Various Walks Around Here

It's yet another damp grey Sunday. Cold, but it's been a lot colder in March, so I shouldn't complain....

This was the week that I had the majority of my work-gear stolen out of my van. My locked van. My undamaged post-event locked van. To the tune of about £1000...... a nice way to get the week started.

It seems that you can buy a device on Amazon called a "Tibbe", that allows you to simply pick a Ford lock easily. Thanks Amazon, that's helpful!

There's an even easier device out there for a similar price. See Guardian article and I thought, naievely that such things would not only be illegal, but certainly not for sale on the open market.... 

There's no point in having decent stuff if people can just take it without any repercussions. To say I am livid would be an understatement, but the worst thing is how helpless I feel as to what anyone can do about it.

Best just to get your head down and keep on keeping on.

Cavewaters.

This my secret labyrinthine centre,

Painfully echoes non-sound-sense of the cool

Dripping of ice-cold

Cave water.

Drip, silent hours, drip,

Then silence for another drip,

Ripples of unlit nonsense sears.

Pierce these cave walled thoughts

And dispatch another, in your wake,

Dripping intense caved

Longings.

Lust for your gods,

And skin.

For the caves of love.

Cool deep pitch dark pool,

Holding the self deep within,

Reflects black light on black,

But echoes silently these dripping secrets,

As I died a little intensely

Momentarily.

Sinking in short ecstacy pools,

Waking in sober pain,

And dead lust gone, leaves,

These caves.

Secretive maze walking cave diving

Glad hanging and lustful cavefish,

Seek out the cool centre.

Garden Love

The lawn-mower told me to do it.

To change the plane, twist a set degree,

And to cut right over the edge,

To neaten the edge first

Was my own idea.

The moss lay at your feet,

Twigs in our hair,

And love in our grass boxes.

As I compost in your cool moist darkness,

With wood-lice, worms, leatherjackets and ants,

Spiders, grubs, and deep tidal motions,

My love exponents the moment,

And brings dissembly, of a sort.

Like a ladder of windows,

I live through one, seven, two, ten,

And still am the ladder,

The metaphysical pull-cord,

To the rotary dictator of….

My redisturbed passion for wholeness,

So much closer than I knew,

But hell no, never two-stroke.

Hell aye, I merely exist to,

Make you whole.

All he asked was to let the old me out,

Handing me your key,

As I hand you mine.

 

Nonsensical Trees.

Steel ice blue flash of armour,

Kingfisher shoots trhough this conversation,

Where Ring Ousel meets Goldfinch,

And Jenny Wren lends a wing.

Warily watching the lady in waiting,

Hands heavy on shoulders, repetitive straining,

To keyboards for typing the words of another,

Dear sir, my sister, my father, or brother.

Interruption from weathered faces that enter,

Repent with the telephone and then at the window,

Horrible visions of dreams long forgotten,

With fast cars, and dead trees, last summers pollen.

Broken down on the ring road, the kestrel above,

Dodging myriad starlings, and recreational love,

Leaves bitter residues in taste buds like these,

Notional climbing, nonsensical trees.

 

Square Peg.

Is this the place to stand and wait for rain ?

How can you get the speaker to explain ?

Just which of those jolly old fools,

Spends days fitting square pegs into round holes ?

The telephone rings and the shower curtain flaps,

Under breath cursing and the folds of old maps,

A planned journey to a view from a hill,

Deserted by fools now so move in for the kill.

The place is deserted yes, but we are still here,

Expecting the footsteps to wind ever near,

The actions of panic are unreliably safe,

But this moment is passing, everso brief.

The rain is late coming so we abandon the game,

The speakers gone home now, so we'll do the same,

The old fool's voice on the telephone line,

Stinks of t'baccy and musty old wine.

Running on illegal grass and stamping on flowers,

That lie dead in these clean april showers,

As the storm breaks now well high above me,

We kiss in the shelter of the gnarly old tree.

This is the place to stand, and have fun,

But how can you tell when loving's begun ?

We'll pretend that we're just the jolly old fools,

Hitting at square pegs with nonsensical tools.

Flockprinter: Buddy Wakefield

Ignore the video.

I don't know a lot about Buddy Wakefield. 

I have listened to some of his stuff, and some works for me, and some not so much, that is true of a lot of things out there I guess. The Flockprinter track I came across on a music blog I used to follow a few years back, and stumbled across it again just today while listening to the "misc" folder, and culling out some of the old dead-wood.

