This song is not about me

The stars have been dimmed,
my wick has been trimmed
and no longer burns so bright.
In this twilight I walk
and my memories stalk
as I wander this cold lonely night.

Down here on the beach
I hear the breakers
as they breach,
the steady pulse of the sea.
My heart has been broken,
my love has been taken
but this song is not about me.

Across the dark water
ships’ lights dance and glimmer,
lighthouse flashes guiding the way.
My soul has been stranded
and where it has landed
is uncharted and far, far astray.

Down here on the beach
I hear the breakers
as they breach,
the steady pulse of the sea.
My heart has been broken,
my love has been taken
but this song is not about me.

A fresh morning is breaking
but my core is still aching,
with no hope at this brave new dawn.
The tears that I weep
flow into the deep,
one wave’s wipe
and my footprints are gone.

Down here on the beach
I hear the breakers
as they breach,
the steady pulse of the sea.
My heart has been broken,
my love has been taken
but this song is not about me.

Oh, the stars have been dimmed,
my wick has been trimmed
and no longer burns so bright.
In this twilight I walk
and my memories stalk
as I wander this cold lonely night.

Down here on the beach
I hear the breakers
as they breach,
the steady pulse of the sea.
My heart has been broken,
my love has been taken
but this song is not about me.

(Repeat)

The Human Condition

The human condition is not a position
I can with clear conscience commend.

If I could think of another, one much less bother,
I’d take it and tell you my friend.

Now I’ve not heard high praise, in all of my days,
for the unattractive alternative; death.

So I’ll just keep on going, still rowing and growing
and value the worth of each breath.

It may sound quite funny but it is the journey
that matters and that has no end.

It’s the path that you lead and the love that you seed
that echoes down ages will send.

(Repeat)

Gibbous moon

We snuck in
the still deserted park
late one night
on the way home.
Sat silent
on the dark sandy bank
staring up
at the starry stripe
of the milky way.

Wordlessly stripping off,
I remember
your beautiful
young body
glowing ghostly
in the blurry bluey
white moonlight.

Tentative feet
feeling forward into
the cool black water,
slowly softly splashing,
shushed, gasping
wading deeper.

Launching ourselves gently,
caringly breast stroking
to the deep pool middle
and embracing tenderly
treading water under
the gracious gaze
of a gibbous moon.

The copper beech

Massive, mighty shimmering dark burgundy
canopy reaching high into the bright blue sky,
the great girth of the verdigris trunk hindered
easy climbing so, ignoring the big badly
banged in rusty nails, I leapt, grabbed and
shimmied up and along a low dangling limb,
the hard way, to the crotch of the old tree
where the spreading branches formed
a comforting musky pit.

There I sat, reclining on the warm wood
between the twitching burnished leaves,
nestling carefree on the mould dusted bark,
still, silently observing life below scurry by
listening to the quiet rhythmic rustling of foliage
in a soft wind and the sure beat of my own young heart
steady, secure, high above in the copper beech.

On Joppa Rocks

Down between stripes of stiff strata,
tilted by time and tectonics, serrated sides
sawing skywards, sit small stranded stretches
of still glassy seawater.

Picking our way care free among
the strewn seaweed matted boulders,
care full on young old-plimsolled feet,
prising up a slippery stone, a rapid flip
suddenly sunning the watery underworld
and us searching for movement, probing,
squinting eyes peeled for that perfect partan.

The long narrow strip pools,
slowly trickling back to the source,
rich briny furrows in the encrusted ridges
hiding an accidental harvest.

Amongst the half shells, coarse sand and
interesting rusty lumps; a slow stretching
starfish, darting translucent shrimplets,
a too small green crab twitching, pincers poised,
as we scrambled over the rough rock rows,
tender calf’s brushing cheese grater barnacles.

Playfully poking glistening anemone globs,
pressing huge old snails stickily together,
laughing interlopers amid spitting beds of
bearded mussels as the sun arced over us
in the patchy blue sky, gulls reeling, lost in time,
an endless summer down on Joppa rocks.

Transdimensional Hyper Being

A transdimensional hyper being,
for that is what she is,
exists on many planes at once,
in a state of bliss.

Sometimes she's on Venus
other times it's Mars,
or crossing interstellar space,
the span between the stars.

She invented rhythm,
is responsible for rhyme,
says she thought up music
back in the mists of time.

On earth she looks quite human,
or at least, so she tries,
but you see something hiding
there, behind her eyes.

She's an eternal entity,
the wisdom that she's got
grasps all life's secrets-
what is, and what is not.

A transcendental dancer,
whirling as she goes,
the stuff of many planets
in between her toes.

She observes us all with care,
making mental notes,
now and then she’ll burble
a beautiful Buddhist quote.

The point of her existence
she doesn't know or care,
she's just always been here
and, of course, also there.

Portobello beach

Between high and low water marks where
sandpipers strut staccato on the shiny
soaked sand land that is no man’s, common
and unclaimed; the clams’, the curlews’ and
the worms building bings of tubes rising
at the sea’s flat retreat among contrasting
conical pits, watery and waiting in the thick
of the tough brown kelp and soft sea coal.

The rhythmic rushing slam of waves, the sharp
smell of seaweed as reeling herring gulls harrie
loudly overhead, berating those below as an
elegant pitchy cormorant skims the waves’ foamy
crests winging its own way to the next diving watch
beyond the lone child challenging the lapping tide
trying to grab a big open crab shell floating
just out of reach on that timeless shore,
the soft strand of Portobello beach.

The Fart Knocker

In company he'd knock one off
In silence, slink away.
'Who dropped that? Dirty rat!'
He'd hold his nose and say.

Then broadly smile while innocents,
Red-faced and all, denied.
In fact, he was the Fart Knocker,
From whom you cannot hide.

He'll drop one at a wedding,
An extra thoughtful gift.
Just after the ‘I do's’
You'll smell a nauseating rift.

He'll stand there, grin blamelessly,
Oh him, he never lies.
In fact, he is the Fart Knocker,
From whom you cannot hide.

A crowded bus? He'll cause a fuss,
Gassing all surrounding seats.
He'll look round, shake his head,
As passengers all retreat.

Then sit down, noxious clown,
His face aglow with pride.
In fact, he is the Fart Knocker,
From whom you cannot hide.

So if someone in your throng,
Detects an awful pong,
And then shouts, 'Who let that out?'
Looking round sidelong…

Stare straight back, big smile crack,
Make it good and wide,
Say: ‘In fact, it is the Fart Knocker
From whom you cannot hide.’

(Dedicated to all on the 26 bus,
10.45 am on 4/5/09. Sorry!)