Writing

A certain birdsong in the silence

[1]

I was lost when you found me

standing next to the stairway

another path not yet discerned.

 

[2]

I remember the small girl spat upon by the roadside

the violence of men fearing innocence

little sense as my strength betrayed me.

 

[3]

It was fear that tore me

from what I had known

certain truths will cut the ties.

 

[4]

I remember the young woman in the headscarf

the flowers that she had bought

a lump in my throat as she handed them to me.

 

[5]

It was absence that drove me

toward a certain uncertainty

my rebellion finally overthrown.

 

[6]

I remember the old woman gentle in wisdom

her husband by the open door

as he sat and bade a silent welcome to me .

 

[7]

It is not wisdom and yet

I am content to sit and listen

birdsong beckoning in the silence.

 

The loneliness of the long distance volunteer

It’s the same old faces at all the races

scribbling and scratching and watching

over their wards, who threaten to reciprocate

over cake and lashings of tea.

 

But those older, bolder and increasingly colder

guardians and shit-givers are left standing,

demanding aid whilst the promises fade

and a word of thanks remains a word.

 

A world of difference between doing and doing

but in the long run the sacrifice does not come

from those who toe the line and post a time

but those that would, and could, “but…”

 

It’s the same old faces at all the races

scribbling and scratching and watching

over their wards, who threaten to reciprocate

over cake and lashings of tea.

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Filling in the blanks

Sitting, trying to write

a poem that’s not too trite

– or full of literary pranks –

but the sum of all the thanks

is to draw a page of blanks.

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Searching, endlessly searching

bike2

It’s been a difficult few weeks.

Busy and not busy, beat and bored, striving and failing and striving again. Writing has taken a back seat to family and other matters, not least trying to regain some fitness. Words have eluded me; lines distant horizons that I keep cycling towards but never reach. At the moment it seems more important to watch and listen.

QualityOfLine-web Incidental Comics

Toothless

An eye for an eye

and a tooth for a tooth

he’s a wee bit fast

and loose with the truth

but the truth is there

and it’s plain to see

but it’s not for the likes

of you and me

 

Cioch Mhor

Six months on, they came

never would it be the same

but still they came

greater and stronger than before.

They did not file like Owen’s cattle

but stampeded past them and their shit

a fertile ground for all of it.

Working like ants, downwards

and onward to their baptism.

A short-lived blessing in these pressing times.

And now the burning season through the heather

the weather holding but brooding and befitting.

In ones and twos and more the procession reaches out

and reaches, a turning point.

Pants and grunts and curses, smiles and laughter

some walk, some stop and some canter

but for all the banter (as is befitting)

one voice is heard, by a tearful ear,

“Alex brought me here.”

 

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Beyond 365

There was a time I was alive

to the sound of the ring tone,

a time to rejoice and to thrive.

But the sound of yon phone

fills my bones with dread

always after 10

always calls of the dead.

It’s late

It’s late. And I’m tired

(what did I expect?)

I spent the week collecting

sick children.

Not one or two but

three additions to the infirmary.

 

It’s late. And I’m jaded

(what did I expect?)

I spent the evening brooding

about Suilven.

Not three or six but

nine months of injury.