Kiss your chains

1_Page_10

 

 

Commotion through my heart.

I moved into her room.

Taking a straight line
though sideways seemed best.

(Sometimes you have to make do.)

 

She was ready.

 

And, afterwards, said:

“Kiss your chains!
Before you go back home.

Kiss them, honey!

 

OK.

Stand up, now.”

 

 

By then
I really
wanted
a cuddle.

 

 

But sometimes

 

you have

to make do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

(The above piece dates from when I was 20 years old.)

 

I’m too ill for writing poetry, lately.
My brain affected by a virus.
Into the fourth weekend, and it’s still continuing.

Luckily the fever and headache abated.
Though depression increased.

I resisted a break from blogging, which might have been sensible.
These Sunday posts form a chance to connect with readers, that I don’t want to lose.
With a small following, I fear being forgotten altogether, during any absence.

My anxiety about running out of food eased.
Finding empty shelves now partially refilled, in local shops.
(I could not buy preferred choices, but there were, at least, alternatives.)

 

Theย best thing about the last fortnight was spending more time on WordPress.

I discovered many interesting blogs.
Plus enjoyed interacting with various writers, poets, photographers, and artists.

 

Hope everybody is well?

 

Haveย you been online for longer than usual?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

 

 

(Art on the blog is mine.)

 


 

( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / relationships / writing )

Secrets are for spies

9

 

 

 

Explore a face.

 

 

Mine reveals little.

 

This tired old mug:

fit only
to be endured.

 

Though
sometimes
my mouth
bears fruit.

 

 

Yet secrets remain.

 

I can’t help you with them.

 

 

 

Secrets
are for spies.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

The poem above was the last piece of writing from my teens.

Your comments are always welcome! ๐Ÿ˜Š

Hope everybody is well? ๐Ÿ™

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

(Any art or image on the blog is mine.)


 

 

Update:

Apologies if this post is less coherent than normal.
Disorientation prevents proper concentration and editing.

I’m really struggling, presently.
The virus, mentioned before, has flared up for a third weekend running.
(Assume it’s flu, but don’t understand why symptoms keep recurring, intead of easing?)

Feeling feverish, exhausted, and in great pain.
Very difficult sitting at my computer, or focussing on words.

Though I refuse to abandon blogging.

Starting to get anxious about the current situation.

Was too poorly for much shopping, during recent weeks.
Using limited reserves.

Venturing out midweek(after five days) I found supermarkets almost stripped of food.
Never seen anything like it.
Now I can’t restock.

I’ve largely been socially isolated for almost 30 years, due to chronic health problems. Going to the shops is the only place I regularly get near others.
Yet still catch colds and flu.
Buses are full of coughing people, all year round, in England.

 


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Dream triad

Konica12520

 

 

 

 

1)ย ย ย  Entrance.

 

Grotesque impressions

flashed before her mind.

Forms which moved
through shadows.

“I feel faint,” she thought
“but can’t give in.”

Intuiting
cold vastness
beyond her frightened face.

From where an updraught blew.

Its source:
that entrance
like a grave.

Steps slanted down.

What passageway was this?

She found a door
yet froze.

As if held back
by clinging vines.

Or some malign narcotic
slowly weakening
her will.

 

 

 

2)ย ย  The click.

 

With sounds of falling
dim light blinked.

Then motion
overhead
came closer.

Unknown shapes.

She braced herself.

 

And heard

the click.

 

 

 

 

3)ย ย  Ivy.

 

The door had shut.

Trapped there
groping round in darkness
hands brushed ivy.

Massed leaves
meeting fingertips.

She tore a large
old spider’s web.

While fear
suffused
her heart.

 

 

It seemed
now

such
a long
time

 

 

since

 

she had been

kissed.

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Hello everyone!

This poem dates from when I was 19.

For me, it marks a period of using poetry and music (learning guitar) against depression.
Which had marred my previous year.

 

(Art on the blog is mine. I hope you like the painting?)

Comments are always VERY welcome! ๐Ÿ™

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

 


 

(PS:

The virus mentioned last week has flared up again.
Brain fog, exhaustion, and pain are making writing difficult.

But life would feel even lonelier without blogging.

Best wishes to you all. )


 

( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / fiction / life / mental health / painting / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Toward the Moon

1_Page_01

 

 

 

Life.

This intermission
of eternity.

 

Soul’s fragile wings
attempting flight.

 

Wrenched matter shapes us.

Under stars breath.

 

With black
for a colour
I cover some wounds.

When speech sounds hollow
from these lips.

And dreams dissolve
in gentle nuance
like farewell.

 

One tries to brush
such moods aside.

 

As prayer ascends
toward the Moon.

