Thursday, 12 September 2019

Throw Me a Life-Belt


Tis a strangely mad route to take
When a decision has been made
To effect and affect the world
And how
And now
And when
As the little car clings to these rickety tracks
Following ratchet demand
Defying potential and becoming kinetic
And foreign
Like most decisions before.

                                                                       Long Tailed Tits......

This one decided to just get stuck in, right in the caged feeder.....

Second Coming.

Every night remains the same,
The day before, the waiting game,
The eye for the chance,
The monument's dance.

Here in your cavern, insane,
Nobody's ever heard your name,
Called over the cliff-top,
Scream please stop, don't stop.

All the tales that went before,
The bi-millennial metaphor,
My saviour's gone insane,
Sitting in on the waiting game.

The Lord of the Dance,
The eye for the chance,
What can you see there ?
Just the cavern's wall bare.

Anglicans and Papists,
Theological rapists,
Assaulting the mind,
With you left behind.

Come out from your cave,
In the land of the brave,
Hold up your hands,
Encompass these lands.

Jesu, I implore thee,
Rise up from the sea,
Walk up from the sands,
To encompass these lands.

The Oracle.

The oracle spoke
Through the early mist
Feminine and clear, the voice
Someone you might have kissed

A voice in tongues, words no need
But You hear

I hear you clearly
But deafened by fear.

Very nearly the view from my bedroom window. Hill House, and Cartworth Moor.

The North facing side of this part of our valley, bathed in yesterday's evening sun....

Gwyn accepting that her Dad is busy trying to capture the evening light, rather than working.

Hardly any rabbits there, and we lost our old team-mate, so working the brambles isn't really a goer right now anyway......

The Virgin's Song.

If she'd just look this way,
Ah, she's seen him.
Well, let the moments play,
Even sharks learn to swim.

Learn to dream, but awake,
Alert to the chance maker.
But when I saw you, him, the snake,
The two-faced fork tongued faker.

But the meat of the Bird of God,
Is poison unto the serpents.
See, his head starts to nod,
Under Satan's breath relents.

Retreat still smiling,
Is she coming our way ?
In your head she (your numbers dialling.)
Let bravura come to play.

Fortune will smile on the righteous,
But these days are long,
No fun for the virtuous,
As they sing the virgin's song.

Wait now, pretend not to see,
Ah, the introductions,
("Please fall in love with me."
There are no compunctions.

But the reserved
Is reserved for fate,
Your loss conserved,
And lands upon your plate.

Not necessarily  aesthetically up there, but, when you see a horse on a roof, when you've your camera in hand, what would you do....!?


The Old Boy

A couple of kids, from the school,
Used to come round and play with him

The old boy looked at the terrier.

Then there were two more then four, then ten,
All playing, and piling on him....

I wondered.

But he never turned, never grabbed, never bit.

He threw the yellow plastic ring.

A flash of inspiration, of sharp clean, white teeth,
Finished the game, and the sentence.

With wise ironic precision and
That knowing look.

Nice to see a few sheep up on the moor again, though not a fraction of what there used to be. Maybe they're escapees...... Times are a-changing, just wish they'd change for the better, for once.

 This old road is just about a mile straight.....

The Viewpoint.

The sombre reality
Surely a matter of perception,
'The Percept'.

Sobriety, a naked concept.

Shield my shame with numb mooring,
Bob in time with the lapping tides.
And still gain some acceptance
In a world adrift from itself.

Self-delusion, and image,
Prideless lion-cub.

Sober and incommunicado
With the dreamer.

The sombre reality is
Surely a matter of deception,
'The Decept'.

An old favourite...

For the record, especially for the UK, as I'm sure there are others globally, check out The Butterfly site......

As a rule, a tripod is way better for a long-exposure, rather than a mono, but hey, these will do......

My mistake, this last was the 1/4000th sec one.....but hey, it's my Blog.

This is the bit where I don't do personal, but as there isn't anything personal to write, that's an easy ask. Am shut. Closed to things, while able to smile and operate and function.

It's September, and I didn't post the David Sylvian song.........not sure if that's a good sign, or not, but hey.

Presented without comment.......!

Long Tailed Tits, Nuthatches, A random Woodpecker, House-sparrows, Blue/Coal/Great Tits, Robins, Blackbirds...... and earlier this week my first visiting Goldfinches......

Just waiting until the local Sparrowhawks suss it out, as my neighbour's cat has......

Stay strong, and thank you for visiting. It actually ridiculously means quite a bit to me. x

Wednesday, 21 August 2019

Ennui & Ecstacy, and Cricket

Poor White Girl On Loads.

What do you think they'll call you
Twenty years from now ?

