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.

Long marriages are a blessing
A couple no longer is guessing

A man has long been the person to train
It may take years to really decrease the strain

Sometimes you can hear the directions for the day
While the other is dreaming about what to say

There is little that he can do right
Even when doing things out of sight

She often complains about things she can’t hear
But can tell what you are eating without being near

He walks with the normal pace
But is told that he must be in a race

Dear donna, your song's getting weak
your performative future is bleak
it's TIME you musk sing
of your master and king
oh, the sting, what a ding in the cheek!

Creativity.
Free flow of thoughts.
The sound
of music
and singing.
It's all part of
my life now.
The ability
to express
my thoughts.
The joy
in expressing them.

That's what
makes me productive.
The silence
in my mind.
The peace
in my soul.
It's all there now.

I'm so grateful
for these skills
newly learned
and constantly
activated.
Progressing
so nicely
so gently
so thoughtfully.

If you were here
I'd offer cake
then take
your lovely smile in
while watching as you
hold your plate,
its chocolate disappearing.

If you were here
I'd comb your hair
then care
for any need within
your weary soul, as you
sit and wait
the end of day

nearing.