Feelings, thought, intuition and sensing

Feeling is…

Geese hooting at the moon over water,

The gentle lap of waves on the shore

Thinking is…

Tilting scales on creaking chain,

Not a grain of sand is lost

Intuition is…

Sparks that fly from the fireside,

Eyes that stray to the stars

Sensing is…

Soil under feet,

Loamy taste of earth on fingers


Cold air

Birds fly in the misty mountain air,

The chill on their wings;

A promise of spring,

A memory of winter,

For now they fly in cold air

Nothing more than this…

Left shoulder’s ache,

Legs crossed under the table,

Warmth in the crotch,

Fingers tapping lightly,

Slight annoyance at the backspace,

Voices rising and falling gently like waves,

As conversations take precedence,

Over and under the morning rain,

Clouds bright under the indignant sun,

Nothing more than left shoulder’s ache,

Must have dreamed on it last night-

Flowerbeds and TV shows,

And a sense of falling

As my girlfriend tugs on the duvet,

Nothing more than this

Nothing more than this,

It starts again



The storm has broken,

I was depressed,

Now it rains and I am happy.

Pushing at the moon

When in the bellows that push at the moon,

The circle of thought is seen,

Separation dissappears

And thought takes its proper place,

Chasing rainbows and seeking sights,

Just as it should.

Rant at philosophers/Philosopher’s rant

Fine toothcomb through a desert of sand,
A microscope focused in all the wrong places,
Its owner stumbling over rocky ground,
Myopic vision missing the glory undivided,
The creature of deep meaning immune to the blade,
So many writers, so much wisdom,
Heavy tomes weigh down the mystery of age,
And spawning yet more,
Such as the question; was it worth it?
To use such long words to capture meanings,
Better expressed by old eyes in a young face,
A smile quick in sadness as in joy,
Shall I add my two pennies, I’d rather not-
Times a wasting and waves are bobbing far from shore,
Life is sweet and I’m not afraid of death,
Nor mistakes, they’re my friends every one,
When I’m depressed I ask why,
And look for the breaking of the storm to come,
New life’s born from every end,
Dash these stones to build stronger tower,
To better see my future flaws,
And aren’t they wonderful in a funny kind of way?
Without this road we’d have nowhere to go,
No boots to wear out on the travelling
Over next hill to wonders yet unseen,
I know I have nowhere I need go,
But I won’t turn my back on all that’s arriving fast,
Not when it’s happening right here,
So write on philosophers if you dare,
The world is full of great plans and planners,
Skilled architects convinced they made this so,
But plan me this:
A life of adventure where no day’s the same,
And I’ll never know – good or bad,
What’s coming next…?
Oh look, it’s already done,
I’m a man, a planner too
The deal is done and I accept it,
But richer journey it has become,
Control evading control,
I’ll breathe out and you breathe in,
And let’s greet her together,
Here she comes, dainty Future’s step,
And isn’t she a lady all aglow?

Paper Towns

In a break from my usual poetry, here’s an attempt at Flash Fiction inspired by the generous prompt ‘Paper towns’ from Stephanie’s blog, be kind rewrite. Stay with me on this one, its heavily dream influenced, but I’m hoping it slides off the paper as easily as poetry…We’ll see!

Paper Towns

William is playing with his toys on the landing again. The room drove me out here he thinks, it’s so full of books. Books with covers as lifelike as a movie set. Books full of worlds that could suck you in. Reading just one could leave you an old man. And the painting on the wall: houses with twisted faces peering down at the street far below, and the boy huddled in his bed, throwing off the covers and scampering for the landing. The painted yellow moon follows him with its crushed witch’s face and its beady eyes.

‘I’ll put your dinner in your room,’ says mum coming up the stairs, but she can’t be here she’s dead. Mum places the tray down just inside the threshold. ‘Have you spilt something in here?’ she asks suspiciously but her tone is soft, like she’s feeling guilty. Maybe she’s just been away a long time and is feeling bad.

William splashes cold water in his face but sleep is still holding tight. Last night’s dreams still overlay the morning sky, dim behind the steamy kitchen windows. His coffee has no potency today. He kisses his girlfriend absently, ‘I’m all right’ he says, waving her away. I wonder what’s up with William, she thinks, it could be the flu, lots of people at the office have it.

