Page 2 of 38

What Shall We Do?

Shall we carry on like this, the way we are, close

but not quite together? One couple that is

two distinct people, different in every way

except for our love for one another? Shall we

continue, side by side but out of step, walking

through life together, but in different directions?

Is that such a bad way to be?

I would rather be with you than anyone, so

why can we not just get along, plod on, and give

and take what we can from each other? Let me

write and think and things, give me headspace

to play in. You can do what you love, too,

dance and jig your days away, be unique.

The more I see of other people, the more I know

that we’re not freaks. The couples sitting in the

bars, driving past us in their cars, saying nothing,

thinking something like ‘I wish I was elsewhere’.

There is the truth.

We both were different at the start,

we never were the same,

now both together but apart,

that’s how it will remain,

and when we each face up to that,

we’ll both be glad again.

I Love It Less And Less

Out walking this weekend,

I passed through open spaces,

places that were green,

wooded, unseen. Sometimes

I saw only the good, sun and

blues skies, mist and frost,

lots of birds and trees

I could not name,

nothing man-made, no

dwelling-places, though

I heard the sound of him,

his cars and jets and roar

of dirt-bikes, ugly voices.

His noise annoys me.

Always has. It is late

at night. Alone, drinking,

thinking of my outcast state,

here, in this place of mine,

a space designed

for those like me

to live and die in,

for just surviving,

more and more,

and every day,

the less and less

I want to stay.

Not A Morning Person

It’s the usual routine.

The morning avoiding, waiting

for her to become human again.

She is not a morning person.

We dance around ourselves, hide

in rooms where the other is not, move

to the hidden spaces like soldiers,

avoiding sniping. I get a shot at

for what I have not done yet, the

boring chores that, more and more,

interest me less and less.

There is more to life.

After a while, we find our places,

separate spaces where we can be

alone together, out of range

of each other, while the dead morning

falls. I wait until she recalls

what our nearly normal is. However

did it come to this?

Life can be so good.

I wonder why we always

manage to make it

not so.

A Sea Of Dreams

A storm is coming. The

rain is starting. The drizzle 

trickles down the window pane, and the

clouded light dims the room. In the gloom,

all alone, I can see clearly, hear plainly,

the rain falling, calling, a pitter-patter

chit-chat that picks at my mind 

all the time, whispering, ‘listen, listen

listen to me’. I can see sheets of

spit unfurling from the sky, sailing down

and down the fathoms of air

from the mothership clouds

above. A remembered dream

comes to me and I recall with

unease the ease of the fall from

the mast of a sailing ship 

down down down

into the unending sea,

deepening and

unbreathing me,

awakening me as a child to the

failing family, the unfathering,

lost and drifting and abandoned, to

the worries of a world that I still

do not understand

as a man.

I am breathless once more at the 

memory restored. 

And the rain falls faster

and the world turns colder

and life grows harder

and harder to know.

The Warming Of The World


Early January.

Out morning winter walking in the urban

backwoods, I see what I should not:

green buds breaking from the sleepy bark.

Not just the eager whitethorn but blackthorn, too,

and haw and wild rose and ash and more. All are

stirring now, too soon, wakened by the early warmth

of the world. They are not rested. They will bud and

leaf and flower and die before they should, out of

the time with the rhythm of the seasons. Bluebells, too,

are showing through, too soon, too soon.

This world is warming, these signs a warning

to us all.

A Note Of Your Song

Each day

Each moment of each day 

Is a note in the song of your life 

Sing out

Sing loud and with lust

Sing for your life

Your life is the song you sing

Only you

When you wake in the morning 

Sing your song 

Sing to the sun 

Sing out or hum

The sound of your life 

The sound of your being 

Of being alive