FridayIIII July

Just nipping through space,
To the other side of the world.
Travelling at a sense defying, aeronautical pace.
Wishing I’d packed less shoes and brought a towel.
Never one to take what I need.

The boy in row b,
Desperately needs to pee,
His dad looks ready to jump.
‘When the seatbelt signs off, then you can pee.’
He says like he’s not going to scream.
The row c girls,
slicking holiday-hair,
Compete with row b in decibels.

In some countries they clap on landing
The British don’t.
It his job to land.
Let’s not get enthusiastic.
Let’s be glad we’re in one piece,
And nothing fell off the metal beast.

The hostesses are black-eyed.
Dutifully bright,
Caked in duty-free make up.
Doing a good impression of breezy.
Eye bags made from millions of sleepless miles.
Night-time twice in one day.
Sending biorhythms into disarray.
Poor flying souls one can only hope they sleep in the next city.

A heavenly elephant.
Cloud to cloud the plane clumsily prances.
Leaving perfect jet streams,
Zipping from days to night and passing dreams.

ThursdayIIII July

The only one.
The one thing.

Completely singular,
Wonderfully irregular,
Irredeemably idiosyncratic,
A stand alone.
A one off.
The essence in quintessence.

But that’s not it at all.
Creation is:
a million chance meetings,
convergences,
indices,
happenings,
instances,
moments,
details,
All
Linked.
Interconnected,
Joined,
Interpolated and rolled.....

Into the only one.
The one thing.

WednesdayIIII July

For all that we survey.....

Demographic definition.
Is fixed.
Profiles remain unconfined.
Cohabiting with baby boomers and a few of the pre 2nd world war depressed,
Straddling generation y and x.

Checklist:
Age
Gender
Income level
Race
Ethnicity

In brief:
31
Female
Not much
White-British
Etc.....

In truth:
Ethnic origin: White-British.
Plainly not Indian or Chinese.
Definitely not white, anglo saxon, protestent:
Not American.
Though my hand across the sea is holding.
Ethnically original.
White - with twists.
Through the family chronicles it has been intimated that there is quite a bit of –ish.
Though the extent of –ish has not been accurately calibrated so stands an iffy ish:
English-ish, French-ish, African-ish, Jew-ish, Span-ish and quite a lot of cockney sparra'.
A Parisian cigarette seller,
A Cape Town republican,
A Spanish gypsy,
A King’s Cross dairy farmer,
A PR specialist for Phillips.
A poetess,
A writer,
A painter.......

Religion:
No fixed religion though Catholicism, Protestantism, fervent Communist inspired atheism, Jewish have all passed through.

Age:.....
Surveys show the brackets are a changing. Hopefully they will continue to.

Children:.....
Maybe one day....but not in tow.

Sex:
Female
With decidedly masculine ticks.

Sexual Orientation:.........?
None of your business,
But if it really has a bearing on your wonderful survey,
And significantly contributes to your understanding of my consumer choices,
In the same way knowing an author’s sexual orientation adds to his story and not the one he writes,
(Please feel free to argue the above statement):

I am up for it and I am not particularly bothered by who’s playing.

Thank you for the time you took to complete our survey.

TuesdayIIII July

The brain's not waving it's drowning......

Brain waves.
Excited.
Tickle and trickle.
From trigger to trip.
Trillions of synapses.
Waving to cells.
Patchwork action potential,
Neurotransmits to natural art.
Countless threads in spinning heads.

MondayIII July

The Bike Ride

I grew up in a place where trees tickled the sky.
Where leaves spun green haloes,
Choreographing dancing shadow below.
In Spring I saw nature yawn,
Buds breaking filmy skins
And spreading multi-coloured wings.

Things that grew beckoned to things that flew
'Sit a while and sing'
Pollen dusted the breeze.
The world was a kiss.
Where twilight blushed with
Sundown’s promise.
Spring copied bliss.

Married

33 years.
Have passed.
I am here.
Saying yes.
I can see now.
It got me here.
Saying yes.


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SaturdayIII July

Round and Round

Pedestrian clowns.
Fantastically fickle.
Crowd pleasing.
Pleading.
Slipping banana skin slapstick
Between bike tricks.
Tight-lipped.
Grubby white, streaked, leaked red.
Quick to turn.
Round and round.
Laugh ringing the otherside of the grin.

FridayIII July

I am old

I am old.
I don't know how old.
I know I am old because I look old.
People tell me I am old.
My body's telling me I am old.
My body's tired and aches.
My face feels it's been baked.
Fading away on a flood of years.

I lost my memory recently.
Not because I am old.
Just because along the line it disappeared.