Wiki/Bio 

Have a look/listen. There's a whole load on YouTube.....

Night Thoughts.

 

Black Ribbons

Her eyes, black ribbons,

Tendrils of unspeakable regret,

Ooze and drift through the driver's window,

Will O'the Wisp like, negative though,

Unspeakable sadness, dead angels,

Waft on hidden breezes,

Trail, scent-like, fractured, odd moves,

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 see the void.

 

Dry

Deep dark cool woodland airs

Hidden business

Life and not, an absence of thought

Of place and hour, invisible joins

Secrets

Lies

Nothing but innocence, cool shady truth

As the trees enter your heart

Revealed

With coarse lush bracken, and birdsong reality....

There should be water

 

Shadowfish.

Depth of reflected torchlight,

Reveals little on dark liquid shallows,

Hidden shadowfish sleep, wary.

Step back from the water's edge,

Swim deeper in perfect mind-stream,

Eyes lit in exposed high branches,

And shadowbirds start to sudden applause.

The eyes of the fox, the rabbits and

The points of light that see for my dog.

The deeps of the wood are remembering,

The ancient living memory of tree witnessed events,

And at midnight, plus some, we are far from alone,

In the cold of the night you can easy be.

Ukrainian Brides

Christ on a bike, I am NOT actually advertising them. It's random.

I can't see the ads on my pc, but they show up on the phone.

The first couple were fairly innocuous, all stocks & shares stuff....but just now, when I checked, I am suddenly invited to check out a list of Ukrainian Brides.

NO thanks.

Apologies.

Ad-sense is supposed to adapt to your content, and there is absolutely no adult content on here, so how come they throw that crap up?

Ignore it. It's just a trial I'm doing, for a month or two, none of the ad content is from me, just so's you know that.............

Upbeat

 

 

 

Couldn't resist doing just one more before I go see what I can find on TV.....

Thank you for reading.

Got to be More Cheerful Than of Late.

The last post wasn't too bad, I guess, but the one before it was so bleak and dark, I thought I'd better try to reflect the fact that, believe it or not, I can do "cheerful".

Not many of the pieces are all that upbeat to be honest. It's a well turned out line that misery begets creativity, and conversely that when you actually are "happy" the incentive to record the fact just isn't the same, as you're too busy just enjoying the feeling.... Writing is cathartic, as in, it helps to bleed the demons out of you, it's a silent way of venting the inner pains, and torments, and so on. When you're having a good time, there isn't anything to actually get out, you don't want to, you want to hold on to the positivity, not blurt it onto a keyboard, or page in your notebook....

 

Black Hill

On the Edge Of Black Hill.

The black moors rise, still and ignored,

Fey and, not quite timeless, sleeping races,

Beneath these stiff boots, treading memory trods,

Dried heather flowers and loose black sods.

Crumbling, we sit, and our eyes trace these lines,

Delivered and executed by a thin spidery hand.

To lost pools, and pleasure gardens, what jubilee.

Will deep lethargy discover us on the seat of angels,

And cast us from these dour dark dank heights,

To poor pastures below, with the sorry sheep,

And sorrier autumn meadow weed, long husky

Desiccation of this memory, salty tears on cracking lips.

Come inspiration and rescue these dogs, this sorry man,

Pluck us high from this forgotten forbidden edge,

Where skies and moors meet and these elements,

Find roost in dark execution, lost heathered places.

Crumbling black heart, dogs and spidery intention,

Fey, but not quite crumbling, or pleasureless,

As often before, now delivered and with stiff boots,

We stand, shake a little, deep sniff and try.

Burst this shell, from around black and heavy thoughts,

Fill this dry heart with jubilee pastures,

Walking with positive dogs, timeless angels,

Downhill now, to autumn valleys on old sorry sheep trods,

With newly woken dreams, inspiration of sleeping places.

Admittedly that was written after a long walk on the opposite end of the main hill, but it's close enough.....

Both of the pictures above were taken on Saturday, and I have only one person to thank for my being able to. Discretion forbids that I give a name though, but they know who they are....

When I said in another recent post, that I wanted to avoid repetitions, Black Hill above was the one that won me the Complete Ted Hughes collection, a WW1 collection, and a nice voucher....In Ottakers, which is long gone now. We went and had a few drinks, and maybe a toke, before attending the evening readings in the shop. When I got short-listed in the adult category, I was amazed, but then to be called out as the winner, whereby I had to go to the front of those there assembled and read it out, was one of those odd moments that I'll never forget....even in the state of mind I was at the time...!

