisted fate
Not seeking solace nor peace
Dealing a weighted deck of chaos
Shoving detritus unto the face
Only time heals the irate
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.
Quintessentially Doves
Doves’ artistry is on display amongst the two tracks Renegade and Cold Dreaming. Until the romance of a Valentine’s Day album release, it appears just two doses of the Constellations For The Lonely are all that will be available. Each piece reminds us that whilst a road may seem bleak and unwelcoming, there is still beauty to be found in struggle and feelings.
The brooding intensity of Renegade’s conclusion pipes emotion. Jimi Goodwin’s distinctive tones overlay a bold and rhythmic track. It was used at a recent snooker competition, and on listening, it could be a tune heard at the Etihad Stadium or equally a doctor’s surgery. The driving energy of Renegade is rebellious, with the track title itself emotive to its Medieval Latin routes. As you’re drawn into the track, expect a touch of hypnotic intensity to circulate around you.
This gritty atmospheric anthem steadies introspective lyrics on a relentless sonic wave of self-determining propulsion. There’s the defiance of abandoning old ways in favour of urgency. Sharp percussion. Ethereal guitar work. This is a sound that is quintessentially Doves. A turbulence of inner conflict offers a chance to break free from self-imposed restraints or that of societal and fanbase expectations. Through warming lyrics, there is an echo of disconnection and yearned clarification. Trapped by doubts. Restlessness. Haven’t we all been there?
“Far from the hopes and dreams of crashing out too low” – Renegade – Doves
Cold Dreaming seems to tackle the quieter struggles. It strikes at detachment and longing for emotional connection. There’s a cinematic airy melody, expert drum work, and finiteness to the track. This deeply immersive track screams ambience, shimmering textures and draws on lush electronic-influences. There’s Northern Soul galore and a feeling of floating up and out into an otherworldly place. The soulful haunting tune could befit bands such as Mansun or numerous Northern English outfits.
At points, the tracks from Doves’ sixth studio album offer melancholic stillness, a space in the shadows of overthinking, and possible forgiveness from emotional numbness. There is a huge nod to Black Rivers, the project of Andy Williams and his brother Jez. Their post-Doves, pre-Doves band belongs as part of Doves. Much like the recovering and loved Jimi Goodwin remains present, even in the exile of recovery.
“Give me the strength I need to forgive” – Cold Dreaming – Doves
Doves have an uncanny track record of knitting and waving emotional landscapes in their sounds. Themes of solitude, inner struggle, and self-reflection are relevant in everyday life. The contrast of shades that we encounter in human experience is high volume. Here lies two tracks. Each allows solace and understanding to visit the listener, offering a place to navigate our own mental journeys. Do we truly know where all fights lead? We are surely vulnerable to not knowing. Is this struggle a sign of the growth of Doves? Or us? These tracks have felt like mirrors of late. Life is challenging, and like life, each track conveys emotional ambiguity. Bittersweet sense: should it dissolve in my grasp or be released as is the mature of fleeting time?
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 