Tagged: POETRY

Burning ambitions. 3 Luib’s Cottages, Kilmartin, Scotland. 1997.

‘It is strange how my head can be so full of great, innovative, stories and ideas and then, suddenly, as soon as I pick up a pen and paper, all of this burgeoning, creative talent vanishes. leaving me floating in a frustrated void.
Fire flickr’ing tounges.

Tempting caverns within the embers.

Taking Sunday slowly, sheltering,

From the slashing, freaking, gusting weather

With an attitude of prooving our resistance.

T.V. and wellies.

The slow contented sigh of a man.

The crackling fire warms my arse as I sit with my knees up.

Blinking with dry eyes.

In my mind my ambitions burn, then mingle and merge , like smoke.

Confusing me.

Where to begin again?!!’

 

 

 

Lifting the lid. Braevallich Cottage, Scotland. 1996.

The inspiration crawled away and hid.

I found it for a while today,

In a small snuff box, when I lifted the lid.

I don’t know where it’s flown to now.

It’s done it again, just disappeared!

No point in believing that’s the end that I feared.

For some other day, as long as there are blank pages in my book,

I’ll find it again

When I am having a look.

Wild wind. Braevallich Cottage, Loch Awe, Scotland. 1996.

Wild wind.

Wild wind howling, stabbing,

stalling, winding, ‘wind’ing,

around this solid shelter.

Helter-skelter missiles surrender,

Thrown against the glacier blue.

A black shadow crow glides and flutters, head on,

Choked on caw,

Blown inside out.

Wild wind, blowing as hard as it can,

Seems, though, it can never blow us all away,

The earth’s scurge and virus,

Man.

Self portrait. 1995. As others see me??

“She carried a muddy kind of vibe.

Like a mouthful of earth.

Couldn’t help but admire her blunt honesty.

Asexual….yeah, that kind of instinctive, animal, immediacy that you find in an old domestic pet.

She was reliable, an uncanny knack of turning up at the right time.

Always felt the urge to scream at her.

“Lighten up. For God’s sake lighten up!”

She was always there so completely,

But not on a social plane……not in the world of people.

Felt like you’d known her for years.

For someone so solid, she never seemed to stay around for very long.

Thought it kept her young ,

or some such fancy.

Talented girl really – but never seems to produce anything tangible.

That was it….

Intangible.

And yet the most real individual I think I ever met.”

Circling the fire.

Circling the fire

Circling the perimeter in half dark

Golden eyes in shadow dark looking in

A wolf’s bark.

Flickering, orange of society’s fire

It is natural to turn toward the light

Few hands reach out to shadow

Yet lovely to stand in half dark looking in

At those clustered around the glow and witness so much love.

 

It is lonely also.

I have to wear a thicker coat.

 

(1995 note: Again I sit outside. The sun was shining, so I chose to leave the group and have left the others inside. They need it too!
I do need to exist in the half dark as it defines who we are. An edge of sorts.
I am a friend holding out my hand from the darkness, not to pull you in, but to encourage you to share your loving trust, wider. Always looking out for hands that dare to reach out from the fire. No wish to change perspective…just nice to know you are aware.)

Loosing control.

The experience lies in layers of sound.

So loud that they don’t understand.

The experience lies in friends connecting

with ideas that will not let them be.

The experience lies in turning things over

protesting in dance, in mind wanders and questions,

and answers where the question should be.

The experience lies in stretching our limbs

And jumping and bounding for hours and hours

The experience lies in daring to do it

To do what someone somewhere is desperately trying to stop

The experience lies in loosing control

The control that gave rise to the experience.

 

Note: (The irony lies lies that after your police have smashed the equipment, rough handled and bruised us, it is all made so ugly that which had resonated with such honesty beauty.)

We run toward the sun.

We run toward the sun

Dancing together alone

Working out the pain of our individual histories

Crazy about the colour and texture of living now

More concerned with respect, than building and conquering

Accused of debauchery and scandalous waste of time

By those that believe that to build is to be.

We argue that more joy lies

In expressing gratitude for being free.