Looking Out

The slate waters reflect
The ashen clouds that
Threaten colder days ahead,
That make joints ache.

A single goose, lost,
Apart from his flock . . .

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A Bird In A Nest, From An Office Window

So snug, there in your woven home,
Your stick and grass dwelling, head and tail showing
As you protect and warm your clutch.
You seem alone, no other nests around,
And no mate bringing food or taking
Their turn of duties in your man’s world . . .

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Father’s Day

Sitting in my chair, cards strewn around
It makes me appreciate family and
To think upon those unfortunate ones:
The fathers whose children are not
In their lives any longer and those who
Yearn, year after year, for the situation
To warrant their receipt of such card.

As mine start to spoil the day with their
Incessant fighting and smarmy retorts
And my anger rises and voices raise . . .

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Snowflakes

Thoughts on snowflakes whilst observing snow falling outside, through a window at work, January 2009.

They float aimlessly down.
Their cold, soft shapes,
light and airy, still
feel gravity’s inevitable pull.

They blanket the town,
fields or gray cityscapes . . .

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Working Life?

Thoughts from a moment of introspection, February 2009.

Longing for release from this
Pergatorious existence, so well personified
by Sisyphus, as we tiredly toil
to complete futile jobs of work.

The hatred of the day sucks out
the life and inspiration of the night
only allowing a wish to crash and
sleep instead of conjuring lines of
inspiration or playing with the kids
who already receive too little attention . . .

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December Poem

A poem that attempts to encompass a typical month of December, as experienced at the 39th and 51st degrees of Latitude, North.

So here you are: the Solstice Month and
The time for the calendar’s death approaches.
Full of darkness, your ever shortening daylight
Hours are eroded down to a trifling nub,
Of use only to school children, dinner ladies
And other daytime part-timers.

The mercury bobbles around the point where
Water turns from cool, life giving liquid
To frigid, life denying solid whilst
The cold winds carrying rain and sleet
And snow that bites into each little spot
Of exposed flesh, like playful kittens’ teeth . . .

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Needing Sleep

Eyes, feeling dry and
cracked, like riverbeds
in a drought.

Throat, tight and swollen,
tonsils of rubber brushing
the gag reflex.

Heart, racing like a
locomotive’s engine at
full, unfettered speed . . .

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The Entertainer

You enter the establishment and the cacophonous, almost disjointed, audible assault that hits you ensures that you know that The Entertainer is here, at your regular bookshop haunt, holding court in the coffee shop. You resolve yourself to make it through the experience, steeling your determination with every step you take towards the source of such auditory displeasure.

Finally, you are there at the counter, but today there is no time or inclination for any observant dealings with The Barista. Your transaction is impatient and rapid, as if one is a thief, stealing from a teller’s window.

Whilst waiting for your Arabica brew, you instinctively turn to watch him.

He stands there, looking all the part of the aging bachelor hippie. His hair, long and straight, hangs past his shoulders, lank and lifeless as if the strings of a well-used old mop have been teased to single strands and fashioned into a hairpiece. His graying, aged sneakers – old school plimsolls, of course – are proudly showing their age, though they are, undoubtedly, as comfortable as a pair of slippers to the wearer. His jeans and t-shirt also show signs of their stereotypical bachelor neglect, grungy and a little thin in places with a motif on the t-shirt that is twenty-something years old. But his eyes sparkle and his voice rings with the youthful exuberance of one who is enjoying and losing themselves as they indulge in a passion of their heart . . .

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The Barista

There she stands, in all of her vernal glory. Her beauty brightening up an already well-illuminated evening. Her eyes draw in even the happily married, making them momentarily and silently wistful for the singularity of their youth, once more.

She smiles as she welcomes you and asks for your beverage of choice, her eyes twinkling with a happy sadness that you know comes from her thoughts that she would rather be out doing those things that twenty-something’s do on a Friday night.

She studies your face, as you contemplate the menu on the wall. She plays her little game. The same game she plays with all of them: studying; criticizing; commending.

Choices made, you turn the tables, amazed by how much you can take in and process in a couple of seconds. You like her youthful complexion, but not how her hair looks; her dark, sparkling eyes, but not the slight sneer of her lips . . .

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Water Fountain

Inspired by a trip to the water fountain in work whilst particularly thirsty!

Gently I push upon your button.
You are quick to respond.
A soft sigh and your liquid
of life flows, easily enticing,
wanting the attention of my
mouth and lips, as I gently
consume your draught
refreshing me . . .

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