The wait

Waiting by the phone for an incoming call
Fingers tapping as the seconds drag
Never knowing when to leave
Chores to do but should I risk it
Better to go now or wait some more
Tap, tap, tap
A familiar tune stuck in my head
Wait or go
Go
Machine emptied, washing hung
Back, refresh
Sorry we missed you,
Nooooooo

The Waking

Darkness as the city snores
With engine roars
That never pause.

Darkness as the country sighs
A barn owl cries
To soft replies.

Darkness as the house exhales
With children's tales
As moonlight pales.

Darkness in the dreams of man
Unconscious plans
Grow out of hand.

Daybreak brings the blood-tinged skies
When bleary eyes
Prepare to rise.

Monsters of the mind

He says he's scared of zombies
And vampires in the night,
Of werewolves, ghosts and other things
That crawl and groan and bite.

I've tried to reassure him
That none of those exist
But he just reads more stories
And adds more to the list.

A child's imagination
Can make those monsters real,
And nothing adults tell them
Will alter how they feel.

Games

The bluff,
Hands to the side, face blank
Accusing every other party
Sowing discord.
It's always me, the spy
Hands close to chest, face open,
Agreeing with every accusation,
Feigning truths and sheltered lies.
Three times the cock crowed,
And three times the liar stood amongst the proud.
Three wins.

Deadlines

Panic at the end of month
Targets looming, wheeling dealers
Fretful fingers type and tap
Emails and extended feelers.

Time is short now, furrowed brow
Nights of problem-solving dreams.
5 contracts in 4 days, you say?
That's as impossible as it seems.

The visitor

The lights are on but no-one's home
I knock but the cat's just there alone
Pawing at the window pane
Going round the curtain again and again.

I try the phone and hear it ring
From the inside it comes echoing
But no-one picks it from the base
There is no human in this place.

The car is missing from the drive
And there's no-on in at number 5
Maybe they're all at the shops
Or on their hols in their flip-flops.

And so I let myself on in
Trying not to upset anything
I pocket some jewels and a nice antique
Then quick back out the door I sneak.

The Shadow on the Wall

The beast lies still as I enter the room. Every time, a shock to see it slouched there, head hanging low over a pendulous necklace of flesh. It has been nearly two years since that first day, two years of steady decline. Flies buzz about it as above a rotting carcass, hideous onlookers jeering, dancing a maddening tarantella. They know the beast is too weak to move them on, limbs too heavy to lift and swat. Instead, that foul mouth rasps, spits and wheezes; those dark eyes spin malevolence like circus knife-men. The flies revel in their spittle shower, and those dark eyes turn my way, showing the same frustration and hate.

Will it be today? God, please take it away.

A throat that has lost the mechanisms of voice instead pushes out a single thin line of drool and accompanying whine like a torn grass-whistle, slack and flapping between two thumbs. I know what it needs. The only reason I enter this room. It raises a finger my way, yellowed with a band of sausage pink where the ring was cut away. Jabbing the air with a mildewed claw, at once commanding and repulsive.

Three perfect tubes spring from that mass, feeding life in measured drops. I unclip an empty bag; reaching for another I send a shaft of light cutting the dusty air, and I see the shadow of my mother.

The Modern Life

It's been hard these last few days,
The heart it beats erratically,
Clinging to the fraying edge,
Small mercies taken where they fall.

The tinnitus of modern life
Where pressure is a constant curse
And ulcers underline the hours
Of spinning wheels and turning clocks.

The cycle has no end in sight,
A rising flood to struggle through,
And molehills very soon become
A cumulative mountain range.

We do what we do because we must,
Face what's thrown at us head on,
Each new day we start again,
Exhausted from our sleepless nights.

The Autumn Cat

The mist flooded the dawn-lit land
As the cat took up her lofty perch
On the flat roof of the school room
Beside the lightning-struck birch.

She flicked her tail thoughtfully,
Lazily swiped at a passing fly.
A sparrow trilled a warning song
And the moon still hung in the sky.