It was about an hour after I'd fallen over.
It was May 26th, warming up to Spring.
I came too on the pavement in a pool of blood.
People stood round.

I knew they were people I knew what they were saying I knew what their gestures meant.
But I didn't know how I'd got there,
What my name was,
I didn't know when I'd learnt what people are and what they say and do,
Or where I'd been, yesterday or 10 years before.
I understood the subtle codes behind the body language but didn't know where I'd learnt them.

I had the full range of social tools but no box to put them in.
I had the full picnic and the full ten bob note but had no idea where the money had come from or who had decided what was in the sandwiches.
To coin a phrase. I knew how to coin phrases but didn't know who'd taught 'em.

I thought I had the better half of memory.
Until I started missing.
And looking.
I didn't know what I was looking for or what I missed.
But it didn't stop me looking.

ThursdayIII July

Pow Pow

Pencil-skirt press.
Dressed to impress.
Glad rags and war paint.
Transforming tad tatty to:
Beacon body and heady face.
Tea-slurping, nightie wearing shadow.
To siren.

Clamped thighs.
Heels uncomfortably high.
Taking pinched, pigeon steps.
Monroe’s waddle.
Era to era.
Pout, large mouthed and curvy.
Attitude guaranteed to bang home
Woman.

WednesdayIII July

Bananas

A cut glass bowl sits on a battered kitchen table.
Its clear, thick sides magnify the ridges and whirls of beaten-up wood.
It looks perched, as though its better than this and will go.
The bowl’s aged well.
It’s older, by a number of years, than the table and its owner.
It looks the same as when it came out of its box.
It survived the blitz.

During the sixties it held bits.
Household fragments – used string, elastic bands or random keys.
One particularly event filled night it was almost smashed on a lover’s head.
It survived the growing family’s hasty move from flat to ill-afforded house.
Lesser objects didn’t.
For a brief period it was a wormery.
And a vapour bath.
And it's seen a fair few family dinners.
It saw the break up and the half-arsed make up.

Many years and objects have passed in and around the cut glass bowl.
It has always remained the same. Cut glass and a bowl.
Now different fruits ripen in it.
The bananas turn to brown from tropical yellow.
If they turn too far no-one will eat them.
They’ve travelled a long way, further than the cherries,
To sit in the sun rubbing skin with strange skin.
She peels one and eats it.
The bunch is displaced and shifts lower into the bowl.

WednesdayIII July

Glassy green.
Rimmed red.
Shining salted drops.
Tipping in pearly springs.

TuesdayIII July

Star Watcher

My father called me Al Fazari.
I was born on a warm, well-lit night.
Afterwards,
My mother lay quiet.
Too tired to hold me, my newness lay beside her.  
Lapped by desert air the fire’s flames wrapped themselves in their partner shadow.
And flew round the tent.
She watched their shapes shrink and swell.
And my chest rising and falling with early breaths.
Outside silhouettes cast spindly forms against the thick night.

I have grown to be a strong man.
Of whom my family are proud.
I have no real vices.
I am a star gazer.
That’s how the goats know me.

At the end of each day I pack away my tools.
And sling them over my shoulder in a makeshift bag.
After a while the sacking rubs my shoulder blades and collar.
Making my sweaty skin raw and red.
As well as the tools I take soaked olives, wine and bread.
I nod to the other workers when I leave the square.
And turn to tread the path to my hill and its perfect rock.

At the start of each new night,
As sun-set’s russet kaleidoscope goes
I climb onto the rock.
And arrange myself crossed-legged.
I eat some bread and all the olives.
Waiting for the sky to grow.

I can feel day’s heat seep away to night cool.
My body and my mind are peaceful.
My stomach’s full of bread.
My eyes drink in the sky.
Soaking in starry avenues.
Ancient patterns.
Catch and hold heaven for man.

At first nothing seemed to move.
The stars hung still.
Then over many nights their places became paths.
And when I slept I saw them run down their paths.
Keeping their place and moving down paths in unison.
Each new night was for me a dawn.

MondayIII July

Junk

End of the line.
Drawn thin.
Sniper snappy.
Rail-road trim.
Stretched too far.

Teetering, clawing
Falling.

Track edge.
Hung by a thread.
No more tether.
Bent hell for leather.

Clinician’s sentence.
Silently screaming.
At 3am.
Rattling round and round
Crocodile fears.
Falling on deaf ears.
Junked head.

Ommm

Rhythmic resonance
Raising
Inner-relevance
Monkish ommm
Follows
Deep hum.

