PARANOID

Once I had a best friend
I trusted with my life.
How, you're wondering, did it end?
Well now she's my boyfriend's wife.

It's left me increasingly paranoid,
I don't know who to trust.
My faith in others is totally void,
as a broken heart turns to rust.

On a night flight into Heathrow
I'm terrified our plane'll crash land,
or that a terror cell will overthrow
the crew and force our pilot's hand

to take a gun and shoot us all
exactly where we sit,
and in my mind I watch us fall
as one-by-one we're hit.

Oh such relief when we disembark -
then I spy the customs man.
When his sniffer dog begins to bark
it's time for a fast-hatched plan.

For I'm certain he'll plant something on me
to earn himself brownie points.
I wonder what this time it'll be -
a package of ready-rolled joints??

With pounding heart I hurry by,
but it goes without a hitch.
Then I'm convinced I'll surely die
on the back streets of Shoreditch.

For I've heard it said that hereabouts
they'll roll you for a pound,
so if you've any complacent doubts
then just try hanging around!

Phew! I'm finally home and dry...
now I need some chill-out time.
So a local pub I decide to try
where the band plays a decent rhyme.

Well I leave my Bacardi to go to the loo
and when I return to my table
my instinctive mistrust is proved quite true -
honesty's no more than a fable.

My drink's been stolen and there's no one to blame,
it's gone without a trace.
Oh I guess, being female, I'm fair game:
must be written all over my face.

So I decide to leave and while walking home
along a footpath through the woods,
I imagine, when footfalls I hear in the loam,
a gang of murderous hoods.

I begin to run, and the faster I go
the shadows speed up too.
Soon the trees appear to grow
into grotesque monsters who

are clutching at me with bony fingers
as if to tear out my heart.
I'm terror-stricken and the feeling lingers.
It's blowing my mind apart.

Oh these paranoia blues are killing me,
asleep or awake there's no peace.
If only someday I could be free,
I'd pay the Devil's lease.

So tell me please in all honesty:
whose side are you on?
Is your friendship no more than a travesty,
or can you be relied upon?   ;))

THE ANCESTORS

Now, they are dust
blown to the four winds
that toss the boughs of trees
and ripple spiders' webs
in hidden corners.

Their language is obsolete
to we, the deaf,
who can no longer hear
beyond our tablet speakers
nor see beyond our phone screens
to where they dwell in ether.

Yet, they are ever watchful
as they wait to reawaken in us the old ways
through our names' syllables
and in our dreams,
where conscious trivia has no place
and awareness no constraints.
Today, it is only here they can reach us,
through abstract image and metaphor...
and make us whole once more.

APHASIA

Describing spring flowers is easy:
the fragile beauty of the bluebell,
blue as the morning sky,
as it dances to the slightest breeze.

And there are many ways to describe a red rose
with it's heady, intoxicating scent
that lifts our spirits
and makes us think of true love...

But there are no words for the vivid rawness
of the bloodied feathers and mangled flesh
of a once magnificent pheasant
suddenly ground into the cold motorway tarmac.

And how can one describe the piteous sight of his grieving mate
frantically running around in circles and crying out,
while deep inside her a developing eggshell
tenderly enfolds their now fatherless chick?

CAMPING IN SUMMER WINE* COUNTRY

 Up here there are no protective walls,
just open air. It is cold, freezing in fact
and the ground is rocky. Sunrise
has a peculiar effect on the waking senses:
shadows moving across rippling canvas
become Compo, Clegg, Foggy and the rest, creeping
into the tail end of restless dreams.
A sudden gust of wind makes them jump,
as rainwater from last night's storm
cascades noisily down the sides of our tent.
With full consciousness the Summer Wine illusion recedes,
untouchable as tomorrow, leaving
two campers shivering in inefficient sleeping bags.

Soon bacon and eggs are frying, spitting fat,
over a single ring Gaz cooker.
Aah! Such delicious aroma of bygone days.
Tent door open, the sloping field stretches out,
rain-drenched green. Grazing sheep
baa out a catchy melody that makes us want to dance.
We begin to thaw like icicles in the pale sun
that has come to remind us this is high summer.
Where we sit, warmth-animated, harvest men congregate
in their leggy beauty, seeking suitable mates for the coming autumn.



























The moon's day-ghost gradually fades into blue,
and a gigantic bumble bee strays into our tent.
Today, we are going to Holmfirth, in search of Nora Batty's house...



























* For anyone who is unfamiliar with "Last of the Summer Wine"...it was a popular long-running British comedy series about a group of O.A.P.'s reliving their lost youth!

I am taking a short break, so will visit you all again soon. Have a great week! :))