09 Wednesday Aug 2017
Posted in poems
this time
in the back seat
driven by Dot
houses through trees
open fields turning
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
Charlotte wormhole: love and precision
identity & time wormhole: dream I // dream II
openness wormhole: such such potential
passing wormhole: pass and / fro
trees wormhole: a nice grey woollen picnic blanket
08 Tuesday Nov 2016
Posted in poems
Tags
2015, 5*, Birmingham, blue, Charlotte, daughter, doing, driving, houses, love, precision, red, silhouette, sky, talking to myself, walking
played with Dot
hung with Dot; there’s
a lot to be gained
from hanging with love
drove to Birmingham
walked around dark
ening redbrick houses
until we were all silhouettes
before a Prussian blue sky;
do the formal stuff
when you can, absorb
the rest with love and precision
‘Dot’ is my daughter Charlotte; just over a year ago she moved up to Shropshire with her partner; we visit, and sometimes meet in Birmingham for a day
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
blue & sky wormhole: industrial estate
Charlotte wormhole: dream 230315
daughter wormhole: returning home handsome
doing wormhole: sleep now
love wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – snow
red wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Snow
silhouette wormhole: was there a moon / on the alleyway wall / confused in front of / the city skyline?
talking to myself wormhole: woven-through
walking wormhole: magnificent salad
18 Tuesday Aug 2015
Posted in poems
Tags
2015, airport, beach, business, Carol, Charlotte, dream, horizon, identity, leisure, life, lightning, looking, morning, Mum, plane, sea, station, sunshine, talking, time, town, train, walking, windows, Woolwich, work
dream 230315
walking through town in a Woolwich
cleaned timeless on a sunny morning
into the clinic along Powis Street on time
for my eventual appointment in life;
the first client amid the beginning-of-day
chat, dispersal into action behind screens;
she sits on the settee, I sit on the swivel
chair; she looks at me assessing, I feel
good in my natty casual clothes; she cannot
speak, tries several times, she consults a
colleague; they are surprised, the consultation
becomes a sit-down party, I, fade from the
scene … walking about the seaside town, the
preparations for the coming day of all the
business and the leisure to be made from it –
hand-painted lettering in bleary windows a
metal stand is handed down to the beach
showing the way to the after-dinner boat
trip (where will it moor?); the water is full
of junked buoys, slimey and sun-faded; a sea
plane passes overhead up the beach – no help –
a huge helijet comes in low – gigantic – heading
for the airport – airport? – falling, she’s
too big for the town, nose-diving, disappears
into collapse like a building with plumes
of columns and lightning on the horizon;
Carol and the kids; I run to where I left them,
not at the station, no entry; but here is
Charlotte, only 6; train is leaving town,
Charlotte has gone, I cannot see Carol;
I run down the platform to say goodbye,
she turns to face me; she is Mum
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
beach & morning & time wormhole: that comicbookshop in dreams,
Carol & looking wormhole: recline
Charlotte wormhole: ‘my Dot …’
dream & windows & work wormhole: Evening Wind, 1921
horizon wormhole: the / very gradual art of sitting
identity wormhole: it is complete
life wormhole: Detective Comics #345
lightning wormhole: footfall
Mum wormhole: heirloom – break / after heavy shower
sea wormhole: Buddha / Shakyamuni
talking wormhole: you can only smell the candles / when they have been snuffed out
train wormhole: travelling
walking wormhole: earthed
Woolwich wormhole: Jackie’s slight smile
09 Sunday Dec 2012
Tags
2012, 5*, Brighton, Charlotte, dark, grown up, hair, happy, hill, kitchen, lifetimes, morning, portrait, time, van
my Dot
gets up at five thirty
six mornings a week
and watches the high-
vis strips
of the bin men off to work
as she drives the van
downhill to deliver
the mail to Brighton town
she has a Psychology degree
but it doesn’t matter because
she stands in the kitchen
on a day off in
her mother’s
baggy cords and
some brand new
long-johns and a
chimney pot hat
on her showered
hair dried all shaggy
and she is natty happy with her life
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
Brighton wormhole: losing the anxiety
Charlotte wormhole: dream / 150910
hair wormhole: ‘how beautiful …’
hills wormhole: Sunday
kitchen wormhole: ‘8:30 kitchen …’
lifetimes wormhole: the fingers
morning wormhole: morning
time wormhole: poessay V: // writing / as practice while / writing
27 Wednesday Jun 2012
Posted in poems
dream
150910
I glanced at Charlotte
while we were out talking
somewhere and felt so sad
what a loss that she had
lost her arm from
just above her elbow
was it my fault?
