Coming To An End

Finally, my challenges are coming to an end.
No more pain of writers block to drive me round the bend,
a pen clasped in a shaking hand,
a pointlessness to understand,
a fear that simple competence was coming to an end.

Poignantly, the courtship now is coming to an end.
I've bathed deep in a warming pool surrounded by my friends;
comfort and discovery,
discomfort and recovery.
I don't know where I'm going now it's coming to an end.

We deserve a treat

Freshness of spring strawberries,
Ripened on the sill
In the kitchen.
Dollops of gelato, churned
Adoringly.
Yeah... this is the life!

Believe in yourself and try

There's uncertainty in everything that doesn't have an end.
How do you shape the future on a track that doesn't bend?
Understanding who you are is vital to the quest,
Realising anything you do can be the best.
Sometimes, in a melancholy moment, you may sigh,
Despondent as you let an opportunity go by.
Awareness isn't knowledge, fate mightn't gift what you deserve:
You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it surf.

Days are lost whilst finding time

What became of little me?
Each forgotten dream is like an uncaught breath.
Days are lost whilst finding time.
Nowadays, I have
Everything I need but need itself;
Something comfortable preferred to anything
Dangerous. Yet, the pursuit of
Aspiration is like oxygen, and I shall be many
Years dead to lament on breathlessness.

The pen is indeed mightier than the sword

There is a free simplicity to verse,
Unlocked like electricity of thought,
Empathy like sorrows in reverse,
Subtlety where battle-cries have fought,
Dynamism in a dormant state,
Anger in the love that comes from hate,
Young embers where the forgery is wrought.

Mid Life Crisis

My generation is fading
Older than history itself
Nothing to add to the drama
Dependent on others' help
Ailed by the human condition
Yet never in ruder health

Weekend

Saturday was lamentable.
Achievement lost in a frenzy of cold noise,
Tears to the fabric of a toga virilis,
Underwhelment.
Rainclouds of steel grey absorb and release,
Drenching aspirations and control.
Afar, hints of something brighter
Yearn for opportunities.

Sunday lit the hidden fire.
Under wet leaves, slept the tinder of creativity,
Novelty for which the appetite always burns.
Delicate metaphor melts upon an animated tongue,
Air itself tastes better.
Yesterday is gone with the passing clouds.

[After Just Before You Leave, Currie/Harvie 2002]

Lines on the anniversary of the death of Shakespeare

23 April 1616

Across these yester years, your words endure,
Blessed and cursed by inference,
Both mashed and savoured in the many mouths of strangers.

Twas upon your will that
Light took on a scent,
Perfumes sang,
Love's lament coloured the air.

Giveth unto yester years to come
a confidence to innovate,
sleepeth on the soft pillow of eternity.

You Can Imagine Anything

Tucked into a duvet
On the warmest summer night,
Reading books on criminals
In the dimmest bedside light,
Biting on her fingernails
Deep in concentration,
My wife is not aware of me...
But is my inspiration.

A bursary rhyme

Rent collector,
Tax inspector,
Don't believe a thing.

In the garden,
Beg your pardon,
Tie a piece of string.

So, farewell then, Victoria Wood

Let's do it,
let's do it,
do it even though it's naff.
Her jokes
of bald old blokes
and grannies always made us laugh.
So witty
yet gritty.
Dedicate a statue in the comedy city.
Let's do it,
let's do it tonight.

I can't do it,
can't do it,
can't compose a solemn ode.
Find the humour
in loss and tumour,
never let the grief take hold.
Let's be silly,
sing about a willy.
Dedicate a statue in Piccadilly.
Let's do it,
let's do it tonight.

In memoriam Victoria Wood CBE (19 May 1953 – 20 April 2016)

Something to take your mind off it

Patient in the dentist's chair,
My mind goes wandering everywhere
And opens story-doors to find
Intriguing recipes behind.

Helpless in the dentist's room,
Forgotten characters resume
Their journey through my dizzy head,
Like memories of the widely-read.

Deafened by the dentist's drill,
I murmur of my own freewill
And metaphors anaesthetise
As I lie back and close my eyes.

Eight Magpies

Magpie One, Magpie One,
In your congregation,
Don't be sad
For things you had,
Just plan their restoration.

Magpie Two, safe and warm,
Surrounded by your watchful charm,
Happy laughter
Ever after
Shall be your unfailing balm.

Magpie Three, sharp as a hawk,
Stalwart of the roving flock,
Be the queen
Of every scene,
From market square to inglenook.

