Writer's Block

Like a stroppy teenager, one blank page defies

my intention to write down words:

an empty mind and empty paper.

Silence, blank, void – until I listen with intent

and hear my train trundle and rumble South.

I let a pen leak a few words

and some thing’s down there now.

I learned the duties of a clown from Andrew:

at home in a world of nonsense,

turning up voltage again and again;

not perfectly perfect but urging

inclusion; connecting the hearts of some people

through smiles – with spaces between all their talking and words,

where, truly, a mystery lies.

Pass the Buck

Happiness seems

to COME out from

a small centre

- in a ray – a

SHOW of teeth, but

can be also

rude or vulgar,

expressing as

an anima

(Carl Jung would say).

Happy people

feel an inner

RUSH and Andrew

learned, this year, to

swear (in his own

way) intense, org-

asmic splurging

four letter words

like in a cough

or sneeze, a lit-

tle BRAY

     ‘if you

can’t find a way

to sing or sway,

BUCK yourself up,

make a noise, play

and dance today,

I’ll shout and spray,

and cry, exclaim’

he’ll say

    ‘Buck off!’

Habits

I smack

the same ball

at the same wall.

Numbskull!

My version

of what’s in front

is a blinkered person

marching, drunk.

I’m a disgrace:

today I caught

a grayling fish,

lost my rainbow trout.

Apart from this,

I do exist;

remembering

a little bliss.

When Andrew’s at the karaoke,

eyes are drawn to a young star

that only wise men follow;

microphone and punching arms,

exuberant little fellow.

We look and look – he burns a hole

in boredom - can we learn

beyond our resignation, beer,

to tread the boards and burn?

Haiku

To all poets with

writer’s block – a small piece of

advice;- Don’t you start!

To James Bond

Many a theme song

bangs-on about love;

‘Never say never again’

‘She loves you - yeah, yeah, yeah’

but it’s more than a missing

when romance turns off;

a desire for a person

can cloud into tears

and it’s not quite right

romancifying

this quality – love or desire -

let’s not make it pretty

as I twist in the night

(quiver a heartstring)

welling up from fire;

love can feel shitty

and, so, Mr Bond

distract us with sex;

institutions are saved

when your balls lead you on

but pick up a hand,

soften your looks,

for to love and be loved

rescues women and men.

Time in St. Ives

Outside, the wind’s a howling beast,

more unpredictable than dragons

and water lifted from the sea

washes blue sky grey.

Off shore, a killer sea

waves out – then in – predictably

and moon time people crab along

from blinking caffs and shops.

Caressed by sun, clockwork town;

a timepiece ticking on.