Vibration
Widening, welling
Moving over for
Rainbow water
Light-licked leaves
In sun-filled trees

Lapping lullaby:
Slipping,
Compass crossed,
Broken oddities.
Rushing to oceans between.
1000s of miles,
Next door.
Familiar strangers,
Seeing unseen.

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SaturdayII July

Pray

Turn around.
Go on.
Right now.
Just once look over your shoulder.
Make it a good look,
Study what you see,
Take note.

It's not all remote
It's real.
As real as real can be.
They said so.
Quick, it's time now.
There's still time now.

Look closer.
Beyond legend.
Look and listen.
It'll help you see.

It could be time to rewind.
Catch moments.
Make it right.
Take care.
Don't jump.
Turn around.
Go on.
Show your face.
Change time.
Turn the outside in.

London Now and Then

City-slicked
Jigsaw shards
Sprinkle
Over-blown
Hyper-lit
Kaleidoscopic spices
Hotly-stepped
Urban fandango
Danced to a 24hour drum
Come, come, come...
It's the urban sprawl ball.

ThursdayII July

What's the time Mr.Wolf?

Should I?
Could I?
Would I?
Why don't I?
What's stopping you?
They say:
It's your choice.
Trust your instincts.
Be yourself.
Get on with it, why don't you?
What could go wrong?
Life's too short not to.
Isn't it?
If you don't do it now, when will you?
It will all be the same in fifty years.
The same but different.
So.....
Go on, go on, go on.
Dare you.

Tip-toe forward.
Scuttle Back.

WednesdayII July

At the edge of the desert:

Tumble-weed tired.
Blown brain to grain.
One thought town
Tin-scorched dry.

Perched on an elemental ledge.
Nature’s no-man’s land, a desert blank.
Waiting for rain to lift the horizon's edge.

TuesdayII July (edited Schemata)

Soul Rainbow

Cardinal red
Raises its ruddy head.
Flares of ferrari red,
Blare to blizzard blue.
Fern green
To atomic tangerine.
An anti-flash white light,
Scorching brown lines in raw yellow.

MondayII July

Fleeting emotions:

Covet concern
Filling
Wide eyes
Spilling
Crocodile tears.
Telling
Carefree cares
Willing
Sentimental stares

Sincerity crushed
In emotional guff,
Soul's double bluff.

Painted soul:
Emotional landscapes
Of a still life.
Good use of instinctive lines.
A little naïve here and there.
But a good likeness.
Showing:
Dedicated practice.
With flair.

SundayI July

Core-blown
Softly started
Simple
Angel-fire
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

Storm spanked sky.
Spat til it died.
Squalling water burst its banks.
Loomy soil sank.
Wind- rushed reeds
Bent to:
Rain- lashed trees.
A willow sank to gnarly knees.
And a post-storm breeze floated
Lightly on yellowed air.



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FridayI July

It is:

Weightless matter.
Bottomless depth.
Numberless sum.
Letterless word.
Silence's song.

But still:
Nothing's everything;
Bigger,
Wider,
Brighter and
Louder.

All the art,
the words,
All the music,
the science,
All the love,
the hate,
All in all,
In all the world.
It is:
All the hopes and all the fears.

ThursdayI July

Schemata

Cardinal red
Raise its ruddy head.

Kicking and screaming:
At the murmur,
Voicing choirs.
To get up.
Get up.
 
Flares of ferrari red,
Blare to blizzard blue.
Fern green
To atomic tangerine.

Unchecked.
Winter-crisped worlds,
Hot hopes and
Packed perceptions.
Earnest flickers blindly fold in an all seeing snare.

Glitzy persuasions
Peep out of the box
Wrenched of free will.
Failed control.
Run blind
Un-tethered, head long into fear.

Into love.
Hope.
Preoccupations of a searching soul.
No end.
No middle.
And no beginning.
An anti-flash white light,
Scorching brown lines in raw yellow.  

WednesdayI July

All Saint's Day Dinner

Turning to the super-eminent, wonder-worker,
Seated 7th to my right at the elegantly dressed table,
I shouted ‘What’s this hate all about?’
He paused, visibly scorned.
His benevolent features contracted with a furtive fear.
It was as though my mouth were a sewer,
And out had flown all that had ever been sworn.  
That or he’d choked on his skewer.

Feeling bad (who likes upsetting the pious and good?),
All he wanted was a nice chat and a bit of cloud-fluffed pud.
I asked Saint Autonomous and Zelates, ‘why?’
‘Is hate that hard to stomach? Does ‘it’ not have a place at this table?’