Magpie Four, dive to help,
Lead the swooping swaggered gulp,
Cherish the tails
Of honest males,
Mash the guttersnipes to pulp.

Magpie Five, from roost on girder
Survey the vista with your murder,
Rationalise
The silver prize:
Could you take it even further?

Magpie Six, seek what's hiding
In the legends of the tiding,
Tales foretold
Of hoarded gold,
Aspire to a fair dividing.

Magpie Seven, far from twittering
Keep the secret of the tittering.
Steady your beak
When others speak,
Their candid caws let loose and littering.

Magpie Eight, eloquent scribe,
Herald of this city tribe,
Regale us with
The corvid myth,
Which human words cannot describe.

Dancin Solo

Dis am me,
me am dancin clever,
lang da lang road leadin owt.
Save ya eyes
ya'll find mi never,
many a man lost here abowt.

Mi din take it,
wasun me,
sumtin tells mi dis reads bad
but mi aint
sumwan's enemee
an mi din take dat wot sumwan had.

Ya see da crowd,
dem angry faces
breathin fire an wantin blood;
mi see da cool
forgottin places
in da warm hearts of da good,

Mi believe
in a free tomorro,
bein' wot mi will become.
Dis am me,
me am dancin solo,
lang da lang road leadin home.

Inexplicable

Ungrounded,
caught in the spring recoming.
Above, the thin veils of cloud tear in the broken sun,
wisps of playful cirrus are thermal-dancing.
Laughter of children
is like the sweet chorus of evening birds
who circle us, protective:
their harmony interrupted only
by the caw of a lone crow far away in some less-splendid place.
From the past, these words return;
as a memory of lost friends draws a poignant smile
and shiver in the shade.
We have no box of poetry
but here I hold its contents in my disbelieving hands
and their perfumes intoxicate.

Late train from Central

Catching my short breath,
I climb aboard the late train, contented.
Windows sheathed in track-grime
give the platform lamps a dappled curiosity, rain-streaks autograph
the panes like graffiti.
Posters for theatres
and vacuous novels about honeymoons
provide an unwanted time-setting.

Echoes of urgent calls to dawdling friends
fill the carriage from both ends.
Three whistles.
Doors squeak rubbery shut, a draught squeezes through nonetheless.
The train departs in reverse,
annoying those who chose to face the wrong way.
Unlike previous journeys, the crowd is subdued;
no maniacal laughter or half-remembered shanty.

Over the black Tyne and south.
Fifteen minutes home;
the Durham vista welcoming its returning son.

Heart

Turn away a moment,
allow yourself time,
time to blink air and memories.

Swallow the sour tears
chiselling your raw throat,
breathe deep the burning sigh.

Energy eludes you,
rope-like arms drape,
anchored by clenched reddened fists.

This instant shall pass.
Thunder shall refresh you.
Believe.

High upon a Low

Monday found me high upon a low,
Stuck where all the crazy people go,
Trapped by things I didn't want to know.

Tuesday took me up beyond a high.
Sunshine filled the everlasting sky
And clouds formed into hearts as they rolled by.

Wednesday left me lost within a here,
Voiceless in a dialogue of fear,
Anecdotes bereft and insincere.

Thursday brought me out into a sane,
Blew away the bubbles in my brain,
Taught me I could have it all again.

Friday dressed me down under a blind,
Left my self-expressiveness behind
To wash dark colours from an open mind.

Saturday woke me with a cheery face,
Breakfasted on honesty and grace,
Gave me back the will I had misplaced.

Sunday calmed me with a sweet although,
Left me to enjoy the status quo
Till Monday found me high upon a low.

Recognition

Let me be a something,
Something that I'm not.
Let me have a little taste
Of what I haven't got.

Make me feel significant,
Or relevant at least.
Watch me try my hardest
And show me that you're pleased.

Put aside the failed attempts
And usher in the new.
Offer recognition
For the things that I can do.

Give me space and time to find
My personality.
Let me be a something,
Let that thing be me.

Eleven

My son, one day you will be a man,
Yet you'll always be my boy.
I shall love and support you however I can,
For you are my pride and joy.

Never let anyone put you down
Nor ever a day go by
That leaves you feeling alone;
Just turn to your mother and I.

I trust you to carry the name we share,
Courage and strength it will bring.
Brave men and wise men have done so before
And you are the future King.

My son, you're the fruit of the family tree,
The crown on the family crest.
Whatever you may wish to be,
For us and yourself, be your best.

