Seated upon the electric
wires are the birds who
cause the gentle breezes
to whisper near our ears.

The birds flee, though,
when the caller of the
great winds batter our
ears and eyes and lives.

It's not a bad word
or even a sad one.
It expresses
what happens
when you
accept
the now.
When you give in
to the simple flow
of the moment.

The discoveries
you make
are never ending
and overflowing.
The surprising responses
to opening up
to the new
to the adventurous
all good.

So you see
I have learned
to give in
to the moment,
to the now.

I accept it
with good grace
and complete
appreciation.

So many eyes are looking at me,
all the judgement, the good and the bad.
Waiting for all this to disappear into the abyss.
But nothing is worse than my own eyes,
seeing all the anger dancing around the happiness,
twirling through the sorrow, teasing the hunger.

Sometimes, it feels good, to feel the anger
all through the waves of eyes, and the wind of ears.
I'm tired of these eyes crashing into my vision.
Tired of my ears stealing my breath.
I can only feel this way so long.

But my heart is craving silence

It's loved too much

Respite
Respite
Respite

Make the noise stop

formerly an abandoned Amazon warehouse went to pot
with mold and magic mushrooms growing in every spot.

All kinds of vermin stole into the damp dark environment
of particular note concerned medium-sized rodents who
belonged to order Rodentia who chomped down illegal
contrabands, and quite a sizable portion went into their
bellies, which merited noteworthy attention and possibly
explained the horde deal videre licet witnessed courtesy
specially trained swat team donned with protective wear

There’s lots of shops in Selly Oak
and I’m writing down their names
KwikSave
to show the wife when I get home
that I’m trying hard to change
New Look
I’m on the number 61 bus
after visiting a therapist
Barking Mad
I’m on the 61 bus because
I’ve got an Attention Deficit
Focus
I discovered it last Saturday -
well, my missus found it really
The Treasure Trove
when she came home unexpectedly
as I’m sat there watching TV
Homebase

Nearing the end of a project
especially one that’s complex
detailed
there is a sense of elation but also foreboding
the latter sometimes ahead of the former:
what if I have done something wrong
some visible flaw I am too blind
headstrong
obstinate
arrogant to see?

She opened the letter,
a crimson stain blooming on parchment,
ink etched in blood, blackened and thick.
Nor did she know,
to touch it was to answer a summons,
a whispered call from the earth below.

Eighteen might be special, it's true,
Or twenty-one, or fifty-two.

He thought that seventy would be grand,
But sixty-nine, a place in his heart's land.

The day arrived, then slipped away,
No party graced the passing day.

Just wishful thinking, dreams in air,
The day's demise, beyond compare.

The birthday party, a phantom's call,
Perhaps at seventy, joy will befall.

Or maybe seventy won't appear,
Could he be smaller than small, gripped by fear?

All of my scars have a story.
Some I can easily touch. Others I can only feel
below the surface. Some speak of epic yarns
of stubbornness and foolishness.

The wounds I feared most were delivered
by the most talented knife of all, love and loss,
seemingly immune to bandages.

I learned to patch them up with time. In this way
when they open again, as they do, it will be gentle
and they’ll not make such a spectacle.