Folded Cold

Why write the poetry
Why
Read at all of doubt
Small wonder you wonder

To unlock
Past perhaps possessions
Or to confess
And per-chance regress

Redress
The undressed balance
Could it become
A list

Or a letter
Perhaps an aide memoir
Or maybe even a memo
Why yes, yes that is way better

Cold
Unfolded
Bold, as only
Tabloid stationary can be

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Supplements For All

That was
A bit odd
Don't you think

The Saturday news
On
A Thursday evening

The internet’s strange
A purveyor of what
Right now is happening

Before it's happened, then
Bringing news half
A week after the event

My mother's letters
They too were often
A week or so

In the writing
Then a few days more
Until she caught the post

Except those times
When the advertisement for
The Shackleton High Chair

Or the flyer for the
Dolphin Walk in Shower Bath
Took her eye

Surprised most of all were
The younger generation
Odd that we should think

That desire belongs to youth
Or that we are uneasy
As the older ones share passions disease

Also they are happy, with the advertised
Collections, of China Dolls
And Porcelain Thimbles

Also that Saturday's post
And the other days news
Can be left unopened

On the sideboard; laying beside
The well thumbed
Weekend supplements

As the repeats
Of the previous repeats
Are replayed, over and over

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Belief Too Brief

The Lincoln
By the cathedral
In Lincoln Central

The registrar edges
As the concierge
Walks by

Pledges are snapped
With a smile
And a firm handshake

That idea of time
With time in hand

The explanations
Worked through
Thoroughly

Briefs well briefed
The confidence trickster
Sticks

To the resolution
The institution
Quivers

At the recidivists
Procedures

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On Leaving Chapel

Sit down beside me
No more to it than that
Not for the moment

You pray, I meditate
I go where happenstance moves me
But what of you

I hear you talk of strength
I hear you talk of faith
I hear you talk of belief

With eyes partially closed
I see starlit flood plains of light
Glorious sunsets, wild waves crashing
Old lovers and kitchen sinks

Your visions, please tell
Are they divine
Are they modern
Where is their relevance centered

If you wish take the floor
Swirl, smile, dance if you care
You have my undivided attention

For now I ask only your explanation
No more to it than that
Later? Why yes
Then you may be more persuasive

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Fifteen Minutes Without Fame

Smile of stranger
Only that we haven't yet met
Raindrops on the settled surface
Sideways shadow of standing water wheel

Prayer gives her a certainty
So much is clear from her poise
As she straightens herself from kneeling
Moves from the pew towards the exit doorway

Something here is close to approaching silence
Shafts gathered of sunlit stained-glass light
Footsteps are taken with reverence
I am driven to quietly write

Always this place calms me, slows me for a purpose
He holds out his palms, peacefully offers what he can
The river flows outside, it may be explained by geologists
Gardens, where herbs grow, may be explained by horticulturalists

But this time on earth
To sit in silence for awhile
Who ought, or might take credit
For my indulgence, for my happiness

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Benedictine Gifts

Before I begin
A word of thanks
For the lamb and mint hotpot

I am carrying out a sort of social observation
Why so many visItors, by what chance
Why the coach-loads of believers
From Germany, and Dulwich, and France

For myself the sense of midnight
Betwixt today and tomorrow
No time, nor place, to speak of

Five AM Cantato's
That set up ones mind and body
Illuminate with the security of peace

Cross-table conversations
Echoed silence from the pews
Walls free of decoration
Respite from currency of news

Before I end
I want to say Amen
Without of any more understanding

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Continuum Of Purpose

Tread on, take small steps, no reason to stride out
Today is as yesterday, is as tomorrow, is as the day before
Time to reflect, sheltered by the hedgerow
Time to weigh up the pros and cons of being a vagrant
Time to be absorbed into the beauty of nature
Time, as if that alone, is the only thing given

Light came early, it is that time of year
The dawn chorus may awake you, sounds may disturb you
Yet how wonderful that you are able to name the species
How magical that they welcome you to their habitat
How near, or how far they swoop, or glide, or perch
How spirited they strut, and preen, and pounce

Tread on, warm yourself as the day rises
Warmth, coldness; to be entertained by the cycles
Play with shadows and grasses; sway, bow
Bend with all the flex that you might muster
Rock on the heels, and soles, of your well-worn feet
Balance the ground to the sky, and all that lies between

