Poems about Routine & Peace

let me step into the rinsed light
and listen
let the travelogue of migrating geese
carry me away

let the wind bend my ear
for there is so much more to not understand
let distant traffic
unravel into bee-song

let it be a day not marked
on the calendar
a day slipped through the back door
to chase its tail

let the sun show up the dust
on the windowsill
so thick you could write your name in it
let us write our names in it

let it be a day to plant trees
a day to bury hindsight
let it be a day to write letters
that won’t get posted

let it be a day the otters return
for the river to learn a new song
let the heron consider itself
starling smoke twist and curl in the dusk

let me come home
the world’s ear-worm on my brain
weather in my blood
let the look we exchange say it all

eart racing, the raging storm is inside my head,
No sleep tonight, I toss and turn instead.
Thoughts running on top speed through my mind,
Some make no sense and not always kind.

I feel a little sick, my stomach is churning,
My aged body starts once again a fierce burning.
There’s no escape from this constant attack,
Exhaustion overwhelming, all seems so black.

Feel dark clouds gather, gloomily overhead,
It takes all my strength, to stop tears being shed.
It’s tough to turn a corner, when life seems full of woe,
When one after another, it’s blow after blow.

But I get up and go out in the cool morning air,
The weather’s getting better, sun peeking out as if it is on dare.
Lots of friendly greetings from all the passers-by,
I smile, pat dogs and remark on a beautiful blue sky.

I take in the stunning East Lancashire landscape,
This breath-taking scenery is my joyful escape.
Here I feel safe from feelings of dread,
It is the only thing for my heart and for my head.

A natter with a neighbour, catch up on local chat,
Talk of holidays and ailments and everything that goes with that.
The Canadian geese are noisy and boisterous on the lake,
A regal black head, giving lush plumage a gentle shake.

Horses still wearing coats, just in case the weather takes a turn,
Calmly chomping grass with a certain air of unconcern.
The farmer whistles to his dogs, they are taking to the chase,
Time to bring in the sheep, the dogs loving the morning race.

On my way home, I buy some lovely fresh baked bread,
To make a pile of sandwiches, filled with delicious spread.
A wonderful morning stroll over, I feel like I’ve been given wings,
So, looking forward to seeing what the rest of the day brings.

I recently learnt that I can melt cheese under my oven grill.
I lived here three years with butter and jam on my crumpets.
Now, I watch cheddar and mozzarella bubble and spread
across fruit bread, teacakes, pancakes, whatever will take it.

I have my very own place – rented, yes, a shoebox in a stack
of shoeboxes in the middle of a city – but I have grilled cheese.
I have a washing machine that leaks, but washes my clothes:
the suit I bought when I realised I just could, my plaid shirts.

I have an exercise bike. I don’t report to anyone, just turn on
the radio, gulp water, cycle my legs and dance in my head.
I have my fairy lights, my cheap little blue lamp by my bed.
I have a fridge of soy milk and raspberries and dark chocolate.

I kiss the walls whenever I move in somewhere, and whenever
I leave, but that doesn’t seem enough this time, here. All night,
cars whir like the sea, up and down our hill. Trams honk like geese.
I trace the perpetual light behind the blinds, and I know I exist.

Five year journal mash-up – 10 July 2019-2023

The cushion has seen better days.
That one all draw at chess, Formula One highlights
the match France beat Belgium 1-0,
when it was cooler.

The large black circles on grey background
are almost camouflage, they are so unnoticed.
The dog walks, yoga, making meatballs for tea
a film with a good premise badly executed.

Whoever holds the TV remote is boss.
It’s great to be home together.
Ideas, guitar playing, takeaways, bants
bonus material from an MS Gym summit.

The blue 5kg weights see it all
From their handy place near the TV.
I was up early and did some gardening today.
So heavy the first rep, the last as light as a feather.

Today I praise beige reliability
the carpet beneath my feet
the way it soaks up spillages
energy, dog hair, footprints.
Even when we vacuum every night
we always miss the corners.
We take it for granted. Without it
we’d mourn in a cold echo, finding
it difficult to explain to strangers
who had not met our particular carpet
especially in younger years, less worn.
When there was more bounce and
we felt held up, our naked feet
singing with joy.

Busy the day, the pressures of life.
Demand from the outside, trouble and strife.
Where reasons are wants, not needs.
Eyes on horizons, not feet.
The disquiet and unrest seemed to breed.

I have now something to quiet my mind.
Refuge in flow-state, I follow the line.
It’s about being, not searching.
Reaching out but not wanting.
I know this Somewhere, my place to hide.

It’s about room for one-thought, cold metal chocks.
It’s in the friction of rubber, intricate rocks.
About knowing, not thinking.
Movement, not speaking.
No intrusion felt deep-deep inside.

I found it. The mountains and climbing of rock.
All along it was inside, just had to look.
The connection, not distance.
Only living in this instance.
It’s with me now always, my refuge inside.


This much…or so

Apart from when you rode away, suddenly unrecognisable in your leather armour, motorbike roaring as it took you out of sight, each Sunday parting just as painful, leaving me adrift, not knowing what was left, we have been together for 33 years… or so.

These days there are no frosty morning departures, you determined and huffing cold air as you flick down your visor, me worried that you’ll freeze, have an accident, not come back. Or summers, you too hot in your leathers, me worried that you’ll have an accident, not come back.

Now each morning my eyes open to the hump of you, your face almost reclaimed by the boy you, dreaming, or sighing, as you answer your alarm.

You. So different yet, 289,245 hours or so later, I feel that even our bodies have fused in some electromagnetic, non corporeal way, become one as we dance around the kettle’s whistling, knowing without saying that a cuddle is due.

For every one of the 17,356,284 or so minutes we have been merging, our bodies calling to each other across the 12 inches of upholstery as we settle into an evening’s tv watching, hands reaching as we walk into town, merging so that my-me knows your-me is feeling that 1,041,378,558, seconds was nothing and everything and not enough.

Steel brakes on the train tracks
grinds pitchy and the sound reverberates

back to my house as I walk out. Stone
houses lined up regular as sleepers

a wall’s width apart. Where we pulled up
the platform splits; plaster damp mould and

smoke from repointed chimneys moves
mixes, forms clouds in light polluted night.

The street shifts imperceptibly at its own
slow pace built for the transportation of

people over time. HMOs and Buy to Lets
social housing moans, becomes standing room

only. Belongings in overhead compartments.
Safe in the yellow light glow air vents blow hot air.

Seats reserved from the following station.
Get ready to move the next time the train stops.

Carpet sighed as I sat down
Satisfied as bum met weave
We communed a while
Cup of tea glanced cannily up and winked – waiting to be swallowed
Body listened.
Sofa sang quietly at my back.
It didn t need to rest like me, stood for days on end, wondering eternally
Walls listened
Knowing the peace craved by humans
They stuck together and laughed hysterically when
they got wall-papered