My Words, My World
First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing
Archive for the tag “poem”
Uncertain Horizon
I ambled, unsteady,
towards an uncertain horizon,
hands sunk deep into pockets
that held nothing for company,
while the rain soaked through the hole in my shoe,
where the last of my hope had seeped out.
Dry
Low black clouds gather
and tower one upon the other
lightning flashes flicker on the edge of sight
the wind rises to a banshee’s scream
and tears the leaves and limbs from trees
the deluge begins
a biblical alluvion
to wash away all sins.
And yet I stand here dry
in this arid, torrid air
with heat-cracked lips
and parched-dry throat
alone, on this sun-scorched knoll
and look with lust and longing
at rain that will never dampen
the desolate desert of my soul.
Me and cats and owls
Another early morning
eyes closed open
my 4am default
it’s no-one’s fault
it’s just that time (again)
I welcome the new day early,
that’s all
while the stars revolve overhead
and thoughts run clear in my head
Darkness, peace and quiet
and the chill before dawn
before the day is born
before the TV chatter
and other people’s natter
You see,
it’s just me and cats and owls
as I write in these early hours
Ice water in my veins
Air
Little sleep,
no air;
anywhere.
Sat breathing, sweating
standing is worse
respiration and perspiration
this humidity makes me fidgety.
But wait!
The billow of the drape
as the air becomes movement
and the curtain sways and dances
then, like a tired ballerina
it curtsies, and drops once more.
Rain, finally
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.
Two till six
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.
Essence
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.
Rise
I bleed, I breathe,
I sleep.
Sometimes.
I wake, I walk,
I see
the signs
I go, I stop,
I wait.
For what?
I feel, I fall,
I kneel
beneath the sky
I rise, I try
to stand
my shoulders back
my strength in hand.
Lungs
I woke up the next morning,
mouthful of strong cigarettes and bad whisky.
My lungs felt like lead weights.
I coughed;
it sounded like Tom Waits, singing in the gutter,
so I knew there was hope.
Time
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.
Closure
Christmas passed,
the year thins to an end
and I too seek closure;
of my eyes in the darkness
(well, temporarily at least).
My thoughts flash like festive lights in no order
and my mind considers things like political parties
and grey life under the Stasi,
of free-flowing intellectualism
and cold, uncaring capitalism.
I think of flights and holidays
and rhythmic train journeys
hurrying to their destinations
where destinies await the destined.
I think about the sun
and where the winter has gone
(It will be back to bite us on the ass,
no doubt).
I think about you and me
wind-blown from the sea.
Years end
but the waves do not.
Tools of the trade
The keyboard lies silent, like a long-closed factory, its worker-keys now unemployed, passing into disuse and irrelevance.
The pen lies on its side, like a dead soldier, a used-to-be who has taken an early pension, now laying in the sun.
The notebook lies closed, in a crypt-like embrace, its secrets hidden inside except; here there are no secrets, just untouched pages.
The once-writer lies on his side, a book in his hand, eyes skipping over the words someone else has written; and wonders.
The sea’s breath
Yesterday I felt the sea breathing as I watched the wind-strewn waves; some breaths shallow, others ocean deep. I fell into their rhythm and breathed in the salt spray and breathed out my soul in return: sea salt spray for my soul or what part of it I leave here. Today I heard the sea choking it’s breath no longer a rhythm but a slow death rattle. I walked in to it, embraced it but plastic caressed my fingers, tightened and gripped my hand and embraced me, as I wanted to embrace the sea. I pulled, and the plastic relented the more I pulled, the more it came but still the sea couldn’t breathe. Tomorrow the wind will still blow and the salt will still tang the air and the waves still sigh upon the shore and where once the seagulls cried the only sound will be the empty laughter of the few that profited from the many of those who took from the Earth and spat back its destruction. Yesterday I felt the sea breathing and wondered how long it would last.
Silence
Staring at four bare walls
unavoidable, inescapable
No sound, just silence
Not even the mechanical sound
of time passing
as a welcome distraction
The silence isn’t deafening
but the thoughts are.
If they had colour
it would be grey
If they had sound
it would be a low, lost hum.
The drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap
The drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap,
tightened to the full yet still…
drip, drip, drip,
like some mad aquatic clock
or a water deity’s idea of a joke
and where does all this water go?
Does it race along the tubes and pipes
only to be unceremoniously
spat out
into some shitty sewage treatment works?
Or does it instead splash happily along
those tubes and pipes
and find itself jettisoned
into a little stream,
just a trickle at first
which is then joined by others,
left to the same fate
and together they form a river
which gets faster,
noisy, rushing water tumbling over stones worn smooth
and dancing over rocks and waterfalls
and down, always down until finally,
in the distance,
there’s the sunlight’s reflection on water
and the river’s pace gathers
and drives on
then, finally, pours into the sea
where the drip, drip, drip of the leaking tap
becomes waves upon the shore.
Winter night
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
Somewhere
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.
Slow is the night
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.
It’s the season
The sax-playing Santa
sat in the shade of the subway
blowing his way through Christmas classics
and then just some classics
with no mention of Christmas;
which is good.
I could listen to him all day
or even an hour
or even 10 minutes
but I can’t;
I’ve things to do
and people to see
and places to go
and even if I don’t
I have to be doing something,
buying something,
eating something,
drinking something
and I can’t stop,
we can’t stop
because it’s Christmas
and there won’t be another one until…
well, this time next year.
Sunday morning coffee
Early Sunday morning walk,
hungover.
Squinting in the morning light
Cappuccino with a double shot of coffee
and eyes that finally open
with the hoarse caw of the crow
and the hoarse voice of the barmaid
who must smoke a packet
or spend her life shouting
above the noise of the cutlery
being put in its place
as the coffee machine whirs
and the people sit
over their Sunday morning papers
as the cappuccino goes down
and the day opens up.
Observations from a waiting room
The stairs crush my knees and steal my breath
and I get to the top and I ring the bell
and I enter the surgery but the waiting room
is empty except for the noise
because the window is open
and the noise from the street competes
with the radio newsreader’s urgency
to tell me the headlines and I can’t hear them
but maybe it’s a blessing because
I don’t want to hear them because
everyone has a missile pointed at someone else
and it’s always someone else’s fault
and everyone is trigger-happy
or God-fearing happy-clappy
and it’s mine versus yours anyway
and now the smell of the floor cleaner joins in with the noise
and the headlines as they vie for my senses
and it makes no sense and my knees hurt
and I can’t hear myself think
and I can’t feel myself breathe
and then the doctor comes out
and asks me how I am…
I’m here, aren’t I?
Morning workout
I like to feel the cool air soothe my skin
as I stand outside on the balcony
and breathe the morning air.
I like to hear the leaves in the breeze-blown trees
chitter-chatter amongst themselves
in a language I don’t understand.
I like to see the rain roll down the window
and the streams run in the gutters,
now clean and ready to start again.
I like to watch the clouds chase each other
across the sky, racing in the wind,
making shapes only I can see.
Oh, and it’s Friday.
No fun
No fun
having nothing to say
yet you could talk all day
No fun
having something to say
yet no will to say it
No fun
staring at the pen that won’t write
or the keys that won’t type
or the pages that only turn
in the late summer breeze.
Morning story without the glory
The deep-water sound of someone pissing from a height at 4.30 in the morning
before the first blackbird has it in him
to wake up and start singing
and no car hums the tune of rubber on tarmac
and the night has its own sound
a no-sound
a “fuck me, well hello again, it’s you” sound
and I join in the silence,
eyes wide open and mouth closed shut
and I breathe in and I breathe out
and it doesn’t do much good and I turn over
on my side and wonder if I should read by reading light
or just get up and kiss the night
goodbye
so I say hi to my pen and paper and I want to write a story,
any story,
about the world and what goes on in it, within it
and all I end up writing, again, is my own.
Summer heat
Damp sheet,
summer heat
I turn my pillow
over and over
and fuck off mosquito, you bitch
(it’s the females that make you itch)
and now the early morning crows
are crowing, or cawing
while the neighbourhood is still snoring;
except me
and I’m turning
like an undecided Brexit MP
as I can’t for the life of me
cool down
so I get up
and stroll on the balcony
in my shorts
it’s just me and the crows anyway
in this summer heat.
Whereabouts
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My Words, My World 