The hiss of the constant rain,
at last.
The patter of raindrops
against the glass.
Windows, tiny windows of clear water
shatter as they hit the ground.
The air becomes water
and the water, air.
I stand, I breathe
and the skies open.
Water washes away the withered spring;
rivers on the road
rivulets on the window
and the trees raise their branches
and give their thanks to the rain.
Watching the twos, threes and fours
of the morning clock.
The sixty second minutes, as they
count the hours off.
Sleep eludes me,
sleep deludes me.
Five is here,
in its cold, dark hour,
Five now passing into six
and still I sit,
unsleeping.
My insomnia wakes me,
my insomnia hates me.
The view outside my window,
stark,
frozen in time.
The essence of the tree
suspended inside.
The view outside my window,
dark,
the lights shimmer,
captured in time.
The essence of the city
flickers outside.
The view outside my window,
mark,
the rising sun,
welcome in time.
The essence of my soul
warms me inside.
At 4 am when the world’s at rest and the only ones awake are those that should be and those that don’t want to be. I step out onto the balcony, breathe in the deep pine scent which flows down from the mountain. In the clear air the black sheet of night is bejewelled by a thousand diamonds and the planets are visible without the need for technology (except for my glasses). I sit and breathe and look and then I listen to a distant owl, in my usual waking hour before the hooligan cries of the crows begin.
The sun rises
I sit
It rolls over me
I sit
It goes down and disappears
I sit
in the sultry, inert air
that moves not leaf nor hair
like the breath of the dead
or the sigh of angels.
The moon follows sun
I sit
The planets align
I sit
The stars wheel overhead
I sit
In the night’s darkest hour
when time slows down
to the separation of continents
or to the beat of broken wings.
An on-off night and a mosquito in my ear and I fumble in the dark and then it disappeared but now the night has gone for good for me as I lay there and think of what I have to do, what I probably should do and what I’d like to do and all the while a soundtrack is playing in my head and it’s Manfred Mann’s version of The Mighty Quinn which is not a bad song at 5.30 in the morning, although I’m yawning but now I really want to hear it but that means getting up and using technology and 5.30’s far too early for technology, after all, I’d only check the news and see big, fat Mike Pompeo bully another sick and twisted little country with sanctions, sanctions and, ah! stick your sanctions up your ass, fatty, so it’s no technology for me, like a smoker avoiding his first cigarette to let his lungs breathe, you see, and now I’d love a coffee now I’m up with the birds but I guess putting on the kettle is still technology but I could really use that coffee while my pencil scrawls my morning scribble across an unwritten page.
4am and the world is unmoving,
until I step outside.
The air is warm and still and
the terracotta tiles are cool beneath my feet
Quietude absolute.
A half-moon headlight casts my shadow
A scattering of stars against a black velvet backdrop
Mars; loud, red and angry
and the owls compete for who can hoot the loudest
and I, alone, breathe the morning
and I, alone, feel the morning
and I, alone, become the morning
and I, alone, am the morning.
A fingernail moon falls down the evening sky
and now the wind has dropped,
from a bluster to a breath
as the frigid night descends.
The trees, immobile in their submission,
silhouette against silhouette,
branches handing like the arms of the guilty
as the frost’s frozen fingers
freeze all they touch;
and even the church bells are subdued.
But lo!
A thousand firesides
lead like beacons in the night,
protesters’ torches in rebellion.
Cold is the winter night
but is vanquished by the hearth of home
Clock tick, ticking in the silence of the apartment
or
the apartments because there are nine in the block
and
I’m the only one awake at this time,
in
these hours where I should be elsewhere
and
not writing, or reading or dropping benzodiazepine for sleeping
and
my body aches for sleep
but
my mind tells my body to fuck off
and
get up, get going and do something
and
I’m on the sofa with a pen in one hand
and
a notebook in the other and a book by my side
and
the clock keeps ticking
and
to think that somewhere the sun is rising
and
somewhere else it’s setting on another day
as
the momentum of our forward roll takes us around
a
big ball of light and heat that keeps us here,
alive,
going nowhere except forward;
rolling, rolling
in space time, in real time,
(who’s got the time anyway?)
as
somewhere to the east of me the sun is coming up
and
somewhere to the west of me it’s going down
as
10,000 lives have just left
and
10,000 have just begun
and
we just keep on rolling. Somewhere.