Wild child, you're such a child,
Your eyes made black
As is your style,
Your nose is full of bitterness,
Taken through a straw,
Wander in your wilderness,
Who could ask for more ?

The car stops and out you get,
You don't know who nor where,
But some promise your appetite has whet,
And so, abandon care.

No cash, no sleep, no lifestyle,
Or one I can cope without,
Empty stomach, churns up bile,
I think you won that bout.

Wild child, a flawed model girl,
Did he promise you the world ?

Or just more dope to stop your mind ?
Do you think I'm so unkind
To tease you back to reality ?

Sense and sensibility,
Bright and capability,
But senseless death will knock,
Knock, let him in.

What the hell do you think you'll be
Twenty minutes from now ?

This juvenile Heron flew into a dead-end on the local mill-race, and so we had a stand-off for a while as it decided whether or not to make a bid for freedom...... eventually I left him/her to it, but then it flew off anyway.......

This one sort of sums it up really.......


Stilettos at midnight.
Wire fence reunion.

In the warcamp,
Silent brooding,
Of easily detected

Stiff upper lip,
Patriots tortured, and dying,
For a love of what
Secure dusty attic
Feeling ?

Blindfolded last cigarette,
And a kick in the gut,
When found out, if.

Acting predictably,
Slip the steel between ribs,
Garotte the throat,
Poison in drink,

And out of this hell,

Recurring Nightmare.

Crack, ancient stone tile splits asunder,
Frozen moment around midwinter's eve.
Pressure pulse beats, in ears, echo thunder,
Gives you crazed reason to disbelieve.

Safe haven,
Black raven,
Wolf howl,
Night prowl.

Hairline and light trigger-finger,
Too light to mistake the game,
Feeling a little tense, should not linger,
Panic and shattered peace spreads the blame.

Tense seconds,
Fear beckons,
Sky blackens,
Grip slackens.

Turn to meet the mare-pursuer, hunter,
In this all too lucid moment, scream not,
Be the thriller, killer, no longer just the punter,
Head-on, face me, and now its getting hot.

Did you know the sweet smell of fear ?

An old friend,
Cold end,
Alone the brave,
None to save,
No cavalry,
No sanctuary,
Fear replaces religion,
In the nightmare you turn around.

The Strange Young Man.

Adopt new posture, "The position",
Knees in chin and arse on heels,
Gently rock, the mental collision,
Does the medic know how it feels ?

The noise fills the hollow hall,
Behind your eyes, between your ears,
Voices echo from living walls,
Can nothing repel these bitter fears ?

Standing, one foot slides up your leg,
To rest, like a herdsman's upon your thigh,
You've hung on, refused to beg,
You follow this with "The world-as-lie".

No sense does the mirror make,
Of your unpunctuated soliloquies,
No offer of the route to take,
To bring you off your graz‚d knees.

So back to "foetal", clench and sway,
The 'disconnected safety zone',
No hand can help, that's not to say,
That there's even anybody home.

Now sanity comes round to say "hello",
And you dress and set off for work,
Then stiffly remember all you know,
But strangers do still dimly lurk.

The Enchantress/Flautist.

Eyes open, temptation,
A thought of forbidden fruit.
Serpent-free, frustration,
Haunt me melody flute.

Through hanging drapes of smoke,
Thoughts wend aromatic ways,
For a simple instant the moment broke,
As she dead-love discordant plays.

This savage beast remains untamed,
Charmer lost her notes.
Lonely child heart plays unnamed,
In strange dead-heads she floats.

Tempt me with melody,
You breath life through the flute,
Eros base loves' remedy,
To all my emotions mute.

Then we pass through the dance,
To the warmth of belonging,
Minds in the deep love trance,
Hold hearts, some new song-thing.

Frustrations overcome by magician,
Taste the beauty fruit,
With no hint of vague suspicion,
The words of a silver-flute.

Rob says: "More Imagerism."

Not only is it dark,
It is loud too.

Not full of heaving bosoms,
Not full of posing,
Its true.

The beer's free, the wine is too,
Although suspect.

No strutting for impression,
Simply sitting and being,
Happily scrawling tripe.

But, what has this to do with
Anything ?

The hour is witching,
The beer is too.
Not full of heaving poseurs,
Not full of bosoms,
Its true,
Although suspect.

Not only is it dark,
Its loud too,
Simply sitting, and being happy.

Rob says: "This is certainly an idea."

Beside me is a space,
The space is empty and cold,
Not only that, but it has a shape.
Cold maybe, but shaped then.

The form this space has now,
Is fair to look upon,
Smiling, a warm shape, cold only
In its absence.

The space is shaped in curves,
The curves are gentle and calm,
The calm is curved heavenly,
The heavenly emptiness is formed,
Formed in the smiling absence of warmth.

