Gloaming

It's been a long, long time since I've had any energy to formulate cohesive thought. Henceforth, a little effort. It's safe to say, my inspiration is obvious. Once there was one beautiful person that was my life, rock, soul - now there are two. Mother and son: the reasons I get up in the morning.


Gloaming

And let the evening grow old around us.
Becalming gloaming.
Final vestiges of light flitter past,
the shutters bathed in vermilion glow.
You sigh in your minute chair,
and your father's heart melts.

PO

Metronome

Today.
You are the greatest thing
I ever saw on the screen.
Your heart beat - a tiny
magnificent metronome.
I am counting down days,
Today.

The Car

Oh little cocoon of alleged safety.

I watched the man sitting silently,

rocking slightly,

as if no one else in the world could view his intricate moment of pain.

Tears of rain scattering the windscreen

little rivers of ache

heavily starched tie knotted ever-so-close to his throat

minute veins throbbing rhythmically at his temples.

This man was a soon to be burst ball.

No liquid trickle descending alabaster cheeks,

no tell-tale sign of shake.

A mystery; what ailed him?

Loss, anger, betrayal. Universal idiosyncrasies.

But what struck me was the car.

Ensconced within,

enveloped by machinery, successfully

separated from the mortal coil.

I often think to myself – where would we go if there were no cars?

PO

The Low Road

THE CRUSH:

Without the dark,

All-encompassing, comforting,

How would we know light?

If I could not see your face as I rise in the morning, I doubt

whether I would get up at all.

Such a rose.

HOPE:

Now endure this ray of sunshine,

get up, get up,

a new light is taking flight.

To mope/to wallow, perhaps just fallow,

there is more to life than this.

THE REGRESSIONAL SLIP:

Follow perpetually (there is no such thing),

This contemptible affliction.

The crush will. Become a dramaturgical fixation,

despair and inability to go forth –

even from bed.

Every day.

PO

Cataplexy

It has been too long - still, sometimes the creative river suffers drought too (how pretentious is that!) - if writing is a habit, a routine, a drive, then perhaps I am truly paralysed in plundering forth... Still, occasionally, an inkling takes hold. An idea formulates. The pen touches paper... and I remind myself that I am capable. If nothing else.

Drop me a comment on this new poem below (and/or the new one above).

CATAPLEXY

All soles, mighty, stock-still

sufferingly glued to the ground.

A sudden sense of the metaphysical,

acknowledged; unwillingly quizzical,

rigid, fearful. Muted sound.

Cataplexy.

Such a wonderful word!

Inspiring dexterity of the tongue,

demanding understanding – immobility of nightmares.

Whereupon awake, drookit with sweat, into it stares.

Embrace physical disability, no longer young.

Cataplexy.

Fear of fear itself,

a reason by which not to move at all?

Rooted inactivity, unintentionally profound,

this voyage of privilege has run aground.

Eternal stasis, preparing to fall.

Cataplexy.

PO

Stunted Shimmy

Aye so we’ve aw been there, huvvnt we?
Back tae th’back o the playgroond.
An ah’m tryin a wee shimmy oer the baw
n the baw gets kindae stuck in the mud n that,
n later when ahm eatin’ ma tea an Ma’s poring oer me like ahm goin aff ma sell by
date masel,
Ah gets tae thinkin’ aboot whit ma English teacher wis talking aboot the ither
day.
Talkin aboot mettyfurs.
Ah’n ah think, as ah chew slowly oan ma mince n tatties, that ah may jist hiv done
it!
Ah may jist huv goat it – cos surely the way the baw stuck in the mud like that
wis jist typical ken,
an that in itsel’ is a mettyfur for aw the things ah want tae go right at school -
bit tiny wee pieces o misfortune end up bawsing it aw up.

Hunners ae years later,
as ah sit doon tae ma tea (it isnae mince n tatties the night),
Ah think eh aw those years ago, wi’ the baw an the mud n the kick-aboots
every night withoot fail (there wis nothin else tae dae…).
An ah chew methodically oan my lasagne (which is pure lovely by the way)
an it happens again! A lightnin’ bolt moment!
The feckin’ mud stickin’ wisnae the mettyfur at aw…
Naw.
Ah think tae masel an reach for another beer wi’ a wee tear at ma eye –
the mettyfur wis the stunted shimmy.
The failed shimmy itsel’.
Of aw the things ah’ve ever wanted tae dae since.
Aw those wonderful things, fancy-free and fu' o grace
and jist like the mud that held the baw up,
there was a’ways some wee piece o misfortune that stopped me
bein’ aw that ah could be.
That bloody stunted shimmy.

PO

New York, New York

But I am your keeper…

To swim, yes swim, once more,

Indulge and immerse in passionate eyes.

To drink body-weight and think ‘what for’,

Stripped in this place, no space for lies.

Eternally holding mirrors up to yourself,

In a place devoid of calm, to find some peace!

This, home from home, soakwoundedanimalyelps;

Bathe in becalming liquor, dream of golden fleece.

A dream for dreams sake perhaps,

Or a fired imagination to never be quenched.

The subtlest of questionable connections lapsed,

And yet and yet and yet...

I am your keeper.

PO