January 10, 2014

 

 

When the mind (not in a good place),

tries to rationalise and the future face,

it is folly, an offered hand not to take,

as acceptance of help, is no big disgrace.

 

 

 

 

Must you reach for another bottle?

You always take it that step too far.

It’s an unpleasant sight to observe,

when you stumble away from a Bar.

 

Must you go on a self destruct journey,

in an attempt to disguise who you are?

Is it so hard to face the true reality,

stone cold sober, without gripping a jar?

 

 

 

January 8, 2014

 

 

He’s coming down with something.

He says he feels it in his bones.

His voice is suddenly croaky,

and it’s coming out in groans.

 

His eyes have gone all weepy,

and his body language, grim.

His coughing, loud and dramatic,

no chance of ignoring him!

 

He’s infectious, like the plague.

We’ve been here oft before.

His sneezes reaching every corner,

from the ceiling to the floor.

 

A little boy once more,

demanding mother love,

and tucked up safely in his bed.

God give him strength from up above.

 

It’s just a simple winter cold,

but to him it’s epic man flu.

A good dose of castor oil,

will see him, good as new.

 

 

 

 

 

‘Shufty along’ she said

in a broad, husky dialect.

So I did as she asked

out of polite respect.

 

She then plonked herself

down with her old tatty bags,

and with a toothless smile,

asked if I had any fags.

 

‘I’m afraid not’ I said,

‘I have never smoked’;

She looked the type to

thump folks, if provoked.

 

I felt her strong glare,

so stared straight ahead,

hoping the conversation

could now be dead.

 

But then I softened,

when I needed to stand,

and placed some money

into her hand.

 

Thinking ‘there, but for

the grace of god, go I’.

I watched her smile return,

as I bade her goodbye.

 

When I arrived at the office,

my tale started a debate.

Some said I was crackers,

and me did berate.

 

Others said she would blow it

on ciggies and wine.

My reply to most of them was,

‘so when you do that, it’s fine?

 

A few fell silent,

they knew who they were.

It’s not just the down and outs

who excessive habits share.

 

The conversation got heated,

a guy said ‘You’ll see her tomorrow’,

‘I bet she gets on the same bus.

You’ve just bought yourself sorrow’.

 

There’s no right and wrong answer,

to what I did, that seems clear.

We all just go with our gut feeling,

when those moments appear.

 

 

 

 

January 7, 2014

 

 

You can come along if you insist,

but leave behind that old tatty mac,

that you’ve had since Adam was a lad,

so bad, the charity shop gave it you back!

 

You can tag along if you really must,

but please do something with your hair.

It’s stuck up like a cockerels bum,

and it’s embarrassing when people stare.

 

You can mooch along, but don’t blame me,

if you find you are sat bored sick.

And I will have your guts for garters,

if you show me up and act like a prick!

 

 

 

 

 

No actual visible evidence.

Just a feeling that constantly gnaws,

and lets one know instinctively,

their attackers have got out their claws.

 

 

 

 

The great temptation to remain in the past

had finally hit home, with alacrity at last.

What’s done is done; self indulgence for the vain.

Feeling sorry is no good; it’s too late to explain.

 

So the need to function sent me on my way,

in search of what? I didn’t know that day.

But in looking back, in an attempt to be free,

I discovered that I couldn’t escape from me.

 

The realisation that therein, did the problem lie,

resolutely proving to be, my only alibi.

I couldn’t move on until the past I’d put to bed,

by compartmentalising it forever, in my head.

 

 

 

 

 

….. and always

having at hand

a ‘to do’ list.

Every moment

controlling

a shaking wrist.

 

 

 

January 4, 2014

 

 

Upstairs, just along the corridor,

and second door on the right,

is a room no one is allowed to enter,

and has never seen any daylight.

 

Although there is a sash window,

and nets hang, more grey now than white,

it is blocked out by internal oak shutters,

padlocked, and causing a shivery fright.

 

From the ceiling flow sheets of spiders webs,

which have connected themselves to each wall,

in a decorative pattern, somewhat sinister,

seen through the crack in the door, from the hall.

 

A once palatial mahogany chase long,

resides under the window sill,

still covered in threadbare green velvet;

an heirloom from old Sanctus Mill.

 

A foreboding black, cast iron fireplace,

is the focal point of the room.

Two mortified mice lie in the grate,

completing this picture of gloom.

 

The door nevertheless intriguing;

through the crack, we’ve spied by torchlight

since children, along with visiting cousins,

and school friends, who stayed overnight.

 

What happened in here remains a mystery,

as no-one, courage, has managed to pluck,

and enter the room, just in case doing so,

brings them, a lifetime of unwanted bad luck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two lonely, only children,

each in their bedrooms, unable to sleep.

Both standing at their windows,

opposite each other, a vigil to keep.

 

Each night around eight thirty,

these two young faces appeared,

taking comfort in each other,

from a world of isolation they feared.

 

First one would give a gentle wave,

from his side of the back street,

followed by a wave from her,

standing on oilcloth in her bare feet.

 

Their expressions not distinguishable,

only outlined silhouette shapes,

could be recognised by moonlight,

from inside their hanging drapes.

 

This became a nightly ritual,

each shivering in dressing gowns,

until, when comforted by visual contact,

they retreated under their eiderdowns.

 

 

 

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