Like a wraith William’s coat settles on his shoulders as he tiptoes down the path, encroaching lawn wet with last night’s rain. His car key misses the lock as he spots the low, yellow moon, slow to yield the sky to the bloated sun. He shivers. Roads sail by with the hum of the engine rocking William’s head softly as he takes the corners. As the car chugs into town the little buildings seem far away, their walls thin and brittle.

‘Morning William,’ says his boss, all bulk beneath straining white shirt and black moustache ready to pounce off his face. William nods back weakly. ‘You look like shit!’ his boss exclaims as he takes a closer look. William shakes his head. I’m fine, I’m fine. But suddenly he’s looking up at a circle of faces gathered round, empty eyes all looking down at him like polished windows.

‘You’re not fine, get home at once!’ The words are far away. ‘Better still I’ll take you myself, where’s your car?’

William’s head lolls to and fro as the car chugs out of the car park, the office block folding up behind them in the car’s exhaust, the buildings of the town blowing away in the rear view mirror like paper houses. The sun has beaten the moon and is busy bleaching out the sky.

‘That’s right son, you close your eyes’, says his boss. ‘Mum will be back soon and she’ll bring you something to eat in bed.’


There’s a terrible noise in his ears. William’s girlfriend reaches out of the blinding sunlight to turn off the alarm clock.

‘Its morning time, sweetie,’ she says fastening the curtains back. ‘You look a little pale today. Are you sure you want to go in?’

‘I’ll go in,’ William says dizzily, and more forcefully than he had intended, and throws the blanket to one side.

Through the window everything is sharp and crisp with strong lines defining light from dark, real from dream. He kisses his girlfriend and her lips feel soft and warm. She looks at him quizzically. Its solid, my life is solid, William thinks as he takes a deep breath. His heels clip something wrapped beneath the bed. In the gathering dust is an old painting with faces for houses, and sailing above them all a grinning yellow moon.

I must throw that out, he thinks retrieving a snatch of poetry written on the back.

Paper houses are the first to fall,

When flood is rising, deep and cold,

And the yellow moon looks on laughing,

‘Nothing is real, nothing at all!’

The content of a moment

The content of a moment, any moment
As momentous as any age of gods
Walking amongst men,
This flem, this cough, this vague unease,
A haze of feeling,
Not to the taste of all
But valuable for all that,
An array of scents on the wind;
A dog barking,
The feel of the wet and the promise of storm,
The girlfriend thumping up stairs
And warmly into bed,
Like a tidal wave,
Emotions sweeps away detritus,
A high tide for the forlorn,
And where the water recedes,
Only empty sand and a naked body-
Pale but proud,
Of not trying to cover up anymore,
It’s just a human,
Flawed and fruitful,
In words and reason,
Insights and tears,
I’m amongst the toes,
With the sibling tide,
Down the plughole of discarded thoughts,
Forgotten poems
And feelings laying in wait
For another moment such as this!

Sunday poems…

…A stream of poems from the world as I see it, through the kaleidoscope of mind, out via the keyboard to wash up here. None took longer than 30 seconds to write, but I hope that spontaneity results in instinctive, enjoyable pieces.

Simple thoughts,

A pebble dropped in misty rain,

What ripples will it raise?

Old friends walking,

Old friends talking out the world while the trees look on,

And the wind paints its thoughts on a cloudy sky

Creativity: a simple thing

Not giving a shit,

But not caring isn’t the answer

Pace of a sparrow,

Skimming over what bloom the earth provides or doesn’t,

Confident the air will always hold him high

The stream bubbles and brews behind rocks,

Like a wild thing trapped,

But if it were still we’d never hear it,

Nor marvel at its tumultuous peace

The pen tracks its spidery path,

Not clean, not pure, no knowledge of where it’s been before,

No more instinctive than water following a path in the dust,

It’s all been done before,

But never like this

Enough, enough,

I’ve surprised the guard at the gate,

And the floodgates are open,

These words my tears of joy,

But even joy can kill,

When it chokes all else,

Enough, enough

Looking out I am blind,

Only the eye that turns inwards,

Into and through the mirror of subjective self,

Sees the truth

Lazy day, lazy thoughts,

Limbs like treacle,

Sticky and sweet the last day,

Before work

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