How Did We Get Here??

Damn the cough/cold/lurgy/flu or as fellow sufferers are starting to suggest perhaps even COVID.....

It didn't do my December any bloody good, even with a patch of respite over Christmas itself, and unless things pick up soon, it's threatening to kick January down before it's even really got started. 

Enough moaning. Think positively! There's only one way to go when you're down.....

Happy New Year! 

Drowning in it

That “All drown” word,

All poets forced to worship,

Contains duties, tasks, hand-cuffs.

Joys and tears.

Heart-warmth, gloves,

Passionate release, agendas, (theirs)

Tools to wrap meanings, warp, argue,

In poisonous allegory.

Deep longings but, bloody, hobbled Achilles.

Drowning in the mirrors, and diaries,

Planning-man,

Lost hope, Davey's Locker,

Whilst drowning, think of gardens.

As someone said in a recent conversation, a bad workman always blames his tools. Maybe, but even with a half decent camera, half-usable light helps a lot, and with odd exceptions, December and some time before, we've had dull, dark, overcast damp days. Not even big dramatic dark brooding skies, just monotonous and uninspirational. Walking without taking the camera has become the norm........ 

There are no hard rules here, but these are all taken this (new) year. Maybe things will start to pick up a bit.......

Flick book


It's a digital miracle with sleep-terror connotations,
Forty thousand snaps of nobody's history, sunsets,
Dawns, textures, dogs, horses, hills, birds, walls,
Lakes, rivers, flowers, girls, family,sleep,
Rabbits, gardens, friends, years, hopes, beliefs,
Themes and memes, buildings, kennels, holidays,
Trees, valleys, moors, power stations, clouds,
Kittens, stones, fungi, shopping lists, happy times,
Dinners, balls, sings, gigs, trips, butterflies,
Lots of butterflies, washing lines and windows, some broken,
Hares and foxes, fish, hand-made pictures,
History, adventures, loves, parties, smiles,
You know, stuff.
Set it to 0.5 seconds and lay-back,
The honour, and the love, and the horror,
The hope, despair, beauty, pride, belief,
Greys a little to dark, futile attempts,
To recreate these spaces in your emptiness.

Initial Thoughts


I'm forty-nine, I've never described
anyone as a Jalapeno
before.

Now, I have.
But, a sweet one, firey,
With a lovely, if slightly bitter-sweet after-taste.

You drew me,
From the shell, old bottle,
Hermit.....

Naked, vulnerable, released,
Realised, re-awoken,
Smokey grey eyed vixen....

Over enthusiastic perhaps,
But steel, no rust,
Deeply drawn, deep down, deep drown....

This hermit steps to the cave mouth.

Scary breath, fresh air,
And, that cliff-edge love.....

When you think you've got a decent shot, but aren't quite sure until you review it......even then it might be worth keeping even just for a "Ha, told you so..." moment of memory....

You can see why initially I thought I'd spotted an old friend in the woods........

Oh, and the previous prose was clearly not written recently.....!

I've already broken my imaginary rule, as I've run out of new photos from the last few days....must try harder!

Metaphors Run Out

Was that the week, when allegories flew?

Meanings were lost in sincere conversations,

And the metaphor mill stopped grinding?

Demonstrations of love, affection and concern,

Fell slack as the enemy's guns sad hiatus,

Words failed as shutters steeled to.....

Silent brooding metaphors, self protection,

A heart's clang, a clicked steel lock,

No black dogs, no silly waving,

No bloody daffodils, nor endless dreams,

Just a dried metaphor well,

No bleeding hearts, lost souls,

No telephonic pleas for clemency,

Pointless behind these walls,

Hearts still beating, under this safe roof,

Food in the pantry, but gut reaction purely digestive.....

Deeper, darker sadness, impossible explanation,

Connection unbreakable, remains unwatered, but impure,

Starved but immortal, sad sad shutters.

