Steady rain smothers the land.
November trees are mostly stripped
of leaves, a few hopefuls
cling on in vain,
remembering the glory days
of summer.
Categories
Category: poetry
Categories
Sat on a sofa, staring
Darkness in focus, nothingness
Vague shapes loom
Coming from a different world
Different planet
Uninhabitable dispossession
Roamed by no being.
Sat on a sofa, staring
I might as well have my eyes shut
Releasing me from this self imposed prison cell
Taking me to far improbable places
Anywhere, I care to go.
Even when I have nothing
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train of thought
I happen to be, offline
Tis the way of things, on tran
French, on l’Euro, star
Brussels bound, I am,
Careering through Kent,
Garden of England
Headlong for tunnel chunnel,
tunnel chunnel, choo choo.
Music fills my earful
tap my feet
It was 35 years ago today,
THG said I do, yay yay,
Still together as a team, fair play,
What a wonderful day, wonderful day.
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The Last Tablet
Contemporary crowd once full of purpose. Sole survivor, somehow symbolic, the last tablet. GONE! Plate purge purist, soil eliminator, grime grabber and cleanser of crockery. Succumbed. Final moments: aged pellet, slow dissolution, dissemination of power. Bare utility, poignant gap, uncertain future.
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a good hour
The good hour,
Long enough, for some
Good enough, for others
Not rushed like ten snatched minutes
Or as fleeting as a moment of your time
A generous measure by all accounts
I waited and then left
In truth, a good hour awake
In the darkness
Keeping my dreams at bay
This year I’m spending Christmas with my piano
My body comes gradually to its senses. It lies there for a while before realising it has changed state. An arm reaches out and brings life to the radio.
There is something all powerful about bringing life to a radio
Some time later the radio drives me out of bed. Dressing gowned stumble downstairs and stick the coffee.
I wander into the music room
Sitting at the piano my hands rest on the keys. A moment of inspiration awaits. Gradually notes appear and the piano picks the music.
Time dances
The day fades into reverie. Coffee miraculously changes to wine and into brandy. An empty plate lies on top of the piano, evidence of the day.
Sun sets
The music continues into the night…
I dozed. Under my blanket. On the sofa. In the shed. The TV blared.
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Damp October days
Damp October days
very little happening
in my head
as if thought
has been suspended.
An empty cup
drained of tea
had some effect.
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The (big) world of philosopherontap
Tales of the philosopherontap
Philosophical tapitudes shut off from the world
Man walks with arm behind back
The one armed man of (flight) BA8472
Rear arm, forearm, forewarned,
flight attendant rhymes with pendant
Man behind, penetrating voice (that)
Occasionally breaks through noise cancellation defences
Fast train to Lincoln
Platform zero hero
Can’t walk in a straight line
But focussed on getting home
Outdoors indoors, the vast roof of the station
Write me a letter with no words
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Lament for a hat
The hat, vanished, tossed into the celestial hat box
Once a creator of character, now piled high on an altar of anonymity
Naked head, naked truth; hatless and hapless.
Hat trick, three hats in a taxi, hats off to you driver.
Times have been different.
A feather in your hat?
Hat tip, typically, tip collector
Sunshade keeper of cool and heartfelt radiator of warmth
Wisdom applies but never practised: hold on tight to your hat
Mock me not with stab to the heart, twisting knife
Blood wiped on the sleeve of the conscience
Bury my bones six feet deep.
Watch my grave until the letters fade.
Mad hatter
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Dazzling October sun
Dazzling October sun
Relaxed Sunday morning start
Tea and toast consumed
Conservatory corner basking
Noises in the kitchen
Radio lulls
Hedge rustling wind
Considerations of the day
A traditional Sunday lunch in prospect with a log fire blazing in the grate. Last day of the holiday finished off in an appropriate manner.
Ageless, forever young, liver of life, lovely tiki loving Joe lover, disc spinning colourista, friend of many, wine drinker, foodie, traveller, Shiraz appreciator, Devotee.
Happy Birthday Ren
It is indeed the summer’s day that makes a living being glad.before the heat has hit and forced all mortal men into the shade.
a floral filtered gentle breeze informs the fragrance of the morn
and coffee permeates the open windowed terraces of town.
The farm panorama. Bird talks to bird. Milking noises off. River ripples, slides past stone beach. Beetle sized cars scurry along hedge-hidden road. Cardboard cut hills provide backdrop. Woodland and fields.
for Chris Conder