The short lapping waves come in then recede
incessant and gentle and free
They speak to me softly in whispering tone
what it is to be part of the sea
And I understand fully as this language I speak
having learnt it when just a lad
Its rhythm speaks wisdom of treasure to keep
which over the years I have had
There’s a lot to be said
at the end of the day
for getting out for a while to the beach
A short walk by water
is just what we oughta
do as it’s there in our reach
This time last year I wrote about
a little book I’d bought
in Venice which I’d fully used
for poems as I ought
It was a lovely book so
when going back last year
I purchased two new volumes
to keep handy very near
For I am looking forward
to using them once more
and writing daily in them
which of course is what they’re for
I’m thinking of a song I heard
one that brought a grin
for that is what I need right now
with the state I’m in
I’m trying hard, don’t get me wrong
and I know I’m not alone
as there are many others out there
who like me must stay at home
But it’s hard remaining positive
so I need a helping hand
provided by a favourite song
sung by a favourite band
I don’t ask for much in life
I’m quite a simple chap
Just music and some lavender
will content me, that’s a fact
So enforcing isolation
when we all must stay at home
doesn’t really bother me
and I’ll not gripe and moan
There are few trees up here but still
the view is quite breathtaking
so I don’t mind a bit because
it’s freedom in the making
On our doorsteps here but still
few people get this far
A mystery as up here the view
is quite spectacular
From ‘Three Trees’ on the Beacon
with sunshine in the field
the view is always wonderful
out across the Weald
As you can see for miles
to the hill line way up north
across the scattered villages
as clouds pass back and forth
This place it is idyllic
high up on South Downs Way
made better by the sunshine
on this lovely mid-March day
What an odd boy, they used to say of me.
They’re still saying it.
But I’m a writer, my dear, and not right in the head.
That’s all it is. But I do know how to
take my time and listen,
sitting under the willow tree in the spring as the birds
bring me happy messages from God.
I will take my time with other important things, too,
so lay your curves of water here beside me.
If this pleases you,
You may pay me back with your
gift of second sight,
and tell me where my true nature hides,
where my pain
scuttles unhealed,
my illusions fester.
I will love you all the more for it.
These are gifts we give, freely
and they bind us in profound ways
because they reveal.
Though I am a poem
I am often as a tree
spreading wide my branches
to the winds and fancy free
Sometimes I am majestic
growing strong and very tall
and other times I’m minuscule
insignificantly small
My mother didn’t make it
to see my sixty years
when she passed away in May last year
amongst the smiles and tears
That saddened me (of course it did)
but it’s other times I miss
like the joy of giving flowers
on Mother’s Days like this
Yet the solace that I take away
from all the days I’ve cried
is the ever joyful knowledge
that she’s by my Father’s side
I’ve grown tired of disappointing women.
And of being disappointed in them.
I know that’s too broad a conclusion
from a very small sample.
Don’t care. I need a break,
and Corvid-19 is a convenient excuse.
I’m hiding out from another virus
of my own making,
sheltering in place and
eating frozen vegetables.
Aware this might become permanent.
I had a long life with a woman who died,
a life better than most, I think,
not as good as some.
But still, what do I have to complain about?
Younger people have their difficulties,
stemming mostly from being naively stupid,
but older men and women bring
a lot of experienced stupidity to the bed, too.
(If it ever gets that far.)
Each evening on the journey home
we drive beside the sea
‘neath a big sky that sweeping view
How fortunate are we?
The shingle beach right there beside
the road just yards away
a pleasure bringing fortitude
on each and every day
Today I will probably work for a while
I’ll start about eight I would think
But first I’ll sit here and look at the world
as I’ve still some more coffee to drink
Feel your belly button,
where you were attached to
your mother. But
try not to think about
about the night you were conceived.
Whether it was a result of
a hand up a skirt, urgent kisses
and fevered promises
and premature explanations
on your mother’s couch.
(After consultations with
your inner editor,
let’s instead say it was
after a long talk over wine,
Chopin on the stereo,
tender kisses and happy plans.)
What does it matter now? You’re here.
Don’t screw up.
That’s what it comes down to.
Or wind your watch forward
(humor me, you digital ones)
a thousand years.
Was there ever a coffin
built to last the whole trip?
One that was worth the price?
We could ask Tutenkamen, I suppose,
(Who was bad at office politics
and is still dead.)
Fragile the fading
light slips quietly away
Yet, though mournful I pine
it is a sentiment embroidered
with the wonder of hope
Precious in the knowledge that
tomorrow is another day
Beyond the scope of our perceptions
