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Being Alive

A misty morning,
Spring, cool.
Voices far and near
In the vapour.
Nascent sunglow
Diffused by fog,
In fret beneath
Hidden heavens.
Intake of cold gold.
Outswept brume
Of my ether,
Adding to all that is
Already there.
The taste of steel
On the still air,
Hometown flavour.
The metal seat
Is cool and hard
But there is comfort
In knowing it will warm.
A robin sings
It’s warbled warning
In the garden
I made for us both.
A small space
But my own.
A small life
But enough.
No need to go
No need to do
Other things.
No need to be
Someone else.
No need of anything
But being alive.

Love is a Nonsense

Love is a nonsense.
It is, isn’t it?
A stupid idea,
Perhaps conceived
In conception
Or some other
Fulfilment of need
From the time before we had
A need for words.
I mean, what is it for?
What does it do,
It lays a burden
Of duty,
On those it afflicts
It constrains the minds
And steals the time of
The lover
And, in return,
The loved.
It dilutes the power
Of concentration,
Of one mind
On one thing.
Another thing
An other half
Is always in there
Time, attention, obeisance,
Leaving less
Of me.
Other love,
Brother love,
Mother love,
Love of family,
Love of friends,
That love is pure
Unqualified, unsullied, unselfish
Given freely,
Taken, and given back.
What am I saying?
Am I even speaking
Of love?
I don’t know.
Love is a nonsense.

Me Time

Just give me time
To sit and write
and think and write
and read and write.
Just let me be
the very least
that I can be;
Just let me be
the best I can
at least of me.
Just give me time.


The other night
With old friends
Talking and laughing
Our shared lives.
We’ve known each other
For years
But meet only
These days.
Not often enough.
The first words
After months apart
Were a conversation
Barely interrupted
By the inconvenience
Of time.
We laughed
We drank
We talked
Did the family thing
Did the work thing
Did what we do.
We spoke of nothing
As usual
And everything
As usual
We said things
Only friends can say.
“Cut your own hair, mate?”
He hadn’t.
“You put weight on?
I haven’t.
A bit. Much.
You can say many things
To friends
Anything, really
Because they know
Your idiocies.
But you can’t say.
How much you love them.

On The Shivering Tor

Burn me, then,
When I am done
And scatter my ashes
On the shivering Tor.
Don’t bury my bones
In a dutiful hole.
Nothing of me
Will be left
At the end.
There was nothing much
At the start.
Nothing worth remembering.
Who remembers, anyway?
The last stone at Cheops
The first brick of my house.
Who made them?
Who laid them?
Who cares?
Don’t you see?
Bundy or Ghandi,
A millennium from now
They too will be
Fully forgotten
Like you and me.

About These Posts

These posts are a mixture of formats – haikus, poems, short stories, whatever. Click on the title to see the full work – there are sometimes images or notes that expand the piece a little more.

I hope you like the things I write as much as I do writing them.

Let me know what you think.