Tuesdays (Connection).

I feel better when I let a regret go; When I make a selection And I choose a direction, And when I find a connection. I feel better when I let a regret go; When I shake preconceptions By overcoming rejection, When I face an objection But they make an exception. And when I find a connection. I feel better when I let a regret go; When I relive a section Of a loved recollection. When I hide my inside, and I’m evading detection, When I see my reflection And embrace imperfection. I feel better when I let a regret go; When there’s garbage collection. (Tuesdays) I feel better when I find a connection.

Say —

Say —

at a bus-stop, waiting on your own,
a day of dulled cloud, almost rain,
your mind tuned to an inner moan
of life being too much grey, again.

And, say, your only company’s
a straggling hedge, a litter bin,
the road’s dirt edge, some scrubby trees,
a cold wind sanding down your skin.

But your eye wanders, say, and there’s
damp holly, leaves like gleaming glass,
wet-bottle-green; its brilliance shares
a flash-light quiver in the grass

so, looking harder, say, you see
a blackbird’s eye, his orange bill
deep in the dandelions, three
fat daisies, one late daffodil

then start to match all this to words,
your own to catch, exact – but how?
the glittering laughter of the birds?
the noise of yellow here and now?

The bus turns up. Your mind’s alive –
making, remaking: words that sway
and dance and shine, and yours to drive
forward and eager. Share them, say?

The Day Fades Away

I feel better when I am awake and it’s dawn not sunset. So the day hasn’t faded and drifted away. As you can never know with my dolly mixture of prescribed pills for the body and mindsets. So a quick coffee mischievously laced with brandy and just one cigarette. This old man has allowed himself to avoid being upset. After medication it’s time for transcendental morning mediation oh to possibly float above the floor,without my body aching or mutter Buddhist mantras, dance Sufi trances,chant Rosicrucian secret practices or maybe Mindfulness: focus on a leaf for a while and find an inner smile. Busy afternoon then dusk : created to call children home and the aged to ruminate and reminisce. Night time comes, so there is the promise of tomorrow! Then I can stamp and smack my worn warm boots in the snow leave my cosmic footprint forever in returning cold. Find some warmth in the fading of the day that has been given and that’s when I feel better when I am ….

I’m better

posted in: Poems 2016 | 0

I feel better when I see your smile

I’m better when I look into your eyes

I’m gratefull I carried you safe inside

Now you are my precious child

I feel better that you give me strength

I’m better when your close to me

I’m gratefull that you give me hope

not much else could compete

I feel better now you make me feel alive

I’m better now your in my life

Gratefull for my beautifull child

I’m better now I’m a mum

This is my strength to carry on

Running Wild

Running Wild.

I feel happy when I look and see …

Flowery meadows and the humming bee.

Snowdrops heralding winters’ demise,

Daffodils golden, grouping in choirs.

Crocus sprinkled like stars in the grass,

Bold coloured Tulips appearing en mass.

Buttercups, Daisies speckling the verge,

Cow-Parsley stretch up, flowers emerge.

Cornflowers gently blowing in the breeze,

Dandelions, grasses prompting a sneeze.

Indigo Linseed and Lavenders glow,

Spiky Hawthorn with it’s blossom like snow.

Wild poppies flourishing in the upturned ground,

All sights inspiring Happy Paintings, I’ve found.

I Am

On a billboard
black shining hair
crisply parted
and bright blue eyes
with a wide smile
shout perfection.
I am not buying it.

On a newscast
dirty brown clouds
explode skywards
vicious killing
heartless maiming
ruthless wrecking.
I am sad and angry.

On a plaza
amongst a crowd
a face shows fear
I point the way
reassured now
he proceeds home.
I am pleased to have helped.

On a third date
linked together
laughing as one
playful teasing
leads to flirting
and future plans.
I am at last in love.

PLAY IN THE STREET

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Once I was a child innocent and complete. I thought world my Oyster my friends and I were the elite. No problems or worries we could not defeat. Secure in the knowledge as we played in our Street. Adventures abound the occasional frown. Spirits so high sad thoughts seldom found. And if there was Spite or a rival to fight, Our anger short lived was gone overnight. Dependable neighbours. greetings cheery and bright. Community spirit friendships held tight. We shared our emotions the highs and the lows. Whatever the weather our doors never closed. Children no longer run in our streets crying with laughter stamping their feet. Children no longer play in our streets. Welcome warm sunny days, smiles sticky with sweets. Children no longer play on our streets.