I know I've written some total dross, but every now and then I come up with one that I find works, at least for me...

It's funny though, how many work if you read them in either a Scots or Irish accent....

Chaos

Given how chaotic my thinking is at the moment, I am trying to order and categorise things, to get back some sense of framework.

For example, and the most pertinent one, when I relatively recently decided to reinvigorate this blog, and use it to embarrass myself with exposing my "poems"to the world, I never gave a thought to repetitions and so on. Unless I ever write another competition quality piece, and want to post it again and again out of some perverse conceit, then I'd rather not waste effort, yours or mine in re-reading the same pieces again.

Hence I created a folder to move things to, to help avoid inflicting things unnecessarily.....and studiously went back and moved everything, up to the "can't be arsed point". Hence I apologise for the odd repetition until the new system works its way through....

I posted this ages ago, but love it still.....

 

I hope, in time, to be able to do some similar exercise on the pictures, but in the meantime, I apologise in advance for the odd duplicate.....

(I've just realised it's actually quite a recent duplicate.....Oops! So am adding one more, the pebbles one as compensation.....)

"Monkey Nick pebbles"

Time-Out

Before they hit the charts, but were bubbling-up as they used to say back then...Japan did some starker more cutting-edge stuff. Adolescent Sex, look it up on YT, and

It's only 41 minutes long. It's my soundtrack to tonight. Well, for as long as that....

Whoever you are, take everything that I post as having a hidden-meaning, as it does. Maybe it doesn't.

Down Down, Deeper and Down.

1000 Miles.

One thousand miles, down,

Darkness,

The jaw-ache of rushing air.

Intense cold, muscles cramping.

No visual impression, occasional mists,

Skin pushed tight onto bones.

Faster than possible, falling,

Spinning, air rushing,

No, it doesn't take long to finish a thousand miles.

Screaming, intense cold, darkness,

Your stomach several hundred feet behind you,

Tumbling out of control, rushing jaw,

Intense mists, tight faster air, rushing intense,

Occasional miles, skin down, spinning, finish,

Possible falling, intense skin, one thousand bones,

Cramping screams, intense falling, rushing,

Falling visual mists, spinning skin faster....

Is the fall killing me, or am I ?

 

The Wall

As your soul spirals away,

Helical plughole extraction,

The cracked heart sinks,

Leaving the empty vessel.

You build walls, bars to more pain,

To the outside, self-defeating,

Self-defence, isolation switch,

No current, no charge, no spark,

No power, no light.

But walls restrict your view,

Unless you lie to yourself,

And decorate them with mirrors.

A cry for help, muffled, walled,

A spiral of mirrors, inward punishment,

Dark times, dead soul, empty, sunk,

Cracked, damaged, powerless and alone.

Reach out, and feel the cold glass,

Where should be warmth and love.

Stop lying to yourself and demolish,

Breaking glass, stone and steel,

Let the sunlight fill the space,

And extinguish the punishing helix.

Walking Way Back When.

Did you ever really know?

The rabbits might have gone,

But landslide sentries are still here,

Squirrels few, a cock pheasant, a hen,

A slow swirlwind of memories,

And love.

Time out.

No heron-stalking, just flooded ground,

Massive water-flow, a soggy challenge,

Underfoot, and muddy dogs,

Cold, but contracted to be a survivor,

You too, with your thousand miles.

Did you ever really see?

The foxes, and rabbits, long gone,

The hollow I once saw an owlet,

Now over-grown,

Dead and brambly.

My life?

A scarred tree, another name,

A ghost squirrel moment,

Skittering across the cliff face,

Parental caution,

And a love, eternal, but nevertheless,

Dead, deaf, crippled.

Where did all the rabbits go?

Consider yourselves spared. I am not fit company, and reading some of the older stuff, realise now that I probably never was. I would write all of the misery out of my system if I could, and boy oh boy do I realise that there are billions of people who have it far harder than me, this isn't the cry for help, this is the autobiography of. Of what? 

The first word that came into your head, is the one I live with daily. Sad isn't it?

 

 As in the previous post, notwithstanding that one has a visible date, these are from a thirty year time-frame, so reinforcing where I'm coming from. No, as far as I know I am soooo not related to Morrissey.

One, and only one was written in the last year.

