poetry

And my best wasn’t good enough; and that I have to accept …

I tried my best, in the absence of a best

man: and in the absence of a best

man I sensed what was slipping away.

It was no reality that escaped my grasp

because

the reality I dreamt was only ever

a dream I dreamt, and never some

thing I might one day have really

touched.

So what I sensed was slipping away,

in the absence of better man I so wished

I might – maybe – have had,

maybe some day,

was the hopes (not reality) I had held

for a better kind

of life; a kinder sort of

better; a lifely wifely

class of just aiming to be myself, where

learning was daily, and love was

eternal until that tragic day of death

do us quite journal.

 

Standard
poetry

F{at.her}ho[od] / H[us.band]ship

 

Fatherhood was easy, a dod-

dle like Google, compared with the

ca[l]va{l}ry that is this rushing away

from clear routes and path-

ways which be-

witch and confuse: I know what

I’d do, everything being eq-

u-

al, and yet the es-

sence and sens-

abilities we con-

tain-

t within this i’m-

perfection I exhi-

bit right now, a tad and slight-

lying I run like a child to con-

template and wizard and run around

boldly.

Was I ever made of boldness?

Can resilience be used to describe the man

I’ve been?

Does strength of purpose inscribe the

love I’ve shown – or is weakness my final dis-

membered leg-

acy?

 

(And what about you?  Why remain so

si-

lent and borrowed – like second-

hand book?  We shook each other

so fab-

u-

loosely free of convention.  I need to hear

your voice this one day soon.  I need

to hear your voice of swoon-

in-

g-

ain-

fully gently tinged northern-

ess-

entials of lacy sauciness: as saucy

as heart-

y good food on the table, next

to salad chosen uncertainly that day

we braved CCTV: or, at least, that was me –

not you my dearest breath of

walking glory: every morning to

see your face by my side, and me forgetting

the charger behind the bed we made

right: I clearly never wanted to leave

your brave side: the pain and the gory

natures of

love: I wanted them all, and still

love the juices the body I

know refuses to allow me to suck

and nourish and nurture and

row, like couple making up on

trips on boats out of reach, into serpentine

lake within our reach – and our love as that winding up

revving down of

sex, where sex doesn’t

suck … but, then again, will – if you

see what I mean-

t: and we saw each other clearly,

we always looked closely at the feelings of the

other: and I so want your window open and like

pussy carefully entering, to investigate

as foolish newborn the wisdom

of this [uni-

{qué]

verse}.)

 

Standard
poetry

Reconsillyation*

 

Our world in its wis-

dom-

in-

ating-

ness clearly states it’s smart to be

smart: well-dressed of course, but clever-

er than wise too: and who’d want to be wise

when you’re able to be smart?

Being silly is for the be-

es and those who believe in mind-

ful-

ness-

es: those who would rescue a life of

confusing graft from the

draught and currents of undertow.*

 

 


* This …

Standard
poetry

Modus vivendi (III) (REALIsaTIon)

You make of what you’ve been given, but making

can end: it’s too late on occasions to

change what-

ever may have lasted in previous e-

poxs: illness and happiness in equal pro-

portions are layers of experience

which essence our lives with flavours

and saviours we’d love if we could:

but hubr-

is

is there: in darkness and light, and light

but mainly darkness: th-

is is all there is.

 

REALIsaTIon is tough.

I am not.

I have forgotten what

living in love could be.

And what you forgot really does not

hurt that much: if at all; at all it does

not really hurt.

 

Who are we convincing?  No one,

I guess.  But the necessary mot-

ions must fly apart and attach to other

ways of being that one day

will for-

m: for you and for me, luv.

 

REALIsaTIon is that.

 

Standard
poetry

M[od][us] v[i]v[end]i (I)

He identified strongly with hearts for some

reasons: one, the first, the most elfishly imp-

ortant, was the love they re-

presented every time he saw or touched one.

Second, his heart was white in-

stead, at home, on his hearth: not black by

any means: he never meant that harm that

black cruelly re-

presents in the tongues we kiss and

speak with.

Although black – in other re-

spects – he identified with strongly,

he hunted not, and was no hunter of black.

So a white heart he was: neither black nor red.

Third, he felt that maybe love

was sacrifice after all: a heartbroken heart both

described itself naturally and de-

scribed itself using itself to de-

scribe its very entity.

Fourth, he now needed a mod-

us v-

i-

vend-

i

so much, he was prepared to sub-

sum-

e in electronic life, maintain

his being only in that false

world he realised had been

assigned him long ago, and reach plac-

id-

[under]

lying agreement to fake what was left

of life:

for what was life if not an act-

ing profession?

 

As that terrible man so long ago said:

“The art of communication

doesn’t lie in saying what you believe

but in believing what

you say.”  Hey-ho.  Ho-ho.

 

And he would now communicate this way,

and the modus vivendi would be lies

all the time, and reality

would never quite match the truth, and the

truth – like him, like the love he would

no longer wear as a badge of collect-

i-

ve c-

our-

age – would diss-

i-

pat-

e in digital stroking: a stroking of ego

not sex.

 

And love your memories dear people: for they’re all

we have

left.

 

Standard
poetry

chOOsing not to

ChOOsing not to

sing out loud, or sing at all,

is a choice we make, can take,

and may pro-

ceed to nurture; tend; grow

where we can, and water without or

within.

And all that was needed

was a

better under-

standing of my own self

and being: that foolish desire to

sire a man who might lead through

a kindness or two; an empathy

felt for another soul out there.

But that isn’t easy; maybe isn’t right.

To take a de-

cision which breaks with the past

is hard work indeed for the kindly.

 

Or maybe the story was quite

another thing: maybe they’d typed me

as an unkindly man: maybe their

number-crunching crunched h-

orrible numbers: maybe the

truth is I needed to be crushed under-

foot of heavy clay and other

boots of concrete

nature.

Maybe it’s just fair I should end

up chOOsing nothing more than a

corner of keyboard and chair.

If respectful I remain, what train of

thought could I follow ever which might

leave me without the reason or rhyme

to wallow a tad self-indulgently in

queer questions and

queries

of curious about-

turns, and seagulls that flap noisily on

waters darker than stern

remonstrations?

None, I imagine.

None, I am sure.

Nose clean.

Democracy disengaged.

Forgetfulness reigns.

Forgettable, our fate.

 

And it’s not too late to re-

verse the clock of time but it is

too late for

this verse at least.

Standard