Pining

I pine for summer

but now I’m craving

the familiarity of autumn books

that seem to shine orange and red

and brown and smell like warm drinks

and plenty of layers;

stories that glow warmth

and make me feel at one again.

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The Photograph

in the photograph, you look
just like her, it’s like looking
in a mirror, the only thing
separating us is time
and the fact that I never knew you
and you’re in black and white
frozen forever in posterity
hands clasped, eyes gazing
at something just off camera
and I can only see
what’s reflected in your eyes,
while I live
in a colour world
that you don’t know.

Blues

 

and then, without warning, as autumn

arrived and enveloped them,

a sadness swept over her,

one that couldn’t be explained

as it pressed down on her

beating against her chest

so that her limbs became heavy

and her brain thick

with a longing and sadness

for something she couldn’t

quite put her finger on.

The Old Photo

I

The photo has been torn in half

and then clumsily repaired with some tape

that has now become brittle and yellow.

It’s hard to tell if the tear

was deliberate

although each half

shows a figure, the tear right down the middle

as if done in anger or hate

before being repaired

by an unknown hand

and then stored carefully away.

The colours are faded now

the sepia tired and worn

a relic from the past

with a story

no one can tell.

 

II

The photo is in sepia

the corners are curling

and it is battered

as if it has survived many moves

and been handled many times

passing from person to person,

cherished and loved as time has passed

and memory has begun to fade

identity from those who see it.

Now the figure is nothing more than that –

a curious relic from the past

a figure someone once knew

an image once cherished.

Now, it is passed over, from hand to hand

curious eyes look at it, marvel at the figure

without knowing who it is.

 

III

It’s hanging on the wall

a portrait from another time

a black and white photograph

of a girl staring candidly

at the camera

eyes deep, a fixed expression.

There are pearls around her neck

and her hands are clasped

as she stares at the camera

as if staring into the very soul

of the one who took it.

The Writer’s Manifesto

Give me half an hour of peace

and a desk to write at,

a pen or pencil, and a notebook.

 

Give me a morning to daydream away

to conjure up worlds and magic

and drink coffee while I’m busy

in my own head.

 

Give me space to return to other worlds

to sail away across the seas

to a place that nobody knows of but me.

 

Give me time alone to be at one

in my own mind

to put words to paper

even if they don’t mean much

they make me feel better

and then I’m all yours –

for a few hours at least.

 

The Wave Breaks

The wave breaks

on the shore

and rolls out as

 

life pauses for a moment

before continuing undisturbed;

the sea the master of its own destiny.

 

The wave breaks,

the world keeps on turning

regardless of the time or place

 

and where you and I are,

without a thought for the absurdity

of this thing we call life.

 

The wave breaks

as the sailor out at sea is rocked to sleep,

lulled into a sense of security.

 

He is alone, far away from anything

that might be called civilisation,

but he is at home.

 

The wave breaks

upon the shore

where I stand

 

feet buried in the sand

listening to the sound of water

rolling back and forth

 

as nature intended,

and I, I finally feel at one,

here on this beach, hundreds of miles away

where I stand alone.

 

Autumn

Autumn is here and I long

for those long sunny days

when we walked about barefoot,

short sleeves, picnicked

in the sunshine, sand between our toes.

 

Autumn is here and summer is gone for real

I think as the rain outside

hammers down, the streets and skies

grey and dull, the colours have seeped

away so that now, we’re living

in black and white.

On the Road

Another road, another unfamiliar car park

on the road again

destination unknown,

journey to be decided.

 

On the road again,

with a car full of gear

and anticipation in the air.

 

On the road again

with sand between my toes

and sea water at my feet.

Roads

We’re all travelling on separate

roads, heading to different places

colliding, crossing paths at intervals

and spinning in orbits

that are the same

for a little while.

But we keep on spinning,

closer, further away from one

another into paths

we cannot speak or know

of but we just keep on

keeping on, moving, turning

our own paths and journeys

to follow and end games to meet.

I Don’t Like Parties

I don’t like parties you see,

all those people crammed

into a hot, dark space

talking and drinking

pints and shots

that disappear like air,

people pressing in.

 

I don’t like parties you see,

in unfamiliar spaces

with new people and places

that I don’t know

and things that I can’t control.

 

As everyone races ahead,

I am left behind, forgotten

and wondering what I’m doing there.