Just a Quick Nightcap

 

Comedy Circuit

Walking, falling, unintentional comedy,

Tear another page from your calendar,

Then crane your face, tree-ringed,

One leg shorter maybe creates the circles,

That it seems you continually recreate.

Tracks in the snow, filled-in,

Lacksadaisical fashion you recreate,

Repeat ancient mistakes, and again,

Sparse trail of smiles, historical or

Far easier, deep rivers, of deep tears.

Did the skies really close in, tragedy,

As old scars fade away like stars,

Seem far less important than internal peace,

Slow memory rots palliative moments,

Strange laughter you continually recreate.

Dry dark wooded dream-walker,

Writes another guide book, places to avoid,

You should turn right here, I didn't,

Seeing lacksadaisical comedy in deep snow,

Sparse fashion, deep rivers of scars, falling comedian.

 

Chalice

You could have killed me right there,

Where we stood, on the banks of The Styx,

Slipping steel between my ribs, or a glass of poison,

Your chalice.

And yet it would ever hurt far less,

Where we kissed on the stones, on the banks of The Styx,

Thank the simple irrational moment, you took

Your love AWAY,

Careless, casual.

To have loved and lost is no better, or painless,

Where we lay with dead flowers by the flowing deeps,

Thank never to have loved at all, your heights,

Unscaled,

Unconquerable,

Unfathomable.

Lawless, but self-serving.

Tears in the chalice, flowers, dead, in your hair,

Poisoned waters to bathe away this fruitless love,

Steely determination, irrational glassed heights,

Crumble to kiss.

Careless, casual moment.

Such a shame.

Nearly.

Apart from when a scanned poem has a date already on it, I don't think that there's much mileage in saying what era of my life they're from. But, I sometimes might have to. This was meant to be an exercise in creative writing, rather than a psychological dissection of me, but maybe the continuum dictates that these things are inseparable...who knows?

For what it's worth, these two are ten years apart, roughly. More than that I cannot say. Or, are they? Does it matter?

They're not, they are both younger than a year.

See? Did it matter? I'm still a lost cause.

x

More Recent Ones

 

The Promise

From this tranquil hole, gentler spring,

scent, light, pence,

My eyes picked up on her approaching,

Did my heart fly, soar with herons?

Banking, turning, in the promise of life?

Did she burn with star-fire, meteoric?

Fireworks, dragon souled and infinite majesty?

I caught your smile, let it enfold,

Warming and welcome.

And held out empty arms, to return,

such gently spring love,

Scented, tranquil,

To hold THE PROMISE.

 

Driving Home From “The West”

Inane radio, unfocussed thought,

Sense of “does it f-ing matter?” loss,

Impending, drift where once drive,

No life-belt, water-wings.

Every single day regret, no clarity,

Split off intellectual acceptance,

From sterile but bleeding emotional,

Bleeding routine, rocks for cast sailors...

Safe only if you catch them before

They utterly annhialate you.

Friendly DJ, familiar soundtracks,

Do little to surface my reality,

Just soft, safe, dull, familiar,

Every sodding day.

Davey's Locker

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, argue,

In poisonous allegory.

Deep longings but bloody hobbled Achilles...

Drowning in their mirrors, and diaries,

Planning-man,

Lost hope, Davey's Locker,

While drowning, think of gardens.

Traffic Jam

She doesn't see me,

Eyes at -15 degrees or so,

Slow to stationary cars, lanes,

Dark rings, tarmac scrutiny,

Or the thousand yard focus,

Below my level.

I smoke and sip cold coffee,

And look again, she's less

humble than the truck

in front after all.

No, she's gone, dead eyes,

Car still moves, spirit death.

 

The Void

Her eyes, black ribbons,

Tendrils of unspeakable regret,

Ooze and drift through the

driver's window.

“Will O' The Wisp”-like, negative though,

Unspeakable sadness, dead angels,

Waft on hidden breezes,

Trail, scent-like, fractured, odd moves.

Inner maelstrom, pale dead face,

Dried tears, long long long died.

Ghosts, trail through from her car,

Driver's glass through my driver's glass,

And, unexpectedly, I glance into the void.

I slipped up when I last "re-invented" this Blog. I had the idea to post other people's poetry as well as pushing my own, so ended up with two "labels" or "tags", "Poems" and "Poetry". Instead of editing everything that has both in the labels, I will just called everything "Poetry" from now on, even if I do post someone else's..... Not a biggy I know, but thought worth mentioning....