Light leaves late, it is the northern-hemispheres season
The sunsets, and cloud formations, may delight you
Yet how sad those long overcast evenings
How melancholic the loss of time to view
How far, so much further, are dark pasts recalled
How unbecoming; your anger, and your frown

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Fall

I download, with broadband
The influence of modern art
He walks alone, shuffles
Among the roadside grass verges

Back home I hear
My fiftieth shirt is ironed
He, of no fixed abode
He has only the one outfit

Warhol, I learn, rose
From impoverishment
Nowhere man regresses
Beyond that place it seems

Explain progress, if you will
On your victors despatch box
Explain care in the community
To charities for the homeless

Yes he may wake in the sun
Wander beneath blue skies
Today he may feel warmth
For his time of observation

Yet as I cruise, in my sedan
Return to the heated hotel pool
I ponder on freezing cold winters
Being befuddled by how to engage

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Woman

Woman, close and gentle
Soft of touch
Peace of equilibrium
Holder of all natural love

Fear, to be overtaken
Race of time
Urge of temptation
Devourer of anxieties

Woman, warm and tender
Ease of close proximity
Calm, with balance
Giver of a carers love

Ache, to be unknowing
Sweep of feet
Lace of intoxication
Chaser of all pain

Woman, near to far
Happy, of fondle
Still of sobriety
Sharer of conjugal love

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Gallery In Absentia

Sail away, slide away, steal away
Venture towards vermillion skies

I am one
One amongst the vastness
The vastness of the westward horizons

Clouds of: silver, grey, slate, burnt blue, ochre and umber
As if stolen from Lord Derby's Eruption of Versuvius

I am one
One equal among all other travellers
Travellers waging into the onrush of the night

Pick out, pull out, play out
Wander, without hold of the inner-outer self

I am one
One amongst many favoured
Favoured catcher of the May Day tide's endless ebb and flo

Surf of flotsam, jetsam, foam, and many gilded glad tidings
As if stolen from the giant, on his Giants Causeway

I am one
One equal among only now
Only now on the point of departure and arrival

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Return

Whitewash
Peels from the canopy
Above the front door

Geometric house, once the artists apartment
Now a museum; in need of new love, new care

Birdsong
Lawnmower
Footsteps (footsteps behind me)

Embrace the stillness of Japanese garden
Philip Booth: Dedicated August 1991

A place I have been to before
Not on a work-day
Today I wait for the call on the mobile telephone

On the road a dark skinned youth, peroxide curly hair
Velvet trousers, thigh-high boots, a shoulder bag of drugs

Helicopter
Hovers overhead
Buzz of bee in flight

Landscape, not copied but suggested
I take exception to the privet hedge

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Acceleration

Movement
Almost imperceptible
Gradual, slow
Free from shock
Lulled
Into a false sense
Of security

Elasticated
To snapping point
Tensile strength
Insufficient
Overwhelmed

New winds
Force of hurricane
Cloud drift
Cloud change
Whirls
Of transformation

Storm
Fork of lightning
Brush, scrub
Blown through
Deserted streets

Emotions
Seized by moment
Clench of breast
Grasp of scrotum
Rage
Of incandescent light

Solid ground
Terra firma
Fall away
To marsh and bog

Question
The need to revisit
Question
The need to stay away

Venture forth
Onto plateau
Photographs shot
Long distance
Words written
In coded verse

Do not give
The game away
Up and down
And beat of heart
Here, there
And forever mystified

On the news
Three way split
On the form
Choice to make
Tittle-tat
And tittle-tat
Round and
Round the houses

Take some time
Hold it still
Learn
To persevere
Perseverance
On the page
Perseverance
With the life

Take steps
To unfold
Walk down
Country lane
Converse
With passers by

Explore
For it is all there is
Explore
All the rites
Of passage

Four score year
Or more
Make the bold
Or braver move
Settle
On not to settle

Take
The ragamuffin road
Take the road
Not yet travelled

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Seaside Town

Bella Vista
Fish & Chip take-away
Bella Vista
Decayed old fashioned terraced houses

Teenage girls shout at their kids
Bella Vista
Come here you little fucker

Of all the fuss made
That opposites attract
North south divide
Turned on its head
The scent lost
Crossed off
At the mouth
Of the river
At what cost
Or thanks pretended
That we gave it up for lent

Addicts fall out of all day bars
Bella Vista
Have you got any change mate

Bella Vista
Casino dice at play
Bella Vista
Decayed old fashioned terraced houses

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Clog To Clog (Part 2)

From the Highlands to the flat lands
From Glencoe to Lincolnshire
With a pack of tailors cloth
And an eye for the cut and line

Walk the miles, ride the train
Here to there, to their doorsteps
Walk the miles, see life change
Open the shop, with due restraint

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Short Sharp Shock

A small plantation
Right up to the roadside
Not noticed before
Passed by without a second glance
Passed by without a ...