No anger, nor fear, just monumental loss,

Infinite ways to expand these feelings,

Evaporated and gone, in a plain, super-heated drought.

Drying our all the metaphors and parching my love,

Preserving it in dessicated foreverness. Guilt.

Now this is an odd one. Bear with me, I'm not an office worker these days, not for a quarter of a century now, and apart from basic internet, various games, music, photo editing and so on, have no experience of "AI". It has appeared on posts, on options on the computer, and, well, it crops up all over the place. This is not going to be a big exposition on the subject, far more well-informed thinkers have espoused on it already, and are continuing to do so.

I thought I'd have a dabble.......

This is a relatively old "new one" in two forms. The first is as I scribbled it down and then typed it up. The second after I'd asked either ChatGPT or CoPilot to have a look at it and see if it could be styled...... I did this a few times, with various results. 

Not sure I like either really, which doesn't help, but at least the first was created by a real person!

Traffic Crawl Girl

She doesn't see me,

Eyes at ~15 degrees or so,
Slow to stationery cars, lanes,
Dark rings, tarmac scrutiny,

Or the thousand yard focus,
Below my level.

I smoke, and sip cold coffee,
Look again, she's less humble than the truck in front, after all.

No, she's gone, dead eyes,
Cars still move, spirit death.

Inane radio, unfocused thought,
Sense of “Does it bloody matter?” loss...
Impending, drift where once was drive,

No life-belt, water-wings,

Every single day regrets, no clarity,
Split off intellectual acceptance,
From sterile but bleeding emotional....
Bleeding routine, rocks for the cast sailors.

Safe only if you catch them before,
They utterly annihilate you....

Friendly DJ, familiar soundtrack,
Do little to surface my reality,

Just soft, safe, dull, familiar, Every sodding day.

Her eyes. Black ribbons,
Tendrils of unspeakable regret.

Ooze and drift through this driver's window.

Will O'The Wisp-like, negative though.

Unspeakable sadness, dead angels,
Waft on hidden breezes,
Trail, scent-like, fractured, odd moves,
Fractal.

Inner maelstroms, pale dead face
Dried tears, long long long dried.

Ghosts trail through from her car.

Driver's glass through my driver's glass, and unexpectedly....
I glance right into the void.

Traffic Crawl Girl (edit)
(Re-done with AI)

She doesn't see me—

Eyes tilted, fifteen degrees,

Scanning lanes of stationery steel prisons,

Dark-ringed, locked on tarmac truths,

A thousand-yard stare

Beneath my casual eye-line, line of sight.

I smoke.

Sip cold coffee.

She’s more interesting than the truck ahead—

But less alive.

Dead eyes.

Still-moving cars.

Spirit gone.

The radio babbles,

Thoughts unfocused,

A mind-drift where once was drive.

Does it bloody matter?

No life-belt.

No wings.

Just regrets,

Every single day.

No clarity.

Mind split from bleeding heart,

Routine haemorrhaging

On rocks for castaway sailors.

Safety—only if you catch them

Before they destroy you.

The DJ audibly smiles.

The soundtrack plays.

But nothing surfaces.

Just soft, safe, dull,

Familiar.

Every sodding day.

Her eyes—

Black ribbons,

Tendrils of regret,

Oozing through my window

Like a smokey Will O’The Wisp,

Negative thought incarnate.

Sadness unspeakable.

Angels long dead.

Breezes carry their scent—

Fractured, odd,

Fractal.

Her pale face,

A maelstrom.

Tears long dried.

Ghosts trailing from her car

To mine.

Glass to glass—

And suddenly,

I glance

Into the void.

Admittedly I did kind of go over the AI version before I saved it, just a tweak here and there....but I don't know. It kind of worries me a lot.........Not sure if I might try again sometime.

Anyway, that'll do for now. Hope this year brings us all some good news, positive happenings, and well, just the chance to tell someone you are thinking of them.

Seemed appropriate!