Not only that, but in curves.

The heavenly cold now has shape,
The shape is heavenly and warm,
The emptiness is shaped in the form
Of a woman.

The woman is heavenly, and absent,
The cold is the absence,
The absence is the warmth,
The warmth is the woman,
The woman is a lady,
The lady is you.


Tears of invisible rain
On ice-face sheets of cheek
Of glistening eyes and a worried look
And now is real and fake.

"Now" is the "Grab the moment"
And the abdicated made this choice,
To live as one, and on your own,
In seas of passionless drowning child lemmings,
Psychotic subtlety and cerebral passions.

Drown me in invisible tears
From neither of your eyes,
And thighs are soft to touch
And drown me girl in love.

In the invisible hour of the silent night,
We closed our eyes and held on tight.

Shadow Swan.

Spectrum of some deeply perverse waxy oils
On black many fringed flight feathers
On the seemingly perfectly formed wing.

Catches the gaze and the drop of sunlight,
Sits longer than the river's waters.

Serenely selfish in royal abundant confidence,
While cruising the shallows in dappled reflection
Of a lust driven moment of passionate serenity.

Coldly, coolly following a higher instinct,
Leads the observer to detect no regrets,
No moments of doubt in supreme black confidence,
And the thought that the crucial moment has gone.

Parallel your life with that of the swan,
Among discarded debris, detritus of the dereliction,
Remain aloof to preserve the damned integrity.

And so utterly perfectly casual and remote
So beautifully carved from living velvet,
And so much that you thought was lost.

That'll do for now, so here's some more "village cricket":

Stay safe out there people.

Tuesday, 20 August 2019

Strange Days.


The power, glory, mystique, enchantment,
Random greenery, the greenery of me.

Naivety and pain, experience and hate,
Despising those who've lost, but never,

Across the waters to another world.

The age of change, the hours of light.
"Crystal sword, scabbard unleash me !"

Fear and,
Crushing, searching for "Why ?"

The innocent ivy creepers, along the roadside walls,
The gentle breeze belies the storm,
Clear fresh skies, with the acid of us,
Now lost to myself,
But how ?

Buzz, buzz, then no more. Green.

Green, green, green trees, green leaves,
Green all around, and within.

(Our father which art in heaven...)

Green, the fresh scent of green,
Pale, clear, smooth, fluffy cloud whiteness,

Hours before dark, days until the day,

Across the skies to another world.

The same rainbow.


Frustrated by crazy paving,
Promised idea dialogue,
Sod, or doubted Tom,
While singing spirited, arose
And flew.
Follow skylarks,
To holes,
In stone-walls.

Expression comes,
Free-form, free-flow, winged, but not,
Doubts remain to chain,
Of other ideals,

Machines, to ease the work,
To shift the load,
Of indecisive elemental force,
Of course,

The stone slabs were always cracked.


With dark head filled air,
The police light found you there,
Cut and picked you out again,
What moves in your conscience then ?
Night-talking dark-walking heavy cop,
Called you by her name,
The fall kills you, not the drop,
As quietly you came.

As quietly you came,
You came, as quietly you came.

Smell his hands for kerosene,
Question him about where he's been,
Spin him round like a spinning top,
Confuse him tonight my woman cop.
Night-talking hard walking drinking boy,
Can you recall the police name ?
How she played so completely coy ?
As quietly you came,

As quietly you came,
You came, as quietly you came.

Dance with me, lovely uniform,
Black and white in this beery storm,
Cut me down as rights are read,
Cut me down, leave me for dead.
Night-walking beer-talking English lad,
Did you hear me call her name ?
It's just her job, she's not all that bad,
It's such a lovely shame,

As quietly you came,
You came, as quietly you came.


Sleepless In Crosland Moor

Sativa I, relate to the riot
And anxious anarchy,
The bubbling babbling beck,
Of this bloody minded mess.
Contortions of your skull liner,
Pulse pressure drop preempts sleep,
And prolongs these scenes.

I court you sativa,
In this dreaming vision,
We dance delicately, delicious,
And revel in
Mad moments.

Will we wed and meld?

Or stay friends
After all?


Can you feel me watching you ?
Prickling the back of your neck ?
Don't look at me, let me carry on.

You are not so pure, or so simple,
But, to offer what I am is to burden.

There, you looked, I smiled briefly,
Looked away, and hurt.
Not lust, or longing, not 'love' or anything,
Just nature I think.

Watching you is easy, being me is not.

You are not 'beautiful' or 'sexy',
Not any label or type, I watch you.
I want to tell you about life,
Want you to tell me about you.

Watching is so easy, being watched is not,
You are uneasy, am I going to say something ?
No, that could break this imaginary, fragile thread,
Between your soul and my head.

