Poetry (apparently)

Some thoughts – The rhythm in thinking; in thought; in expression

I thought I’d try a practical approach,
To finding the rhythm in my thoughts,
But I hadn’t ‘counted
On the rhythm in thinking first;

Let’s try that again:

I tried to capture the rhythm in thinking,
Apart from pen strokes, pauses, blinking;
To run alongside my galloping self –
But again I hadn’t ‘counted for its fleet of foot.

This is difficult:

Trying to find the rhythm in expression:
And now I’ll begin.


I look for something through which to enter this world,
But each one presents as unappealing an opportunity as a slap to the face,
Just mild enough to impress a blush
That outmaneuvers the on-rush of blood
To a scene of violence.

I imagine the two – shame and pain –
Locked in a battle to the death,
And wonder which I should want to win;
In which way I would like to be flayed
Or indeed flay myself:
The price of entry seems steep.

Yet, like taxation at the point of earning,
It is a price paid daily,
Deposited on stakes whose market is quantum physics,
And whose payout gives the illusion of understanding.

Surely somebody – somewhere – gets it?
And if they do,
From me to you,
From you to her,
We plea for existential relief:

We pray for wisdom.


Purgatory is over-thinking
Buoyed on with red-wine-lies
The stage framed like Punch and Judy
But nobody laughs, ever.

I appeal to rationality
Within, without: somewhere;
And yet with each sip of this lie
Comes the heralded cry:
What if?


On this wicket the toss is false economy;
Ambivalence sets my confidence on edge,
Its wings fluttering light and terrifying,
The wicket indifferent; conditions changing.

I opt to bat: a martyr to my confidence;
Clouds cover, wicket cracks, sledges reach their peak;
Will it swing, seam, turn, or carry?
Will they be fast, slow; bounce or cut?

Under fire I block, leave, duck and weave,
But at no point do I believe
That I can weather this storm.

Then a thin edge, a wafer;
A glimmer, a chance, a certain romance,
That sets to still the world,
But for the motion of my stroke,
That dances,
That floats,
And beneath it, cupped hands, welcome, forebode:
Is it a catch or will I be dropped?


In your absence I wrap myself in a cotton blanket,
An obvious choice for warmth and comfort;
And in lieu of your support,
A zimmer frame I call to transport
To the boiler, as it packs in yet again;

But no matter: the stove on which I might rely,
Had I some wood not forgotten to buy;

But no worry, no hurry, to the neighbours I go,
They’re bound to have some kindle to throw –

Alas, these winters days, they’ve used more than they need
And in a warming bliss, close their door to my cold abyss;

Could they not see, perceive,
Their lack of help in my hour of need?
Understand they do not,
That loneliness to each of us comes,
Stark, naked, and honest,
Loyal like a friend at no-one’s behest,
Not wise, not even slightly,
For it cannot comfort you with its words,
Support with its absence,
Be relied upon for assistance,
Or bear your scolds with angelic patience,
Nor understand your contradictions,
Set you straight in wild fictions;
Be loyal in letting you alone when required,
And return to your side when you apologise.

Yes, friends are terrifying:
For fear they are not there.

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