The cat stretched out a toothy yawn
And closed its heavy eyes to dream
Of kittens, mice and balls of twine,
Of home's warm aga and saucer of cream.

...

The iceberg

I'm sorry for taking it out on you
Had no right to shout and curse
Make mountains out of minor things.
What you did was wrong without question,
Through intent and action
Provoked my reaction
That was out of control.
I'm sorry for the way I behaved with you.
Typical trigger response
To something much deeper,
Totally unrelated.
Another floe collides with the iceberg.

Too tired to write

I'm so tired that I've forgotten how to write.
Hand pushes pen, but brain lags behind.
Words get caught up in that tangled ink,
Rapidly spidering out of control.
Eyes lose focus and fingers press on,
Writing as my head slips into sleep,
Jerking awake with the sharp tick of the nib.
I read it back the next day, rewriting it,
Replacing strings of nonsense words
That made subconscious sense.

The day to day

I wonder as the mornings flow
If this is all there is to life
A constant repetitious wave
Dawn to dusk inside the hive.

Every day begins the same
The sun fails to keep the clouds at bay
The earth shakes off its weary sloth
The birds say what they have to say.

The hills roll up their bedclothes
The raindrops puddle rings
The routine runs like clockwork
And I wonder what tomorrow brings.

Camping with the moon

Stories as the smoke rises
And laughter lights the evening sky.
Coiled in a camping chair
Hands reaching out to draw
Every wave of heat.
Burnt-sugar-tipped sticks litter the ground,
Sign of the children finally asleep.

Sounds of singing carry over,
Friend of a friend on the mic, should we go?
Taking it in turns, one leaves
The other huddles closer to the fire,
Throwing on the sugar sticks that spit and crack.
The moon is high and full,
And in good company,

A passing storm

By an old bucket split and discarded
Home to snails, nothing more
Under the tree where fruits fall like thunder
An easy place to be ignored.

Curled and tired at the roots of the walnut
Wreathed around by rose's thorn
She lay huddled, cold and whimpering
Sheltered from the nearby storm.

She could see the lightning through the window
Hear the crack and crash indoors
So she chose to hide in the tangled bushes
Until the clouds had passed once more.

The rush

We're never on time
Constantly rushing
From meeting to meeting
With nary a breath.
I can't work out why
We're always pushing
The deadlines, competing
Not to be the last left.

Dream travel

Caged in a bubble of light we fly
Skin pressed against cool walls
The blue of time races by
As inexorably we fall.

There is in view a golden end
A door that leads us out of here
Opening into atmosphere
Or at least we can pretend.

The spinning wheel will one day stop
Our bubble craft will cease to drop
And out we'll climb and blink and breathe
Free when we thought we'd never leave.

But for now we sit and wait
Wondering if we'll hit that date.

It's. So. Hot.

It's. So. Hot.
The flies are wearily buzzing around.
It's. So. Hot.
My sweat makes a 'plop' as it lands on the ground.
It's. So. Hot.
My clothes are piled up on the floor.
It's. So. Hot.
I don't think I can take it much more.
It's. So. Hot.
The nights are warmer than most days.
It's. So. Hot.
Stay out of the sun's rays!
It's. So. Hot.
My pen's starting to perspire.
It's. So. Hot.
This notebook's catching fire.

Getting older

There are wrinkles where there shouldn't be
And vex where once was cave
Skin that sags round eyes in bags
And many more parts to shave.

The memory's not what it was
Both eyes are fading fast
Aches and pains and varicose veins
A pining for the past.

There's still much to look forward to
The best times are ahead
Retire on £30 per week
And before too long, you're dead.

Notes on Walking

It's bluer than I remember
Free of shade
Just a beating sun
And around me the cracking of ripening wheat
And the crunch of boots on fissured earth.

Pigeons clatter and scatter as I pass.
Turning through a harvested field of sweetcorn
I fill my pack with discarded cobs
A good meal tonight.

Crossing the boundary,
Dipping into a tunnel of trees
On ancient tracks
Shade thick with flies
And greener smells.