Sometimes I almost tell you, but don't,
Want so much to be half of you, but can't,
Say what I mean, see its not easy.
I'm not obsessed, when you're not here,
part of me isn't either, is that obsession ?
Such a dangerous sounding thing,
Much like 'dinner for two' or 'date ?',

Turning, I hope you turn too,
Do you watch me, as I watch you ?

The Charm Room.

Open your door, to the Charm-Room,
Where the kids have been all over,
High up behind me the cold moon,
Catch the faint scent of clover.

The stove belches, as I shut the door,
I catch your thrown glance and laugh,
I'm burning slightly now and want your raw,
And I'm standing on your path.

We kiss, and sit, and kiss again,
My excitement nearly shows, you know,
This is the place where boys are men,
And my pulse will never slow.

Then the wine is drunk, the T.V. gone,
We play our scene, as if in love,
And go to where two are one,
The secret chamber, above.

Above the darkened charm room,
Where we kissed all over,
Time is never too soon,
To leave the faint scent of clover.

The Hill.

An approach, aloof sometime, a hill,
Ghostly mist wraps around your shoulders,
Your forgotten time trapped houses,
And bite the frost, the chain, the glass,
Where now the strangers pass,
Lets stop awhile and view the mile
To your top, no whistle stop,
No relief though rest is all,
No soft limbs to stop this fall.

Simple approach to height, not depth,
Via lost cloughs and crossings,
Forgotten in time, but not by them,
As stories unfold and then are told,
To all your disbelievers, and fog weavers,
Mischief makers, Yorkshire fakirs,
With minds on clogs, looms and logs,
Coal and sheep and never ending seas,
Not for you to be set free.

Some Cave.

Cool ancient darkness,
Depths of hidden wisdoms,
Concealed from the modern
By a vine curtain.

Covered coverlets, cool innocent,,
Places deep within that rocky place
Where the deep echoes of distant waters call,
Call over again and again.

Familiar scents, familiar place times
That our forebears couldn't forget,
memory scents, and Dark wisdom.
Sacred notions of a dead god.

Yet the unfamiliar thoughts
Burdens of the knowing mind,
Bring some reason, if not acceptance,
Rejectable ideas from the dead.

I leave the cave man,
Blink in the fresh sunlight,
My perception expands now
I know everything.

The Darkest Night.

Your smoke burns the membranes behind my eyes,
My tears thus false, itch and make me blink.
I drink your flowing emotion and sink gently,
The darkest night in blinding streams.

Who am I tonight ?
How old, tall, and what's my name ?

Drifting through the warm place that is your centre,
Eyes stay closed and my glass is yet to drain.
Most of my heat escapes in a rise with your smoke.
An emotional cleaning implement, the romantic fire.

Am I drunk yet my dear ?
How can I drink as deep as I want ?
How don't we drown ?

I am stifled, and cannot breath anymore.

Am I in love tonight ?
Who should I say I am, and why ?

I light my own cigarette, and sting your eyes,
But you can tell me, how warm you are,
Upside down, I spin in the current strong,
Whenever I am alone with you, I can pretend.

You are, you are,
Something I can't quite comprehend.

Unstoppable, unbroachable flow.

My eyes don't need to know the answer,
They burn, and tell me there is no need,
I smoke down to the filter this time,
The darkest night, in blinding love.


Cocktail-stick, bus ticket flag,
Inverse bucket castellations,
Small spade depth moat,
Old shell battlements,
Pebbles too, maybe,

Protecting the inner true
You from
My incoming love-tide.

Dissolving your sandwalls,
In hot holiday memory,
Sun baked English beach,
With ice-cream and,
Knotted hankies, old men.

Us small ones paddle,
And running hard,

We bomb sandcastles,
With barefeet.

Your love washes against my walls,
As mine yours,
With pebbles too, maybe.

Classic lens distortion at Digley Res.

Village Cricket......


Digley Kestrel....

I could write an essay, but hey. The times they are a changin', or not, I don't know. 7 am Monday morning could have been the end of something pretty nice and good, or it might have been a dramatic moment, meant to be lost in the tides of time, I really don't know, as my head is, as for years, all over the place anyway.

It's such a shame when friends just can't be.

On the plus side, I have started writing a few notes, not actual pieces, but snippets of ideas, building blocks of ideas, that might, or might not turn into something.

I used to, years ago, but for some silly reason, had the idea that the "off the cuff" ones were good enough, maybe some were, but those with a history, and depth to them were and are, the ones that I appreciate, well....mostly.

What are the rules?

There are no rules.

"Do as thou wilt" shall be the whole of the Law.

Happy Mid-August one and all.