still point

on these silent isthmi
between
inhalation
and exhalation
i will rest
on dry ground
where,
neither here
nor gone,
i can
wait to be.

extending
rest
between
the
plunging
bellows
filling
falling
filling
falling.

still birdsong fills
this non-life
trilling on;
cars high-hat through
the waiting loop
but
i will tarry on
this grace note,
slow this
intersection
of the blues,
if only i can
think of
you.

Cloud My Vision

                                                                                                                                                    
cirrocumulus stratiformis
accumulate like cotton balls
and
stretch

and

knit 
and jostle-stitch
across the woollen skies.

no audition

held;
just met and

in the spotlight swept,

brief cameo of layers
of white puff pastry players,

they curl their hair,

slip-slide their way through
audience's stares.

shapeshifting,

weightless,

lifting

goes their perfect guest appearance,

momentary

beauty in the air,

no airs and graces,

standing on occasion,

no waiting for ovation.

photo: wikimedia commons

shared on poets united, poetry pantry #150

writer's block

Stalling for time
fingers on the buttons
in a fugutive stake-out;
ready for what's coming.

Like funeral chit-chat,
small talk
slips
from preoccupied lips;
///////////////////////////////////
but
////////////////////////////////
when my mind has this
/////////////////////////////////
blip
///////////////////////////////
I can't talk
/////////////////////////
for
//////////////////////
shit.
///////////////////






This is my hundredth post. It's been a fallow time recently but hopefully inspiration will be just around the corner :)

such a winter

white witchcraft winter
chosen frozen limbs
deliver
daily december
to grey gloomed Denethor
in such a time as this.

taut and icy mind-map,
web of willful wilting,
seeming endless morning
carrion crow creeping
under door-frame,
seeping
curtaining the darkness,
lilting,
willing
to sickle this sickly psyche
hammering hindsight
to the forefront
of a thawing, thriving mind's eye,
glimpsing its twenty-twenty mission.





shared with poetry jam-carry on

St Andrews Days

i) prologue:
learning the f words 

forget fear
forge fun
for everyone's sake
forgo failure
find the faith
for your feet
and run...


ii) my two figures

fresh in the afternoon sun
a glimpse of spring has sprung
and
my two figures go skipping
down
a pine tree avenue
bouncing the ball of childhood
jumping shadows shaped by light,
lightly tripping leaves and moss
and tree root fingers shooting through
away away from me they go,
always
racing on to grow.

iii) postcards home 

bones of the brother
brought to Christ
         ***
martyrdom stories
come to life
        ***
fifty-two types
of flavoured ice
(entice)
         ***
twice Tom Morris
rests in this ground
       ***
ping of the oldest
swings in town
      ***
castles of sand
built up washed down
     ***
east and west shorelines
surfboards speed
     ***
Swilken Burn bridge
crossed by your feet
     ***
sniper gulls glint
(a) beady-eyed greed...
   

iv) you hovered on the water

last night i swear
your whisper slipped the waves
reverbing a prelude long gone
as you hovered on the water
shaping shells and
tipping tides in truth
i heard you share and rush the shore
the sculptor, potter, artist, singer,
writer, painter, universe maker
you hovered on the water
and let me listen.


NOTE:
Our family spent the weekend at St Andrews on the East Coast of Scotland. I came across this quote at Kellie Castle near Pittenweem, by renowned Scottish sculptor Hew Lorimer. It seemed a good one to me, in light of poem iv above:
"I came to see that human is not what is paramount in the creative process; what is paramount is ‘The Creation’ and He who created it, and that what the true artist is expressing is not himself but his response to the eternal process of creation"

Big Society

pacing the halls,
finger in the walls,
i'm
papering the cracks,
still
breaking on the back
of your fathers' tracks,

...and so you lack
the drive to fly,
the tremors ripple in your sigh:
a seismic shy
or play the angry guy,
no matter
i will see you through
the piercing,
screaming
new tattoo,
you live to lie,
you've learned what's true...

we're more alike
than you will know,
the cracks appear
and
grow
and
grow...


Written for Poetry Jam: Castle of Glass which uses this Linkin Park song as the theme for this week:

Easter Musings

Easter Saturday.

A day of waiting.

But late on Friday there is motion. The pulling together of the ties of religious order before the Sabbath brings the need to hurriedly remove bodies from their crosses. There is urgency in the speed of Joseph of Arimathea's request to Pilate to move the body to the tomb. Even the two women find they are unable to take their spices to the dead man's body because they might encroach into the hours and strict observances of what can and cannot be done on the Sabbath. And the conspiracy to murder is forgotten by all those who recognise that religion must be observed. The hypocrisy seems clearcut: we've just made sure that an innocent man is brutally, savagely, ripped apart, but we'd better do our utmost to ensure that the Almighty is pleased with our worship by following a set of dos and donts...

It's easy to spot hypocrisy. We all see it in someone else.

Anyone who claims to be religious will, to a lesser or greater degree, trip up before long. Some in outrageous, newsworthy ways. Others in the privacy of their own conscience.

Perhaps it's best to admit it. Get off that high horse. No amount of ritual can make me perfect.

Maybe that's the real message of Easter. I can't actually do this by myself.

It has to be taken care of for me...

