Edges (Inspired by Patrick Heron @ the Tate)

the colours bleed into the corners
lines pushed against the edges
defying, pushing, contorting –
defying expectations,
a life lived at the edge
to the max.
The colours bleed –
they are stark, bright –
shapes and lines,
look closely and they mean nothing
but they stretch across the wall.
We live life at the edges
life is lived in the corners
of the eye
the mind
an existence –
I am at the edge.
I peer over, into the next
round the corners
there are things not seen,
things that linger
there beyond the edges – the corners
of a life.


I stand in the entrance

to the Tate Modern;

my heart is beating like a drum

and I cannot move.

But the world did not end

nor did the heavens open

as I had thought. You are still

not here and I am still alone

alone as I was five minutes

earlier when I entered the building.

The world keeps on turning

just as I keep on breathing

and you keep on not being here

any more.

The Slow Lane

So here I am, stumbling in the slow lane

while you race ahead, as if life

is a race to win one day.

I write words

and then delete them

I conjure up whole weird worlds

in my head and stare at blank pages.

You speed past me while I hit bump

after bump in the road,

the rain is fogging my view and I can’t see round the bends.

On social media everything is rosy

but in real life things aren’t so I know

but it’s hard to remember

when it seems like everyone is speeding on

into life

while I hit a roadblock,

scrabble around

searching for the words

swimming against the tide, pushing back

trying to capture that something special

whatever it is, create art,

create magic, a way of living –

the only way to be alive

the only way to survive

make art and hold your head

above the crowd

even if you’re left behind.