Through the miasma of political rhetoric
A murmur of truth can be heard
Carried on a zephyr
Laden with tears and fear
And the whole world shrugs
I don’t believe in a god
There are too many to chose one
I don’t respect a book
I dog-ear the pages
I don’t often smile
I carry it on the inside
I do believe in humanity
Even though it lately lacks spirituality
I am a voracious reader
I leave finished books at bus stops
I am always polite
By being always quiet
I don’t like fried eggs with tomato
I am reminded of too many things
I don’t like to go out at night
I enjoy my own company and a bedside light
I don’t like to sleep in
I can walk before the crowds roll in
I do like boiled egg and tomato sauce sandwich’s
They remind me of school lunch
I love the night sky
When everybody else is asleep
I like my bed to be cold when I get in
And warm when I awaken early
I don’t like high places
They make my knees weak
I don’t like saying goodbye
I always sounds too final
I don’t like memorial markers
They remind me too much of loss
I wish I could fly
The world looks clean from up there
I like reunions
An opportunity to strengthen bonds
I like funerals and weddings
Emotions are visceral at both occasions
Regardless of my likes and dislikes
The sun still rises and sets
The moon still waxes and wanes
The tides still ebb and flow
One day I was born
And one day I will die.
Capable hands hold a rifle.
Capable hands hold a pen.
Capable minds can do both.
So why isn’t peace possible?
These thoughts trouble me
and steal my sleep,
as I lay in my first world bed,
listen to the soft breath of my partner,
fresh from an evening shower,
sated by my first world meal,
comfortable after medication
to ease my first world knee injury.
In my first world life
I cannot know the pain
of losing a partner,
of forgetting the taste of fresh food,
of sleeping on sack cloth,
of not knowing the feeling
of having clean hair and clothes,
and not having a bandage to stop the bleeding.
I cannot know this pain,
from here in my first world –
but i can know it is wrong.
Sitting before the fire
A deep torpor descends.
These early days of winter
As night steals more
Of the days sunlight,
I find myself debating -
Do I need to dress
Layer upon layer
Of clothes and scarves
Just to travel the half mile
Between home and grocer?
Do I need the canned beef
The potatoes
The coffee beans?
Oh for twenty minutes apricity
While chopping wood
To feed these hungry flames.
I lurch between choices
Migration or hibernation?
Fly South like the Curlew
To warmer lands
Or sleep the winter through
As the Polar bear would do?
My mind resists the urge to take flight
While my body insists on sleep.
I toss another log on the fire
And settle in
For another night
Of home delivered pizza.
I planted a tree a couple of days ago
A Silver Birch
My wife’s favourite
It was in the ground
and looking good
Without warning
My back just seized
Oh shit
Here we go again
Pain starts immediately
And the darkness sneaks in
Why did I bother i think
I’ll never see the tree grown
Never sit in its shade
Never get to walk by
Touch the trunk
Feel the leaves
I spent the next few days inside
With my laptop
Pages open for scrutiny
Wheelchairs
Walking aides
Retirement homes
In-home nursing
(The trees goal is clear
Grow tall and offer its shade
Fear consumed my life)
My wife continues
To water the tree
And love me
Even though I often tend
To catastrophise.
So I fell on my sword It wasn’t entirely her fault anyway even though we both laughed during the planning I don’t see the problem really It’s not like we broke a Ming vase It was a letterbox And to be honest That box was begging for it All shiny and just big enough To take a good size cracker And a mozzie coil timer Maybe the neighbours letterbox Wasn’t the ideal choice, in hindsight Ah well, No pocket money for a while I guess
In the winter of a life, Sunrises appear more spectacular, Full moons shine with extra brilliance, Night time seems much longer, Yet time flashes by.
As I stroll in this sunrise, In the winter of my life - These thoughts surround me. Like the golden leaves Covering the pathways and benches.
Taking a seat beneath a massive Oak I watch the leaves fall around me as if my thoughts are written upon them. Relaxing, I close my eyes And marvel at life's journey.
A gust of frigid air stirs me from my reverie An early morning jogger smiles offering me a slight nod As she runs past, light on her toes.
My knees crack as I stand. The wind continues. Clearing the leaves from pathways. Pushing them under trees, And against hedgerows.
My mind turns to other thoughts. Fresh roasted coffee, And warm croissants. The routine of life is so familiar, Yet every day is more beautiful.
Do you know that rusty orange colour?
It forms on an axe
If it’s left out overnight.
That’s the colour of the sauce
On my burger
This lunch time.
Do you know the pale cream colour?
It’s like the sesame seed
on my burger bun.
That’s the colour of that little half moon
At the top of the pretty girls
Fingernails.
Do you know that blue/black colour?
It is the colour of an Asian guys hair
Worn with style.
That’s the colour of the suit,
I’m wearing
At a friends funeral.
He loved Oranges.
His favourite colour,
Unbelievably,
Was beige and
His dark eyes
Near his pupils were blue/black.
I’ll never see these colours again,
Without feeling his loss over again.
His vision fixed beyond the branches
barely seeing the verdant fields.
His mind refused to hear
the twittering Fantail,
the wind rustling through golden leaves.
Concentrating only
on the sound of the stream,
trickling between the tree roots.
As he waited patiently
for his urine to flow.
We held each other’s hand
And you kissed me on my lips
Once upon a time
Dolphins find a mate for life
And they make love, just for fun
Poetry is my aeroplane 