Planted, in perfect symmetry
Only recently blossomed
Bark, bright as if a Silver Birch
Planted, in severe straight lines
Enough to prise awake

The somnambulistic self
A reminder, for
We need to be reminded
Of the integrity of life, if
To remain a viable part

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Sensory Deprivation

Of course I was naked
Happy to have warm salt water
Fondle my youthful body

Of course I wanted to, and did
Submerge myself entirely, listened
To the sounds of the oceanic underworld

Imagine if you will
That painting by Rosetti, his muse
Spreadeagled in the stream
All petals and heavenliness

Of course I was in the city
Happy to find respite
Retreat for my aged mind

Of course I wanted to, and did
Allow the purity of indulgence
To become my own artist's muse

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Darkness

I had read about the magical triangle of photography; the science of how much light to be allowed to be captured on to the plate, I had taken photographs before, but to no good effect. I was then more than happy to allow a professional to take the picture.

Henry is from Malaysia, so you would perhaps instinctively expect him to be at home with the electronic technology of the modern day camera. But what you may be surprised by is: his ease of the moment, his calm approach towards me, his sensitive and sensible approach, here in the dark and isolated place, high up on Dartmoor.

We talked of journeys, and of sensations; of how best to capture our  memories. We had a mild argument, about the merits of writing; poetry in particular, vis a vis the use of the skills of the artist or the photographer. It might have gone nowhere had the group of ponies not appeared.

In no time at all the tripod was set, Henry marshalled me, and the recently arrived farmer, into the foreground; the moor, and the stream, and the ponies eased into action as the back-drop. Henry's ability, to develop something more than what nature has apparently given, seems to envelop the aim of all artists, it was a most fortunate encounter.

I am reminded of this story as I open my wallet; to some it may appear as no more than a penny postage stamp of apparent blackness, but to me it is a token of the depth of field, a reminder about the importance of construction and focus, and most of all; a memory, that tells of friendship, and the night my fear of darkness was captured.

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400? Moi?

It is time to hand it on
On to the shelf, or box, or bookcase
Make a bit of an effort this time
But don't close off the dreams
Don't leave one alone in the darkness

Take me back, if it suits
To that Amsterdam canal
Read for me, out aloud
Beside the antique shops
Coffee bars and bistros

This has been a good journey
You became a treasured companion
Bundles of memories, inspirations
Reflections, mostly happy
Sadness held at bay

Love held aloft
Love drawn from the ether

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St Andrews

I was in search of a quiet place
I found blossom, and hyacinth
On the look out, for room to read aloud
I found the reverential place of silence

There are no notices of what not to do
Yet I am unable to address the work in hand
My conscience, if that is what is at play
Chooses not to disrespect someone else's house

I can hear birds and streams
Sheep, lambs, calves and cows
My warm pee draws a fragrance
From the thorn, the nettle, and the ivy

My instinct, or reflex reaction
Thus breaks over philosophical rigour
On another day I may be more prepared
But for now I take my time elsewhere

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Simon and Garfunkel - The Graduate

Pretty floral dress
Bare tanned skin
Warm for the summer
Images enrolled
From times of future past

I could always make the call
Steal away for the afternoon
Lie down, deep in the meadow
Drive out, along the sunlit
Salt-water shoreline

These are after all
The dreams our maker gave us
Saved, for a purpose
From life's dull mediocrity
Freed from post production line

Time to escape the favoured role
Of placebo hunter, and gatherer
Instead time to roam, be lathered
With the scamp and scrambles
Of pre-pubescent love

Omnipresent in the perfume
Of the Jazz cafe; a latte
With muffin on the side
Before we ceremoniously slide
Under the mottled and aromatic sheets

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She Wrote A Poem

Lorry ate of sulphurous dust
Ache to see her yawning
In the states the wait is on
They hear borealis fawning

It's light, it's dark
It's skies with silver linings
It's dark, it's light
It's skies with phosphorescent finings

Lorry ate of cumulus musk
Fake to see her calling
In the freight the date is on
They hear the voters polling