I have finally finished typing/scanning all the old stuff, though there is a good bit of hand-written stuff to wade though yet. Most was from the end of the 80s, and early 90s, with odd exceptions. This post has been more or less, about trying to prove to myself that the more recent stuff is still valid. Sure, some of it is still technically "juvenilia", but hey, inside, I'm still in my mid-twenties....(as if).

I have reams and reams of stuff from the last few years to catch up with in the meantime. My heart is back in it though, so maybe this being alone thing has an upside after all, even if it's bloody hard to see when you're actually living through it.

Peace, out.
x
 

Shipping

 The Shipping Forecast


It's sometimes hard to listen
To silence, to
The Shipping Forecast.

Thought free-wheeling and soar,
Careless lists.

Daring humour.

Places we'll almost certainly love,
But never go.

The Ship Girl.

She holds my gaze with strength,

And balances me in her hold.

The simple words

"Sail with me."

Initial Thoughts

 

 

Initial Thoughts

I'm (Of an age), Ive never described anyone as a jalapeno

Before.

Now, I have.

But a sweet one, fiery,

But with a lovely aftertaste.

You opened the door,

To me, my dream,

Messed reality,

How? Is that even possible?

Three days it took me to recover.

You drew me,

From the shell, old, brittle,

Hermit.

Naked, vulnerable, released,

Realised, re-awake....

Smokey grey eyed vixen,

Over enthusiastic perhaps,

But steel, no rust.

Deeply drawn, deep down,

This hermit steps to the cave mouth,

Scary breath, of fresh air,

And that cliff-edge love.

More Time Please

Near Menheniot

There's an overgrown brambly gate,

Locked, long forgot, galvanised,

Under the viaduct, in the cleft of the valley.

I hid my soul there, brambled,

As the Riviera train clattered above,

Carrying my mind, East,

To return, to return, to reclaim,

Wafting fluffy seeds, late,

Smells like a fox,

Turning towards your house,

Scratching my heart into the stoney

Pillars of never never..

 

Introspecting Times

I'm quite sure there once was a time,

I had some idea, focus, goal,

In fact I had several,

Person, place, achievements, milestones,

Come and go, come and go.

Very high, very not, survival,

Certainty, peace, love, soul-sharing,

Turned into day-to-day silly decisions,

With huge ghosts of

Love, person, place, achievements, milestones,

Because millstones, and hovel life,

So damned close, so many times.

White heat connection,

Souls welding, becomes the

Mis-welded close call, soul mate,

A Western dream becomes a Northern sunset,

And love funeral.

Intensely deep sod-everything love,

Turns into “fond cousins”,

Clinical, cynical, funeral,

Two mourners, no sandwiches.

A Small Death

We've been angry, been sad,

Purely loving, crazy, mad,

But this numb limbo is new,

Nobody can help to get us through,

To clarity, to peace,

Safe space, release.

Need you, can't have you,

Want you, miss you, love you,

Your limbo matches, needs relief,

Third party, maintains belief,

Clings to hope, of rekindled fires,

I slump and bow, heart in mire.

From such mountain height, to have to fall,

Is a death so, sad and small,

Cling to connections that once made sense,

Brings no easy love recompense,

Trapped between fierce love, and not,

In sadness cold, not fiery hell hot.

Come then, release me from the vow,

Tell me of your love now,

For me, or him, or just yourself,

Don't ignore me, or leave by stealth,

Heads held high, hearts now numb,

Where ecstatic breaths are now dumb.

 

More Faces Than The Church Clock

 These two pictures, and the poem have something in common. But I won't spoil it by telling you.

 

Run With the Chicken Man

Find the damaged orphan,

Show him flowers, circuses, jugglers,

Caravans of retreat and healing,

Different spaces of understanding.

Nurse, cajole, encourage, lead,

Lend a hand, lend your heart,

But keep a tight hold,

When the pet doesn't sit.

Won't do tricks, play dead,

Or husband material, really,

Then pull to bits, slate and stab,

All thousand aphorisms, false lies.

The orphan retains sense of self?

Goodness, why not then judge?

Pull to your kitchen table dissection,

Abandon, while you run with racier types.

To expensive islands, flashier cars,

Halls of mirrors, see your sayings,

Made real, with hollow ambition,

Then shut the door, icy orphan doorstep.

While you run with the chicken farmer,

In pubs you slated, hated,

Hypocritical healer, no nightingale,

Just the judgmental dog groomer.

This one has little in common with any of it, but is a healing place to wander....