PREMONITION

A fisherman's widow scans the horizon
from Port Quin's shore in eighteen-fifteen,
and tonight I stand here beside her fretting,
battered by gales and forty foot waves.

The centuries between us dissolve before dawn
as The Voyager head-butts the ocean floor.
Oh the news when it comes is a foregone conclusion -
I knew when I saw her I'd see him no more...

THE WANNABE

A boy was playing the bass guitar,
the fame had gone to his head.
While watching backstage all his girlfriend could think
was how in two weeks time they'd be wed.

Well the beat was frantic as they belted out
hits from their latest album.
Hysterically the fans screamed and cried -
oh the atmosphere was totally awesome!

I stood at the back surveying the scene
and perceived the storm clouds gathering,
for picking up their thoughts verbatim
I could predict where all this was leading.

I was sort of part of it, I kind of wasn't,
still it was agonising to watch
how after the concert with an unknown girl
he shared a bottle of Scotch.

Well one thing led to another until
the pair of them wound up in bed
and they seemed to be having a lot of fun -
until a bottle smashed down on his head.

As blood flowed profusely from a near-fatal wound,
his girlfriend just stood there in shock.
"What have I done?" I heard her cry
as they carted her off to the dock.

Then the wannabe quickly snatched the mike
and sang like dynamite.
Well, audiences being fickle, a star was born...
while an ex-girlfriend cried all night.



PS
Just wanted to share my birthday pics with you:




The gorgeous birthday card from Austin
                                                     

I am taking a short break after today, so will "see" you all again in a week or so.
Until then, have a fabulous week...I will miss you...
Hugs :)) 

STANDING THERE

Not a hint of nerves -
but you were being extra vigilant
for loose rocks as you positioned yourself
right on the uppermost edge of Cheddar Gorge.
Watching you focus your camera,
all I felt was acute anxiety and nausea.
Across the other side, the rampart cliff.
Far below, ant-like cars winding
their way along a miniature strip of tarmac.
"Suicide point" some have called this spot.

I could see why.
An optical illusion gave the distinct impression
that we were only twelve inches or so up.
"Step over," a voice
seemed to suggest in my head,
"You won't hurt yourself!"
And I was put in mind
of Mother Earth's vagina - the entrance
to the sanctity of her womb.
A powerful sense of belonging, of being part of something
sacred and infinite, overcame me.
Suddenly, I understood what it meant to be female -
the purpose of my existence.

Lost in the beauty
of Her most intimate moment - penetration
by the Sun God in brilliant golden light.
And we exchanged glances, no need
for words. We were awestruck, caught up
in the inexpressible joy of sharing
in Her afterglow.
You captured it all.
But, alas, no camera can accurately record such bliss:
all that was visible on playback
was a gorgeous multi-coloured shaft of light,
descending deep into the core of Her being.

Breathless, we perched ourselves on a rock
and gulped ice cold water from the flask
I'd filled that morning in the trailer.
It tasted better than vintage champagne.
We were intoxicated
with the sheer rock faces crammed in our heads,
the waterfalls, the gorse bushes, the caves,
the purchases from gift shops
jammed into our rucksacks.
We were blinded by the brilliance
of the Sun's reflections on the river,
and the midges that darted into our eyes
out of the trees and crevices and empty beer cans
discarded by yesterday's tourists.

Oh how we'd sweated as we climbed Jacob's Ladder!
Then we wanted our reward from the top of the tower:
aah, that view! Such a delightful visual translation
of the Creator's Plan - this canyon
and the Mendip Hills beyond
that gradually faded into the graded blue
of a summer horizon.

Standing there
on top of the world,
we could be Gods too,
of a kind.

Standing there,
Nature's voice
murmuring on the breeze:
the first revelation,
cutting through our vertigo
into awe-struck minds.
And every hair on my body
stood on end.

Standing there,
all previous memories erased.
The time, the place, the crowds below -
just being there, on that cliff edge,
such intimacy with Mother Earth:
you, me and Her...suspended
in that single moment in time, transported
to another realm.
No longer a before or after.
All things familiar gone.
Just standing there.



So glad I scribbled those notes in my journal.
They are the only proof that we were ever actually there
and it wasn't just a dream.
It was all so surreal.
Nothing else tangible is left,
only those words and pictures.

But at odd moments I re-live it all
as if I am there again - like a hand
snatching me from eternal sleep.
Living through all these ordinary years,
our years.
Then I come alive and feel again
that breeze in my hair.
And I reach for your hand...

standing there.

TEXT

Text me by all means, but please
don't make it the usual hard done by message:
the you've abandoned me and left me broken
self-pitying soliloquy. I've heard it so many times
that it no longer provokes either guilt or pity.

Can we also avoid the blackmail message:
the if you don't come back I swear I'll kill myself.
You know how much I need you in times of trouble
to sort out my life for me kind of message
that displays not the slightest interest in my needs?

And can we ditch the it wasn't MY fault message:
how can I help it if all those women throw themselves at me?
Well, you didn't have to catch them ALL did you?
One, or maybe two, I could have forgiven. But forty-two??
I now feel inclined to say, "Oh just get out of my life!"