dream wormhole: dream / 290706
walking wormhole: while / walking
Charlotte wormhole: Charlotte
15 Sunday Apr 2012
Posted in poems
15 Sunday Apr 2012
Posted in poems
28 Wednesday Mar 2012
Posted in poems
Charlotte
a helium-
expelled
just six-year-old
grunt
half-way up the
stairs with her
best twang, “I’m – ungh –
just trying to bring Jonny
upstairs
he’s broken his mouth.”
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
Charlotte & Jon wormhole: dream
Hillside wormhole: tired
speech wormhole: “WHOOOOOOOOOP!!!”
12 Thursday Jan 2012
Posted in poems
Tags
'scape, 2011, 5*, Allen Ginsberg, blue, bus, cars, Charlotte, cream, Eglinton Hill, growth, Jon, Joseph, London, morning, Nan, passing, portrait, roads, talking to myself, writing
dream
spent the morning
visiting
many parts of London kept noticing
Allen Ginsberg
on a bus
in a shop
crossing the road
slightly hunched busy
carrying papers in a wallet
maybe shopping
ordinary tired clothes
as I keep on seeing him
maybe I could give him my poems
to look at maybe I should
all of them all five hundred
no just some of them
late afternoon I am walking
down Eglinton Hill melting ice-cream light
some satisfaction with the day and
cream soda
slowly with my Nan – getting old chatting
feels like walking with Charlotte
ahead are cars
one indicating right to pull out
another waiting just behind
indicating left he’ll take his place
both waiting for another coming uphill
right of way complicated
how this all happens
another car slows downhill
before the uphill one has still to pass
he wants to park too but
he’d narrow the road cars parked
right and left
he rolls further down and parks on the right
much more space
opposite number 46
I wonder if Allen
is in the car
the car is medium blue
a good ten years old
tired but working
filled with stuff only room for the driver I think
yes it’s Allen getting out of the car
does he live here
Nan asks if Assiki is in Malta
I don’t know but say I think so
Allen hears and nods yes
as we pass – that is where Joe
or Jon have got to now travelling
go on give him your poems
don’t walk past and pretend you’re OK
give them
but I am reticent
because I don’t like to ask
fracture into the breakfast room or the upper kitchen
cluttered full of stuff
space for only one at the table
Allen has made some tea
and sits down to turn the pages
of my script
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
… part of: nan
Allen Ginsberg & writing wormhole: biography
blue wormhole: daybreak // midday
bus wormhole: Christmas lights / around the lamp post
cars & morning wormholes: looking for Lester
Charlotte wormhole: Charlotte’s / warm / hand
Eglinton Hill & roads wormhole: 1969
Jon wormhole: a night of rum
London wormhole: 1967
Nan wormhole: Initiation
passing wormhole: ‘how ‘do
talking to myself wormhole: and no one would know
27 Sunday Nov 2011
Posted in poems
Charlotte’s
warm
hand
right
on the horizon
by the
sea
a single
orange
crane
holding –
cables thrumming –
the wide
land-
scape
swaying
and
to the left a
solitary
family of
wizened trees
held
by decades
of wind
in a climb
uphill
caps
pulled down
over their heads
————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–
crane & wind wormhole: gust of wind
orange wormhole: after the rain / flowers like / cupcakes
sea wormhole: ‘discution poli …’
trees wormhole: Thich Nhat Hanh
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I am the "little armored one", moving gently through life. Hoping to safeguard my sensitivities with layers of words and the expression of thought. Shielding my mirror neurons at times, or tasting music and spinning till I'm dizzy. Every moment here is a gift.
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