On the terrace of the Hôtel Belvedere

Sipping arabica,
sweetened with local cane,
she turns toward the searing sun.

Thoughts,
drifting momentarily
upon an icy shiver of the breeze,
clash like the crests of breaking waves:

this paradise and that other place,
where he still lingers,
where he no doubt curses her

and storms about.
There are no storms about here.

She watches the tide ebb,
knowing it will never never never turn again.

Sunbird

She is my bird of sun,

My day cannot begin before she rises.

All ensuing acts and compromises,

The very precious fabric it comprises,

Have only now begun.

At her point of peak

Her radience delights this panorama.

Her grace distills achievement from raw drama,

She blends her unique recipe of karma 

With elegant mystique.

Through everything that has been,

She's effortlessly ridden on the breeze 

Like a simple dhow upon the rolling seas.

She rests again, high in the mighty trees,

Until a new dawn heralds her reprise

And my sunbird sets the scene.

Let Sleeping Cats Lie

My cat is fast asleep.
It humours me to see him
in a slumber quite so deep.
I wish that I could be him.

Let It Out, Keep It In

I cannot read the angry words of other angry men.
I cannot get inside their heads or empathise their pain.
I don't use their vocabulary,
Recoil from its brutality
And fear the latent anger of the spaces in between.
You would think me sympathetic
To the laments of the poetic
And I am no heartless critic of the places they have been.
I just cannot read the angry words of other angry men.

I could not write a diary of such personal despair
Such depths of self-enquiry and the beasts you find down there.
I could neither brave the darkness
Nor the sweaty light of frankness,
The inner sibling rivalry with my schizophrenic frère.
I would wrap myself in fiction,
Using metaphor and diction,
Cowering in a library on a wonky-legged chair,
But I couldn't write a diary of such personal despair.

The Jogger

Steady breathing.
In.
Out.

An asthmatic wheeze.
Out.
In.

Unexpected gradient.
Power.
Burn.

Rehydration.
Stitch.
Walk.

Change of surface.
Bounce.
Resume.

Determined final extra push.
Warm.
Down.

Endorphins.
Addictive.
High.

Sense of accomplishment.
Tomorrow.
Again.

My empty hands, empty arms

Where is my boy? Where can he be?
As I sit writing poetry
and watching fathers drinking tea
with families for company,
I close my eyes but only see
the emptiness upon my knee
where my beautiful boy should be.

Where is my girl? How does she do?
I fear the things I wish I knew
about the faultless way she grew,
resigned to post a thought or two
in verses impromptu:
an imaginary rendezvous,
not the endlessness of every queue.

Where is my continuity?
Where is the strength to continue?

To fall asleep and rise aware

In this time
In this space
In this calm
And restful place

To breathe in deep
And taste fresh air
To fall asleep
And rise aware

Here and now
No more, no less
The why and how
Of mindfulness

In my head
All is clear
The way ahead
No stress, no fear

In this peace
In my zone
To feel release
To be alone

To breathe in deep
And taste fresh air
To fall asleep
And rise aware

Norsemen

Over the fen
The Norsemen are coming
The fire-bringers torching
Mud hamlets scorching
The Norsemen are coming
Over the fen.

Under the moon
The silver meres shimmer
Feet crash like thunder
Clattering plunder.
Screaming, rampaging,
like death waves raging,
The silver meres shimmer
Under the moon.

Over the fen
The Norsemen are coming.
Masters of fright
Marauding at night.
The Norsemen are coming
Over the fen.

The Coming of the Spring

From the comfort of a warm conservatory,
The garden still looks wintry cold beneath the metallic sky.
Blades of yellow-tipped grass
Shiver in the unrelenting breeze,
Fragile threads of honeysuckle tap heads upon a wall of stone,
Dew drips from exposed rose thorn.

Last year’s mighty buddleia is naked save for random frills of freshness,
Revealing rough-barked ankles and the green-damp fence.
The twisted hazel cowers
Beneath leylandii towers.
Warm red against green, a single camellia bloom draws the focus.
Spears of daffodil and crocus
Tear through softened earth in the shadow of a willow.
Robins feast on a hebe pillow.

Silver smoke drifts from next-door’s crackling fire,
The son-et-lumière
Of breakthrough sun and birdsong choir.

The Fool

April 1.

He thinks it's fun
to fill the shower with balloons.
Clever boy.

I spot the hidden camera.
Busted!

Afterwards, I wonder if I should have played along with the gag anyway.

Nah. Probably best not.
My butt needn't be the latest viral sensation.