THE CHILD WHO SANG

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If she could sing Her voice would sound like fledglings On the wing in spring. But her songs are silent butterflies. Her musical wings have been clipped Along with her childhood, Her trust and spirit stolen. Extinguished through fear and betrayal. Occasionally she glimpse her image in a mirror She would mime with a hurt smile, “and the coloured girl’s go, do do do do do do do do do” But behind sad eyes screams a woman’s voice. Her desire paralysed through psychological war fare. In school she sings in unison. Nursery rhymes hymns playtime chants. No one there tells her to shut up. Or to keep secrets In the playground her shadow whispers. Until she reaches her front door. Then Once again the Joy that was song And colourful strings is mute! Injustice became victory & truth one Sunday Kindness touched her soul Acknowledgement gave her liberty As the inaudible screams soared towards the sun The battle was over for….. “and the coloured girl’s go, do do do do do do do do do”

Change of Scene

I make an annual beeline for the coast

Test my flesh against the thrilling swell

At midnight snuggle down as warm as toast.

Leicester life’s not easy, work comes first

Cars and crowds fill streets from wall to wall

So make an annual beeline for the coast.

Sunshine, shrimps and cockles whet the thirst

Ice cream and lollipops keep tempers cool

At midnight snuggle down as warm as toast.

Sand in my socks, pants, shoes and shorts

But itchy grit in oysters helps grow pearls

So make an annual beeline for the coast.

Rock pools hide a whole new universe

Refreshed entirely by the glacial surf

At midnight snuggle down as warm as toast.

All holidays must end, I’m home at last,

Quickly kiss the friends I missed

Tell them to make an annual beeline for the coast

While I just snuggle down as warm as toast

I feel better when I am at the table

I feel better when I am at the table
When the pen is in my hand
Ink bleeding onto the page
Words, hey look words
Personal tiny miracles
It began with chalk on the pavement
Rich words from a cheap pen
I feel better when the page is full
Writing is something you do when you can’t sleep
With any luck you’ll forget that you ever needed to
Sleep is important, so are words
So is the pen
And the paper
And you
Any room will do
Any time will do
I feel better when it is all out of me
Writing is done by everybody
Words are like opinions
Everybody has them
I feel better when I realise this
Maybe you will too

Breathe

posted in: Poems 2016 | 0

Breathe, and consider.

Use perspective, take the time

To appreciate the stars,

And the moon up in the sky.

Be thankful,

Take the chance to give.

Hold on to hope,

Not the negative.

Seek not reward,

But take the win in a smile.

Small steps taken,

Move us on all the while.

Be open, grow.

Banish fear.

Yesterday is gone,

Today is right here.

Down the valley and back

I feel better when I walk to Quorn from Barrow

On pavements laid by water meadows

Set close by the River Soar

Slabs stretch for half a mile or more

Bordered by the thick lush grass

Fields of forage fed by floods.

When rain has rinsed the surface stone

The pathway gleams as clean as new

High pitched pylons frame my view

Amphibia discharge their spawn

Runners and ramblers step in turn

To trickle through the watery marsh

Sometimes I’ll take a stick or staff.

Slabs might be raised or cracked or sunk

Briskly tread both rough and smooth

Better put my worst shoes on

So I can risk the mud and sludge.

Cattle, seagulls, herd and flocks

Swans in pairs and dogs in packs

Trace my footsteps if I run.

Liveried narrow boats in line

Fly flapping flags of pants and jeans

Through the Soar’s black liquid brew

Throbbing engines stir and screw.

Though my return is straight and narrow

From well fed Quorn to bony Barrow

Tin trailers on a caravan park

Wink temptation in the dusk.

Might orange sunsets light the sky

Above green grass where pavements lie?

Beyond the lenses

From my host I see beyond differences
deeper than the outer surface.
They disguise me, veiled behind lenses
but I see through these.
For some I am cells, capillaries and upside down retinal images;
for others false lashes, bright colours and drawn lines.
Laughter lines, crow’s feet, age lines
Don’t distract me.
Green, grey, blue, brown are the same to me.
Optical illusions are my party trick,
but don’t be under your own illusion
I am, as said, the windows to the soul.
I see the depth of every emotion
from the heartache of displacement to sheer undiluted happiness,
from early longing to the steadiness of old love
I see it all
And when two eyes look back it lifts me
when they see beyond my body to who I really am.