It's time, it's place
It's flights with hidden findings
It's place, it's time
It's flights with viva volcanic bindings

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Room 21

Past the dreams of night
Past the call of morning
Stand in time to cast
Thoughts without warning

Entertain cathedrals
Witness solitude
As the flight of eagles
So the swings of mood

She screamed all night
Forget the role of stalling
Damned in time her past
Her doubts are a roaming

Stand then to one side
Aloof, refrained, defer
As the flight of reason
So rise defects of brood

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Short Story

The pen and ink sketch was drawn on the day of Princess Diana's funeral. It is of a small jetty, or pier, set out towards a still, almost settled lake.

Stand, step, edge a little further

Step, stand, out into the mist

Stand, step, alone at last

Wait, sit, take out a canvas

Or a notepad, and a pencil

Sit and wait, wait for the moment

When the church bells chime

When heavens seventh wave

Splashes onto the buttress

Land, island, bordered by ocean

Island, land, your one country

Land, island, alive at the last

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A Gathered Ramble

Derbyshire dale
Dale, vale, tales
Of stone and ditch and vetch

As I approach the ledge
I know that vertigo
Will kick in

Kick in, kick on
See it for what it is
No more than
Sharp and glossy stubble

Fear of the day
Long cut field paths
Water falls
Water pools

Hockney it was, I think
Who talked of big skies
Outside the cities bounds

Good times, bad times
Aspire to treat them equal
Feel refreshed, be my friend

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Canvas

There is always noise
Even here, miles off the beaten track
I can hear the drone of the highway
Somewhere over the hill

The stubble is sharp, and glossy
Soil redder than brown
A five-bar gate, half off the hinge
Dykes dry, also somewhat overgrown

All this space
Not a single house
Or another person

I am warm
Sunlight allows me
To play with shadows

Other sounds are to be heard here
Once I let the road noise
Become no more than the back story

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Troop

The field looks tired
Crop all covered in dust
Four of five days of sunshine
A good while longer without rain

Trees all straggled and forlorn
The partridge hardly able to croak
First steps towards desperation
East of Eden where dust bowls await

To believe, in life's transformations
Put in the work, sit and watch
As all before is eaten, ravished
By the blight of restoration

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Dreaming Of Climbing Further - Part Two

The walls and the water fountains
They could have been anywhere
Yet away, at some distance from the metropolis
They gift both resplendence and comfort
To aid the habitual study and prayer

Fear is at one malignant
Fear is always close contingent
So trips my tempered thread
So skips my secret heart
Behind this omnipresent frown

One Hallelujah chorus
With monks in blossom streams
Witnessed, in contemplation
Chants of the silence strum

The twenty first century poets
There words too are gathered
As though they were a refrain
For Lucia di Lammermoor

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Dreaming Of Climbing Further - Part One

Across the rope-bridge, to the temple
Fragments of papyrus flutter into the gorge
At floor level the twenty first century poets
Gather to capture the words, as though
They were the petals of snowdrops

Fear is at a distance
Fear is always at a distance
So beats my bumpy heart
So well the beads of sweat
Upon my furrowed brow

One dance step after the next, in and out
Of the skipping rope, to the music of whistle and drum
The twenty first century poets words are gathered
As though they were the echoes of the sunspots

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Freudian Slips

Three middle aged women
All in tight, see-through, skirts
Each with a G-string
And more than enough pubic hair

Only one wears glasses
None are recognisable

Earlier a bully of a man
Objected to my point of view
Came at me
With a pointed outstretched arm

I stood my ground
Thought him to be ridiculous

Remember to mention the dreams
On the latest website creation
After this day
When one tried to use judgement

A night to question
How easily I am able to be swayed

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Pressure

Junior school play
Junior school trips
Some are very organised
Some lack of spontaneity

Meet here
Meet there
Set off at six
Be ready for eight
Open the door
Close the gate

The dream stayed in perspiration
The dream stayed in the hall
Occasional signs sought out desperation
Fears all, that together we, could fail or fall

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Joy du Voyage

Enchanting evening sky
Smooth silk cloud morning
All the while cappuccino to go
Miles of road ahead

High kicking truck-drivers
At the service-station
Cash machine

Voluptuous young lasses
With easy to be happy boyfriends
Articulated in tow

Is there more air
Or is there more sun
Is it the magnetic salt waters
That makes me think life is such fun

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