 

Simple Pleasures #3

Watching Snow

At night, watch it steal from a grey, leaden sky into a quiet cul-de-sac. Stealthily painting pavements and cars with its purity and piling up potential energy for a child's morning pleasure. I love to watch the streetlamp's illumination of constant falling snow, magically backlighting the main event. Snowflakes are beautiful and when they cascade from the sky, I find them mesmerising.

When the house is at its quietest late at night you can find me staring through a window hoping for falling snow. Round here, you might catch sight of a fox padding its way through backyards leaving its rounded prints as a reminder that it was around, looking for a scrap. Those kind of prints are fine, but I dislike footprints, even my own, spoiling the untouched white landscape after a flurry of snow. When it starts to melt or it becomes a little muddy, I can't help but feel a little disappointed...

Say what you like about snow (and I've spent more than my fair share of time shovelling it across my driveway) but I still think it's a simple pleasure. But enough about me. What are some of your best memories of snow?

Simple Pleasures #2

The smell of sun-tan lotion

I'm sure it's happened to you. You twist the lid and hold it near your face. It might be a wet and windy Glasgow evening, but suddenly you're transported back in time to that beach in the south of France. You might be soaking in Seattle, but your senses are sizzling in the Seychelles.The tiny specks of sand around the bottle neck only confirm that you're actually basking in the mid-afternoon sunshine. You can almost hear the waves crashing to shore...

Now, you may be pulled back to reality almost instantly, but isn't there something magical about this kind of time-travel? A fragrant De Lorean voodoo that can send your worries scurrying for a split-second? Let's give a standing ovation to the olfactory perception that sun-tan lotion or sunscreen can bring us. It's a simple pleasure. Have you been taken on a journey by your sense of smell recently?

Simple Pleasures #1

The perfect view

 I remember being stopped halfway down Polnoon Street in a nearby village called Eaglesham. Temporary traffic lights had been set up and I pulled the handbrake on. I'd never have stopped at that point otherwise. Framed through an overhanging oak, I glimpsed the perfect view of fields stretching in a patchwork of green far off into the distance.


When we glimpse the perfect view, we're momentarily transported. Eyes shift off ourselves for a second and onto something much bigger, beyond our tiny lives. A view can bring calm and tranquility. It's a simple pleasure. Keep your eyes open and maybe you'll see the perfect view today. Let me know if you do...





A day in Crieff

The day begins. A tiny shaft of light spears across the ceiling and my ears open to the muffled, relentless delivery of the news reporter. His voice is coming from the next room. It strikes me that, whilst I can't make out his words, he has an awful lot to say at this time in the morning. His urgent intonation emphasises the importance he's giving to his thirty seconds of air-time.

I reach for my watch from the bedside cabinet.

7.55

My wife is still asleep. Our room, on the top-floor turret of Crieff Hydro in Perthshire, Scotland, has been specially chosen for my 40th birthday. It shapes out into a three window bay which looks down on and  across the surrounding countryside. Pulling the curtains apart I am met with a magnificent background vista of sweeping hillsides as far as the eye can see. Rolling mist forms the centre of the shot, whilst  the little town of Crieff makes up the foreground.

The hotel opened in 1868 as The Strathearn Hydropathic Establishment Company under the management of physician Thomas H. Meikle and looking down on the surrounding countryside, his choice of location must have factored in the health benefits of such a beautiful landscape upon its visitors.

Soon we are enjoying another window seat in The Meikle Lounge for a fantastic cooked breakfast. Maybe not so healthy, but certainly enjoyable.

Next stop, bizarrely,  is the chance to try out a two wheeled Segway on the ballroom dance floor. Despite my wife's calls for more speed, I'm happy to manouevre the boards with a slow elegance. Maybe I'm imagining the Segway is Ginger Rodgers or is it that I'm just scared that I might overbalance?

We head out as light snow begins to fall, icing the shrubs and trees as we squeeze together under the umbrella, glad to have put on warmer footwear. After a mile or so, we end up in the Clubhouse Cafe sipping hot drinks and reading the morning papers. To my right, another large bay window reveals the mist's descent to lower levels, but from the window to my left I have a perfect view of the clear eighteenth green and fairway stretching uphill away from it. We sip our tea and hot chocolate, interpreting, misinterpreting and laughing over a guide to improving marriage from a Saturday supplement in The Times as golfers pepper the green with various degrees of accuracy.

By mid-afternoon, we are relaxing in the hotel's Victorian Spa. It's a child-free oasis, hidden labyrinth-like in the basement of the hotel. As we descend the stairs, having parted with our entrance fee, piped music immediately readies us for a restful few hours. Despite its name, the spa has Roman marble decor as well as Renaissance-style frescoes on its ceiling. The glistening pool is mesmerising and the sound of jacuzzi bubbles merge with calming melodies and restrained voices. Soft low-lighting emphasises calm and the absence of hurly-burly.

Three hours pass.

(Steam room. Swim. Sauna. Shower. A drink of lime cordial. Bubble pool. Swim. Sauna. A coffee. Dipping into a Paulo Coelho novel. Eyes closed for a while. Another swim etc etc.... )

Bliss.

All is well with the world.

A perfect evening meal at the Brasserie follows. Time wanders past. After some good food, chat and people watching, I'm left with that feeling of having over-eaten.The pleasant sensation of sleepiness creeps ever closer and we are soon tucked under the covers where our day began. Turning forty is not so bad thanks to a day in Crieff.

(Our turret room is up there in the background. We were looking
out of those three windows at the top.)