Hadrat and Buddha nodded sagely,
Bumping sage heads.
They giggled and apologised, starry eyed with good will.
There was no getting sense from them.
Michael and Gabriel were no better.

Kabir and Tzadikkim managed to solemnly decree:
‘It’s all about the love. Love heals hate. But hate never healed love.’
Untapped, heedless rivers of boundless purity.
They spouted forth on this as more than a possibility.

It sort of made sense.
Though seemed overshadowed.
Good and Evil.
In the middle?
Well I don't know, maybe it was just this heavenly wine?

At a good people dinner party.
Table manners are politely observed.
As are all other traditional observances.
Signs are unnecessary:
‘Darling goodies please remember....’
The guests didn’t need to be told
They were always good as gold.

It was a big dinner party.
Made up of lots of good guests.
Delicately enjoying ambrosial cuisine,
Honeyed-nectar and Eden terrine,
Slipped by with the cat who’d got the cream.
 
These men had changed the face of humanity.
Changed the way men viewed men.
But yet they ate and ate, blind to all the hate.

TuesdayI July

Rocking Horses and tin soldiers

A fantastic free-for-all.
In imagined spaces.
Worn décor: peeling and pale.
Tumbled corridors with endless doors.
Rooms without ceilings, bewildered by nature,
Senseless symmetry with sweet reason.
Floors a crunchy mix of insect carcass and woody grit.
Rooms without walls, leading to windowless halls.
Grasses as long as the rivers.
And branches as thick as the sky.
An edge leaps to layered palaces of lacy gold.
Architecture precariously perched
On balconette after balconette,
Floor after floor,
Each edge a single palace,
In a red-ripped rose-lined funnel of awe.

MondayI July

On a quiet night the sea settles,
Softly slinky under a faraway moon,
Inkily winking to the lunar tune.

On a quiet night a busy building,
Divest of day,
Settles in the wake of its work-tired tide.
The secretarial swish of nylon shifts,
And the patter of bossy steel-heels,
Head for home.

Toil, toil, toil,
Chatter, chatter, chatter,

Populous with purpose,
A reason to live.
Year in, year out.
Endless chatter and clatter.

Gone now.
Long forgotten.
Leaving the building with its post-crowd calm.
Lights winked off one after another,
Their warm glow snatched from the gutters and railings below.

SundayI July

A Love Story:

Turning to Pol-Pot,
Who was seated to the right,
I said 'What happened to the love?'
He paused and though he didn't laugh it was as though I'd made a joke.
Or farted.
'All I did was for love'
Confused, I asked Hitler what he meant.
He declined to answer as his mouth was full of breast of dove.
He waved his hand batting the question on.
Stalin turned.
Stroked his steel moustache and said politely:
'People, power, politics, and personality: it's all about the love.'

At a bad people dinner party.
Table manners are a must.
The food and the wine must be just right.
The discussion of politics and religion is not encouraged.
It was a big dinner party.
Made up of lots of bad guests.
Bad people sat and ate their guts full of burnt livers and torn parts.
They drank the blood of a thousand men.
And for starters devoured the souls of children's hearts.

These men had changed the face of humanity.
Changed the way men viewed men.
But yet they ate and ate.

SaturdayI July

Glossy Life

This is the beginning and the end.
This was meant to be a poem.
But it's not.
Questions took over.
The poem is now questions.

Taketh away the flaw.
And improveth (fff) the man.
Evolution's long-hand solution.
Erode slow four-legged gaits,
And replace with a speedy two-legged pace.
Nature's honing of natural talents.
Sorting hardy wheat from weaker chaff.

Human nature,
Bears down on the pace of time.
Rallys 'gainst decay and decline.
Time observed and innate?
Mend, build and bend.
Own, control and comprehend.
Inspired curiosity.
For curiosity's sake.

Such hope.

FridayI July

Hands on, hands off, Hands on, hands off...

Cool hands.
Marble cool.
White veined royal-blue.
Winter’s palm.
Ghostly cool.
Calm and very slightly cruel.
Unfazed and frigid.
Hands Off.

Unlike:

Heavy handed.
Hot headed.
Red, round and warm.
Wetly erratic.
Shiny with strain.
Frazzled and flappy.
And very slightly cruel.
Hands On.

ThursdayI July

Your eye caught the light.
In the darkest part it showed.
A large white dove soared,
Circling a patch of scrubby park-green.
A diamond-shaped kite billowed
Red and green on the blue sky.
She flew to the central oak tree.
Its leaves as dark as the tree was old.
Her phosphorescent glow,
Flashed between each leaf.
Where the sun already dwelled.
In the darkest part they showed.