Night,
split into two:
broken lines
black and white
drawn and then fade
merge
and become grey,
like the dawn;
if it ever arrives.
My eyes are heavy
and my face is sliding
like some lost Dalí canvass;
long dripping clocks
leaking slow time:
sluggish minutes
and
creeping hours
in the long dragging night.
Mind muddled, befuddled
hours awake,
hours reading,
hours doing everything but sleeping
crawling on my knees
to the dawn queen.
Lying there in the dark
looking at every darkened shape
of every angle of every wall
and feel every stubbed toe
on every piece of furniture
lying there in the dark;
like me.
Alarm clock; you are redundant,
again. As ever.
Your services are limited
except when you tell me
how long I’ve been lying there awake.
As I crawl on my knees
to the dawn queen.
He went out in the streets to find love
and found instead crushed cigarette ends,
oil-filled puddles swirling with colour,
yesterday’s news blowing in the gutter,
a choking fit on exhaust fumes,
a cold foot from a hole in one shoe
and discarded chewing gum stuck to the other,
as a dented Coke can drummed along the road
and shouts came from an open window:
no love there.
He looked at cards in telephone boxes;
no love there.
He watched a police car speed through the lights;
no love there.
He heard the siren of an ambulance split the night;
no love there.
His shoulders slumped and he shook his head.
Every night it was the same.
Same street. Same sights. Same sounds. Same hate.
A teenage girl helped an elderly woman across the road
and left without stealing her bag.
He smiled.
There it was.
In the streets there was love.
He turned for home.
The lines were drawn
the enemy position made clear
I was becoming surrounded
but was surrender an option?
Really?
Was I to give my all,
myself to myself
like a Pagan sacrifice to knowledge?
What did I learn?
But the enemy retreated
and I slept the sleep of a clear conscious
(it is)
and I slept the sleep of an innocent soul
(it is)
and I slept the sleep of a hard day’s toil
(it was)
and I slept the sleep of a body and mind broken
(they were)
and so, finally,
I slept the sleep.
I thought black was black
as in: the night was pitch black
but when I close the windows
and pull down the shades
I see shades
of black:
pure black,
light black,
eerie black and
rich black
which is not pitch black;
the night tattooed on my mind
With my eyes closed
I see black
With my eyes open
I see black
As I wait to see
the grey of day
Awake. Again.
Counting down the small hours.
Counting out the night.
“Come to bed, baby.”
No one sleeps anymore. Have you noticed?
Curse of modern man.
Stress of modern life.
Stress? Ah yes, that new old chestnut.
It’s not exactly the same as being kept awake by the crackle and spit of the fire you need to constantly tend as you peer into the darkness looking for the reflected firelight in the eyes of a predator; a sabre-tooth tiger, for example.
The caveman knew stress.
Did the caveman sleep?
Did his weary body recover after a day traipsing across the plains, spear in hand;
looking for soul food and a place to sleep?
“Oh, I haven’t slept in years”.
It’s the arse-end of 2017.
What’s my excuse?
What’s my sabre-tooth tiger, baby?
In the dark,
a candlelight in my head
as I’m pulled from infinite dreams
(of what?)
Eyes closed but the mind
opened to a thousand possibilities
in the coming dawn
(at least I hope it is)
I want to hear the morning’s chatter
among the birds
and their song of the morning
I am the night rain,
float with me
I am the night rain
washing away
the day’s sins
from the shoes
of every sinner
I am the wet road
that will cause you
to slip, lose grip
as you grope the wheel
and slide
I am the oil that runs,
in colours
and streams.
Swirling, mixing
mesmerising
I am the lights’ reflection
broken and shattered
by each raindrop
I am the night rain:
drown with me.
Morning
Dark, dark morning
If you were an emotion
you’d be despair
If you were a state of body
you’d be fatigue
If you were a state of mind
you’d be confusion
At this hour my brainwaves
should be delta or theta
but I’m full-blown conscious
brainwave beta
If you were a book
you’d be Skeleton crew
because we that walk the corridors of night
are few
If you were a song
you’d be The Sound of Silence:
Hello darkness, my old friend.
My Words, My World 