Morning Nov. 2nd 2013

How fast the days drift by,

Ticking away minutes with each cloud

That sails by with a cocky wave

Like temporary puffs of smoke

In an old village pub,

And I crane my head to see

If the backs of hills have emerged into

Crouching Indian chiefs

Lighting their calumets,

Or if the houses have sprung lungs

And are sparking their chimneys

Like cigars

And taking back the streets.

Today drifts by like a hurricane echoes

In the deep

And I feel far away from

The sheep charging through

For Mother Nature’s curtain call,

Down here, outside the painting,

Where all things stay the same.

Night Nov. 1st 2013

The metal fencing by the station

Cuts the glaring sun in my eyes as I run

Into piercing shards of light,

Breaking my vision down

Into scattered memories of past years.

I am racing through a flickering movie reel

Of my childhood

Tucked in the furthest corners

Of my peripheral vision,

Presented in layers of thick paint

Like a printing press,

Always covering up,

Forgetting,

Moving on to the next.

Between scene breaks I see green,

Endless parks and vast stretches

Of oily grass

Pinched between finger and thumb

As we ran our hands through

The fickle years.

Skateboards on library roofs

And broken windows,

Decks of cards passing

As we ran across the canal locks

Between gaps in judgement,

A flame finds idle hands.

My temples still begin to sting

When I smell that dirty weed smell

In between thoughts and places

And the movie reel begins rolling again

Right there in the corner.

The village is quieter these days,

And tidier, and pleasant,

No more broken faces by roadsides

And wing mirrors in drains,

The grass grows back a little more spritely,

And my mum looks through the curtains

Less often.

But my friends have all gone and moved away,

And I am unfamiliar with the bends

The river decides to take

And the beds it interrupts,

No longer ours.

So I continue to run around the edges

Of the village we all once knew

So well,

And find the light that glistens

Between the gaps in the darkness,

Like Kafka talked about

In his notes from a room

In a village somewhere else.

It is in these connections

That the pictures flicker back to life,

Like a black and white movie,

Setting our stories in motion

Once more,

And we are always alive here

Somewhere in the corner

Of my minds eye.

Morning Nov. 1st 2013

“I was bored,” I would tell myself,

And turn away from the sun

That throbs inside the house

Like an irregular heartbeat.

 

The sheets of rain were easily trimmed

But forgiveness wasn’t so keen,

I stared blankly at old Christmas trees

On roadsides well into February.

 

So, into an envelope I tucked

And jumped like a tightrope walker

Along the wind, into wide open spaces,

Into the mailbox of the places

 

Always on postcards

And with the tower

Always on the right.

 

But the thread of the tightrope wasn’t cut

And snagged my winter jumper

Until fully unravelled

And then continued to lead me around

Like a choke chain;

 

I was very cold, but I wasn’t so bored,

So, perhaps this was my lot?

And it was, of course.

It was the choice I made.

 

Now I sit in silence with the thread

Pulled tightly reeled around me

And the planes always landing on either side

Back inside the envelope

Waiting to arrive.

 

But this time I roll around in the mailbox

With more enthusiasm,

Looking for that next connection

And keeping an eye out for untimely invites

From, my old friend, the boredom.

Morning Oct. 31st 2013

As the cobwebs are swept

Under the tearing fabric

That separates our waking

From nods,

The morning alerts

Are announced

To a silent room.

Drizzle brushes your eyes awake,

The pitter patter of tiny feet

On hardwood:

Your snoozing alarm clock.

Your hair feels thicker

And slightly more aggressive

Like a bramble bush;

It has been whisked through

Tumultuous weather

In far off lands and stories

Unending,

The clouds between places

Always blurring those boundaries

Upon returning

Home.

The mushy, damp leaves

Are your soggy morning cornflakes

As you trudge across the heath

To the main artery

That will set you safely

Across the city.

And you are stir crazy,

And you are still with one leg

Beneath the duvet cover,

Twitching like a puppy dreaming

About bounding in that bowl

Of autumn leaves.

Your cereal dribbles down your chin

And you forget which side of the bed

You emerged from,

And if you have already showered

Or are damp from rain.

These are the questions you ask yourself

As though heard repeatedly

On the early morning radio

That plays on a loop as your head

Spins around the plug hole

Now swallowing the ocean

You’ve been afloat on.

Living is to be always one foot

Within a dream,

Floating in the wash of the sea breeze,

The other grounded

In waking hours

By the smite of rain;

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Morning Oct. 26th 2013

And when the pot begins to cool

We blow away the lasting heat

And watch the petals freeze

As they drop,

A sudden jump in temperament.

 

We are calling for a change

As the buildings tuck away

Into themselves

And implode

With us inside,

The dust hanging out in

Falling doorways

Exposing the drifting outline

Of dirty faced angels.

 

Because this is an island

On the brink

Of collapsing back into

The surrounding sea

And we are building shoddy

Sandcastle barricades,

In our puerile ignorance,

Which are eagerly swallowed up

By the colossal stomach churning.

 

So, grab a sail

And tie yourself to the mast,

We have found the recipe

To stir up the eye of the storm.

Night Oct. 26th 2013

It is mostly when the half eaten pear

Is staining through the black

That we meet between days

In the coldest of places.

And I am exasperated as always,

And giddy,

And half outside the room;

And you are as animated

As a comic book cover,

Always chalking up battle strategies

And crossing me off your list

Several times.

But you travel inside my stomach

Like I were an old war horse,

And we adopt an oversized

Swinging pendulum

In attempt to knock the walls down

Between the divided battlefields

That we frolic within.

But rather more aptly we slink away

When the opposition toughens,

To shade ourselves from burning embers

And the grass thawing

As our heads begin colliding

Like a pair of meteors hitting,

You to one side,

Me to the other,

And we cross paths again

Only when the ice freezes over.

Morning Oct. 23rd 2013

In the blustery nooks

Of London’s more remote suburbs

The trees wrestle and argue

Amongst one another;

Who will be the first

To make it to the finer, glassy

World above?

They wave their fists

Like ticket touts

Trying to sell their lot

At a bargain price,

Then send the ravens

To check on their progress.

As the Mexican wave

Begins to settle

The council estates pull their socks up,

Tuck in their shirts

And watch for their rivals

While leaning over the drooping fence

To jeer.

The squabbles commence

Beneath a sky beginning

Its morning crossword

And sighing with exhaustion

As we do at the daily news,

And a decision

To opt for different philosophies

And theories

And ideologies

Begins to piece together

In the puzzle.

Is this limbo? I wonder,

While I sit minding the wolf,

And we both, in turn,

Howl to the mountainous sky

In the hope of a response,

Which is returned

Like the whispers in sea shells,

Ricocheting back to bounce around

Here in the void.