The Storm

A storm is brewing.
I hear the thunder coming
In the distance, approaching
Rapidly stretching across
The tempestuous sky, chasing
The sudden rain, pouring
It’s saturated way
Out of the heavens.

I yearn to be out there
Under the sky, drinking
Each drop of rain, tasting
Every last splash, feeling
The moisture close, seeping
Into my pores, filling
My hot heart, quenching
Each arid plane.

The Sleeper

And so he sleeps
Sprawled out on the bed

And I watch his breath enter
And I watch his breath leave

Nakedly braving the elements
Silently whispering dreams

I watch his breath enter
I watch his breath leave

His skin dewy in lamplight
His hair tousled on pillow

And I watch his breath enter
And I watch his breath leave

And I know that every second
Is precious

Portait Of A Lady

“- And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.
‘You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it…you knew? You are not blind!
How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you –
Without these friendships – life, what cauchemar!’”

Excerpt from Portrait of a Lady, T S Eliot, 1917

The Friend

He arrived and sat slumped at his desk
And wondered how he’d made this mess.
How old friendship once unsurpassed
Now seems transformed to obsequiousness.

Shadows and ghosts from times before
Appear at his shoulder whispering lore
Of how these incidents repeat until
His life is one long endless chore.

Is he really so incomprehensible
And his presence entirely terrible
That no one can come close to him
Without attempt to make him fall?

If he cannot see into his soul
How can he know where lies his goal?
And to whom can he run this time?
Whose arms remain to him enfold?

He tries to make the situation right
But with his blinkered failing sight
The simple lines meant to appease
End up threatening a fight.

The friend, perplexed suggests discussion
Later, when matters are less confusing.
But instead of accepting amiably
His reply smacks of self-obsession.

Wanting only to take flight
He throws the friend sadistic bite.
With defensiveness his only weapon
It’s not a battle he’s equipped to fight.

London Is Blooming

Today brings sunshine
To the weary and
Hope of summer to the faithless.
London is blooming.
Blossom lies on every bough.
The fresh fragrance of spring wafts around my patio.
The day holds promises of being lengthy
And whispers that it may stretch on till forever,
Or tomorrow,
Whichever comes soonest.

The Truth

Okay, enough of that literaryness….
The truth is this:

Having recently extinguished my last cigarette
Nigh on 7 weeks ago – yes, yes, oh yeah!
I find myself in desperate need
Of replacement addiction;
Hence, my friend, you find me here
At the start of my venture into the wonderfully curious world of blog.

Currently absent from mundane obligations
I have spent much of this past fortnight
Doing very little, and have enjoyed it immensely!
I do feel a little guilt, but not enough to cause regret.
It would appear that my need
To achieve
Tasks of any value
Is measured in simple dimensions!

Able to feel pleasure
At such small achievements;
The first of these delights was obtained
In the breaking of most evil habit
(Perhaps as evil as that of tobacco smoking?)
The habit of exercise avoidance.
After a few sessions of yogic stretching
I feel healthier than before
Which was not at all!

The second was found
In at last changing my credit supplier
To one who charges no interest
For a whole nine glorious months – joy!
And I think, how dumb I have been,
Paying interest when there was NO Need!!

Additionally, I have not spent
Too far above my means this month
Which is a rare and beautiful situation
For one such as I to find myself in.

Less rare and more exquisite
Were the lovely hours spent
With my object of my deepest adoration;
The one who lights up my day.

One day we entertained our wanderlust
After lunching in Stockwell at homely pub,
Followed by meanderings
Round flowery Vauxhall Park
Where children played with parents in tow.

Over the river we skipped, taking
Photos of fish and candelabra;
Towards the Old Tate, where we entered
In A Gadda Da Vida and feasted our eyes
Upon chaotic paradise perfectly demonstrated
By Damien Hurst’s butterfly effects
And the fishes who came to see who was knocking
On the glass window of their world;

Sarah Lucas gave pause for thought
With cigarette crucifixion and hosiery,
And Angus Fairhurst delighted us
With his gorillas and forest ‘scapes.

We wandered around Pimlico
Searching in vain, for a red brick school
Where I once worked. Continuing
Past Victoria, reversed through Pimlico toward Chelsea Bridge
And back over the great river, where
We caught the bus home.

I love my unreal City
London – beautiful city, seen
Singularly and all at once
In kaleidoscopic technicolour
Of immense satisfaction.

Friday saw us dancing at Farringdon in Turnmills.
For the first time
In too long.
Sadly some of our group
Departed early
And the music
Was
Too
Progressive
Until we were blessed
By Sister Bliss and
Eddie Halliwell –
Almost Heaven.

Martha

And how shall we start?
Perhaps a little poetry?
Here is something penned some 10 year gone
Which, I have recently recovered.

Martha
Underneath the living room in my sister’s house,
There’s a room as big as the universe,
But the only creatures living there
Are Martha and her mouse.

At night time when the moon is high
I sometimes see them play
At being dead and silent,
Waiting for the day.

Once I tried to join them -
I crept down there last week;
But when Martha and her mouse saw me
They let out such a shriek!

It gave me quite a turn
And I ran back up the stairs.
I haven’t seen them since but
I refuse to waste my tears.