My drawing.
Birth and death
Uncategorised
Waiting for me
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My pictures: Taken this evening. I discovered a new cafe on my evening walk…and wrote this poem.
Writing,
until there’s nothing left
of the light.
Outside gnats rise and fall,
on a spoke of faded sun.
Salt wind ripples,
to let death be.
Your hair drawn back,
a door to yesterday.
The whole dream through.
A hand to the sky
My Picture: The Mekong River, Vietnam.
An unseen bird sings,
a summer redshift.
Just enough to remind me
of how it used to be.
With daylight fading,
and sun in my bones.
I see a distant virga, and wake
beneath next seasons stars.
Clouds of pain
My picture.
Tell me of pain,
what do you know?
I can recollect
when the shadows
of the night came out.
I have never killed,
only ever loved.
Yet, there has been
so much pain…..
with passion
and prolonged silence….
Tell me what you know,
about pain?
Enough
My picture
Not just a pastime, to me
An invigorating swing
of medical English.
Wrapped around
the humanity of
William Carlos Williams
and Cicely Saunders.
Tailing with high gratitude…
and silver lamps of light…
always helping…for no reward.
Yet…alone
how lonely I feel
in the battlefield here.
But new writes spark,
old echoes
from days on the hospital wards
of Manchester.
Drop-dead rains of patient care,
here come the part
a poignant character study…
Sitting in the quite
My picture
Surrounded by people,
floating tea, paragraphs
and ancient calls.
Light conversations inside,
dancing along the lines.
One foot after the other,
watching assumed safety
and dreading a misstep.
Returning years
My pictures
7 hours of marking, a matter of choice.
Neurotransmitters
unfathomable, vast and empty.
Apoptosis and the death of cancer
always on a journey, ill
DNA and a cause for everything,
a mutation here
and a blue-eyed wonder boy there.
In the end,
I wanted to howl like Ginsberg
to feed my patience.
To learn to think,
and clean a wound that won’t close.
Another shadow in a fading light,
a vast and empty hole.
Not quite the truth
My picture: sometimes I jut cannot do what I am asked to do 🙂
By a falling tree,
soft leathery lies.
Small cracks appear
” Just ignore them”
they said.
Falsehoods of time,
they have no one to turn to.
Only their parents,
once again.
Not another sound
My picture.
Sprawled on a hard bed,
trying to read Bukowski.
Night runs through the campus,
half a world away.
As I see the sky,
sleep comes wearily.
Darkness, silence
and a dialogue with old age.
Then a tree shift,
to half a moon.
With fireflies dancing,
and bluing with night fall.
Fade to grey
My Pictures
A Wandering Poet 