In the heat of the sun again before long
Cutting the corner of a churchyard
Winding back through spikes of stubble
To the roar of a modern road.
And home.

Long distance

Jet trails puncture the morning sky
And I think of you.
My sun rises as yours is sinking.
The song of night we sang, a memory
Warm, gin-tinged clouds with pin-pricks of clarity.
A week ahead of me.
A week of forevers,
Of emotions piggy-backing electrons.
Love in a time of wi-fi,
My electronic wife and I.
Come home safe.
All pales to the physicality of being.

Theft

Drinking at the grave
Where we stole the stone.
Alone this time
With a cigarette
Where your hand would rest
And test the air
As the cold rang out across us
Stinging our lips.
I stroke the lighter,
Elicit flame again and again
And watch the dandelions
Blow across your name.

Whirls and Girls

The boy bit into the Viennese Whirl,
The jam and cream they splodged.
The biscuit crumbs rolled down his tum
Into the path of his striding mum
Who nimbly changed her gait and dodged
The crumbs but crashed into a girl.

The girl was drinking fizzy pop
The lid it popped right off
She slipped and tripped and dropped the cup
Which at the time was quite full up
With bubbles towering in a froth
And washed over her brand new top.

The top was once a glowing white
But now was a murky brown.
Sagged and bedraggled, the girl stood still
And let out a shriek, short and shrill.
The boy stood up and handed round
Viennese Whirls, which made things right.

Buds and bad moods

The buds that break and softly fall
Never dream of being trees at all
Those years of verdant growth ahead.
But now they're dead

...

Me and dew

School days as the evenings shrink
And birds descend on hedgerow fare,
Feathers push the temperate air
And I step out the door to think
Of rhythms natural and perverse
That rule my morning, noon and night
If what I do is wrong or right
My life a blessing or a curse.
This tendency to think at length
But rarely turn 'think' into 'do'
The opposite, I guess, of you
Our differences become our strength.
As I walk, the dew that gathers
On the grass soaks to my skin,
Pushes me to head back in
Where this worry never matters.

September

September, the end of it all.
Holidays run their course
And all that goodwill fades in the fog
Replaced by a nervous fear
Of children starting a new school year
And parents returning to the grind.
No matter how familiar,
It's never a welcome feeling.

Rain on the way home

The rain falls.
It's inevitable.
The tent curls and uncurls in the wind
As 100,000 beads of water
Glue themselves to the fabric.
We give it a frivolous shake to no avail.
It goes away wet,
As do we all.
A glorious week bookended by torrential rain.
At set up and break down, of course.
Packed a day early to try and avoid it
But nature was wise to those plans
Bringing the rain forward to greet us.
At least home is in sight.
Wet, wonderful home.

Boats by the Cobb

Wires bend like ghosts of sails in the wind
A shrill whistle and a tap-tap against the mast.
The sea has come to claim its own.

Crashing over the cobb in a white curtain
As flecks of spray repaint the sun-bleached wood.
The sea is here and all shall know.

...

Glow sticks

They've found the glow sticks
We enter to yards and yards of fluorescent chain
Snaking from wall to wall
And everywhere in between,
Lighting their faces in rapture.
One dances from toe to toe
Bare foot and bathed in a multitude of colours.
The other kneels in the middle of a huge coil
Like a steadfast monk
Carefully fitting sticks end to end.
A week's worth of fun gone in one.
We just smile and jump in.

Keening stone

Keening stone
Struck a blow with tempered steel
Reverberate to find the tone
Split and fall like citrus peel.
There inside
First breath for 80 million years
Waiting for the longest tide
No water of life ever appeared.
Trapped in mud
Fossilised and hard as rock
'Til woken with the thud
Of another dull hammer knock.

Stars in the mist

And from the mist
A trail of lights
Explodes into the midnight sky
Into the hollow dark
They fill the air with diamond glints
Each a legendary Greek
Or animal arrayed in line
3 points a celestial sword
Or four to form a farmer's plough
As they glow the mist comes in
Thick and low
So I can't see the hills around
But those stars still blaze above.