Calling it what god gave.

The failure of English Language is,
it’s full of corners you’ll never turn
and journeys that never begin,
since metaphor, historically,
derives from a chair by the fire,
where decisions are made in principle
and money’s the fuel of all liars.

They ask me how the move’s progressed
since he and I shook hands –
surrendered all control, the stress
now exists in administrative lands,
where searches and excavations find
a dusty archive’s missing hind,
the leg which the deal fails upon,
and excavation’s re-begun through
phone, email and text.
The English Language fails to set
us free, at rest, from stress.

The English Language makes it seem
we struggle on, resourcefully.
Progress fights communication:
five a day, eat fit, live well; strive to beat
your fatal illness; bottle up your rage and give
organs to those considered needy; live
your dreams, but don’t be greedy;
and red-nose day’s a gas, because,
the root cause of the issue’s packed,
placed at resolution’s feet,
no query
of constructions made,
by the bland assertion that
life is a gift god gave.

The failure of English Language is,
whatever you say you’ll find
you can’t quite say just what you wish
without
keeping a bit, behind.

Country Mouse. Town Mouse. Moving House.

Country Mouse. Town  Mouse. Moving House.

Living in my garden shed.
Should I really move my bed?

Tonight, in my garden retreat,
a Dahl-like-folly

redolent of Auntie Molly’s,
England’s eccentric elite
refuse to: live lives inside;
miss the sunset; can’t abide
the way that people eat,
not knowing how the soil beneath
the new front garden’s tarmac wreath
provides for life,
in monthly cycles;
February’s mud allows
Snowdrops’ news, of the revival
March has in its sights.

I wonder, can I live, sleep, feast
unaware that changing airs
mark my heart’s beat,
deaf to Spring birds’ peals of song,
restoring zest for all I long
to complete?

Living In my garden shed.
Should I, really, move my bed?

Derrida on a Monday

The thing is, Universally,
that which is made, resides,
within us, Individually,
is shaped
in space
outside each
lone skin, while,
Inside, it’s harder to
define,
distinguish,
who one is
from one’s inked image,
what’s inscribed,
where one might end,
where life begins.

Your ISA’s up for renewal

ISA

Do you want to spend
however long left
planning for the end,
filling in forms
and working out
what to invest,
once you’re round the bend?

What to do with pension funds?
(Your ISA’s up for renewal.)
Thinking about your NI sums,
do Ashrams’ years make future’s gruel?
Googling like a lunatic
to find your bus pass
now postponed,
the rules re-jigged?
You might have spent the afternoon
dancing or just lying down
and wondering if the ceiling’s
lights, might be spectral visions,

might
make some sense of Being.

Just the table.

As it emptied
(just the table)
Time shifted left
eleven years

I didn’t know,
what’s written now,
on walls in pins and dents,
clues that give no evidence
of all that’s happened, since.

Eleven years of change and fears
lived, faced and dissected
either side or underneath
our table, carried here
worn with loss, loves
joys discussed;
shaped to elbows’ rubbings,
toys, births, deaths, rebuffs;
steeped and yielding to the need
of those who did and those who will
pass salt, laugh, scowl,
read, eat, meet and lean on board
where life lives on in pause.

Wallpapers’ archaeologists
unearth perpetual strife,
a ticking clock of must have style
rewound three times each life.
Plaster’s years of
rich hewn paints
cast from deep pots,
fired at night
to change the mood,
refresh or mark a turning point,
scrape to powder
life’s in flight.

Dusty-faces,
on the table
Time shift – right
Eleven years
I cannot know,
what will have been,
shared and aired,
enjoyed, endured,
either side, and underneath,
Tight-grain-close-nit Oak’s home board.

Discarded

Discarded

I thought,

‘What if’
I had discarded that,

The Programme
and then found
the letter?

The polite hotelier’s
receipt completes
the story of
their wedding
night.

What if?

What if the score
the Composer’s notes
speak of
is beneath
last year’s
Christmas Wreath
in the skip?

What if reminders
slipped between
leaves of quotes
and autographs,
embroidered on
the tablecloth
they dined and wrote upon
for needlepoint –
Edwardian script,
What if it all went in the skip?

What if that album hadn’t fallen
open on the execution?
Images to dearest
Hilda,
sent from East to ‘Home’
bewilder
Gap Year’s travellers,
who ask,
‘why choose such gross atrocity,
for a best beloved sister?’
What if,
I’d muddled that one with
my wedding album
filed too long
and thrown the wrong one
in the skip?
What if all record’s lost?
What if?

Apostrophes

Apostrophes

I was thinking about apostrophes
and how They used to shout at me,
‘Of course because it’s possessive’,
as if they had become obsessive
and couldn’t see ‘it’ wasn’t,

and when it was it didn’t,

They left me to drown, at sea.

It wasn’t till my Prodigy
(at seven she could set all free)
was able to explain to me
quite what possessive meant,
that what had been ring-fenced
(perhaps even obscured from me)
was the language of assumption,
that ‘you get it or you’re dumb’,
was devised to pass on misery,
that even one’s dear Mum
was blind to, would infect you with,
until someone might say,
‘I think it might be my fault, love.
I’ll explain – another way.’