What I've really been longing for is a how it used to be text:
the I can't wait to see you again, and
you'll always be the only one for me,
you know that kind of text, that precludes
something altogether more erotic and exciting

that sets my pulses racing and breathes new life
into a heart that's been slowly tortured to death.
However, I've come to realise that will never be. So
I'll settle for a hi, how are you? friendship
kind of text, that is caring, genuine...and just for once,
totally unselfish.

St. CUTHBERT'S

That midnight meditation was an impulsive endeavour
to engage with something infinitely out of reach.
I had expected impossibility, yet so avidly craved
that feasibility hinted at by Einstein's Theory
of Relativity. Also that night
Mars was in conjunction with Venus,
while opposing Saturn - a prospective time anomaly
according to my comprehension of both theories - the
proverbial red rag to an off-beat visionary like myself!
That conjunction filled me with excitement.
It was mainly the position of Venus
that fired my imagination.
For an amateur astrologer, it was
a true eureka moment - when absolutely anything was possible:
even Romeo and Juliet could have resurrected
to live happily ever after, well into old age.
Oh yes, that night the Astrological and Metaphysical systems
were in perfect harmony, forming a bridge
across the division of time and space.

Time tunnel:

Too much noise. Student voices reach deafening pitch
in a corridor of St. Cuthbert's College, Worksop.
Not now, but then:
1908, your final day there.
Dizziness. As if on a tilting deck of the Poseidon.
A silent Chaplin movie, blurred, jerky and out of sync.
Feeling sick. Now equalising. Still light though -
lighter than air, but feeling present. Then full, glorious clarity.

Suddenly -
                  fate must have decreed it -
                                                             suddenly you.

First glimpse close up, burned into the back
of my retinas - permanently etched into memory banks.
Less tall
than I'd imagined, but well-toned, athletic.
And those long, slender fingers
that would someday perform such miracles.
And your face, so hauntingly beautiful.
I see you there, clearer, more real
than in any of the subsequent years -
as if we both existed solely for that instant,
and time itself stood still:
the soft waves of your hair, that I so ached
to run my fingers through. That sensitive,
expressive mouth, and those soulful eyes,
deep-set and twinkling like stars
in an indigo sky - so vibrant and alive.
Yet I could sense a melancholy already in their depths. Perhaps
a premonition of tragedy in khaki
that only I had knowledge of then?
You completely knocked me out
with a vitality and optimism
that totally belied the horrors to come...


I remember very little
of the remainder of that night. Nothing
except an acute sense of separation
on returning to outer consciousness,
then my mesmerized observation
of your image that had followed me home.
And the discovery of the raised red welts
where you'd touched me
that branded my arm for the next week or so,
and my Soul, beneath them, forever.




I am taking a short break now, so will catch up with you all again in a week or so.

Until then...
have a fabulous weekend - and Happy Blogging!

xoxoxo

THE CORFE CASTLE GHOST

The Corfe Castle ghost is a subtle ghost,
is a victim of King John;
is a ghost of the silent hours
when the tourists have all gone.

The Corfe Castle ghost was a French Knight,
is a ghost of centuries past;
is an echo of  royal ruthlessness
whose shadow is still cast.

The Corfe Castle ghost is a ghost of trauma,
is a soul in darkness trapped
in the dungeon beneath this ruined tower
where in anguish he's still wrapped.

Upon gazing through an arrow slit
I could see the spiral stair
down which he made his final journey -
ouch...it gave me such a scare!

Then just for an instant he became I -
oh grim hopeless and despair
of knowing I'd never once more see the sun
nor breathe again God's clean air.

No, instead I survived on stagnant urine
and the depths of degradation plumbed
along with twenty-one fellow countrymen,
until one-by-one we succumbed

to starvation's savage desperation
that turned us cannibalistic...
but at the end I believed I was back in France,
enjoying fine wine and a picnic.

IT'S SO UNFAIR

It's so unfair how obsessively you adore her
while taking me for granted.
How hard I've tried to be your ideal:
Juliet to your Romeo, so passionately
I should have won an Oscar...
whilst she can pick you up or drop you
however and whenever the fancy takes her -
yet she's the only one you dote on.

It's so unfair that I have learnt to parachute jump
and mountain climb - in spite of a horror of heights -
solely to impress you. But you've failed to notice...
when all she has to do is lie on the beach
and cultivate a tan to earn your admiration.
And I've practised so hard to become
a nineteen-fifties Bardot - your ultimate fantasy -
and tried to act as sexily. But did you respond?
No way! I might as well have been invisible...
yet she can pass by unmade-up
and tatty as a tramp, and your eyes are out on stalks.

It's so unfair how I'm always extremely careful
never to sulk nor rant and rave
when you cancel a date I've spent hours preparing for,
but just smile and say, "That's OK. Maybe another time."
Yet she can throw her tantrums
and you'll jump to her tune every time.
What she wants is all that matters.

It's so unfair how I can read your thoughts
almost before you think them, and
adapt my words to harmonise with your moods...
whilst she is arrogantly dictatorial.
So how come you hang onto her every word?

Oh it really is so unfair that it's so unfair,
and even if I could stop loving you
it would still be unfair
that I am me and not her
and never could be
that perfect.

It tragically is so unfair. So, so,
so incredibly, frustratingly, painfully,
cruelly unfair.