 

An ageless
murmur’s

 

Scant

sad

 

call.

 

 

 

 

 


 


 

The piece above is my first teenage poem, written at age 16.
No others survive from that year.

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?)

Comments are always VERY welcome!

Thank you for reading.

 

 


 

(PS: Am currently going down with an unknown virus.

Feeling feverish. Aching so much, even writing is painful.

Thought to keep blogging as a way of not giving in.

Being already unwell and isolated, my anxiety levels increase when new illness attacks.

I have enough food for a few days, but no support available, if things get bad.)

 

 


( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

City night

Konica12543

 

 

 

How I loved the city night

When fit and young.

That sense of something wild
unseen
beyond an edge.

This mind, alert.

Alone.

In early hours.
Past corners turned
on silent streets.

 

Those sounds
from hidden creatures
taking fright before
my tread.

Heard so quickly
crashing through
the undergrowth.

 

I saw dark bushes twitch.

Yet glimpsed no sight
to show which
kind lay
lurking there.
Among damp roots and earth.

With keener eyes
than mine.

 

While
in our human realm
I sought one female
counterpart.

Some renewed chance
to feel need’s thrill
aroused along
these limbs.

And catch a trace
of scented
skin.

 

To taste life’s feast.

 

Or just
(perhaps)

be preyed

upon

 

 

again.

 

 

 

 


 


 

 

Hi all!

This sprang into my head as I gazed across the city, just before midnight.

Thoughts of the early 1980’s.
Walking home from clubs, at 3 a.m.
Still hoping for adventures.
(Which never came.)

(Though I saved an unconscious fox from traffic, once.
And carried a stranded toad to safety, on a river bank.)

I had no real idea how to attract women.

(Now it’s too late, anyway.)

These days, I fail at attracting people via writing, instead.

 

March will mark a third anniversary of the site.

I’m unsure about carrying on blogging, after that.
(Stats give little encouragement for continuing.)

Comments are always VERY welcome!

 

Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

 

Thanks for reading. ๐Ÿ™‚

 

 


( anxiety /art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / painting / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Unvisited

 

1_Page_25

 

 

They were wrong.

All those who claimed
that love would
seek me out
in time.

I lived no bright lit moments.

No great days.

 

She went unfound.
The longed-for one.

 

I searched on.
Though with
shrinking hope.

Through painful years
while ill.

 

Now old
I’d best
just shun desires.

Or lock them from
my heart.

Then sit here
quiet.

Resigned
at such
familiar
emptiness.

 

This place
I rent.

Unvisited
for over two decades.

 

 

 

It’s getting late.

I need to sleep:

So reach, and close
the blinds.

 

Once truth recedes
perhaps
I’ll gain

companionship

 

in dreams.

 

 

 

 

 


 


 

 

Update

Following an internal haemorrhage (melaena) in January:
I surmounted anxiety, and arranged a gastroscopy.

After my refusing sedation, hospital nurses warned me patients retch when the long tube (containing a camera) is pushed down their throat.
But I surprised them, by enduring the whole procedure silently.

(It feels nice, as a sad old poet, to occasionally master ones oversensitivity.)

Fasting (18 hours without food) made things tougher.
Yet going six hours on zero liquids was worse.

Anyway, I’m glad that’s done, now.ย  ๐Ÿ™‚

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!ย  ๐Ÿ™

Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

 

Thanks for reading.

 

 


( anxiety / art / blog / depression / life / love / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / relationships / thoughts / writing )

Inspiration

 

1_Page_11

 

Words form

on the lips
and tongue.

One writes them.

Yet
it’s never done.

 

Lines come
from the fingers

spun
by mind
they wind brief
curves.

Signs waxing
fast.

 

Before their fade

resumes

more hidden
growth.

 

Which shapes
or rends

some
fundamental

vacancy.

 

 

That void
we sense
through fruitless
days.

 

Spent listening

to

our sighs.

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

The above suddenly arrived in my head, on Christmas morning (2019).

Despite not desiring rhyme, I find myself being pushed toward it, recently.

Perhaps a muse is making sport of me?
I fear rejecting inspiration, in case it disappears again (recalling 13 barren years).

This poem resisted attempts at erasing certain words.
So, feeling the piece wasn’t bad enough to destroy: I let rhymes remain.

I worry about becoming too old, and ill, for reliably judging my own work.

Do any other poets experience falling involuntarily into rhyme?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome! ๐Ÿ™

 

(Art on the blog is mine. Hope you like it?)

 

Thank you for reading. ๐Ÿ™‚

 


 

(PS:

Following my internal haemorrhage (see note beneath previous post “Last love”)ย  ๐Ÿ™ย  ๐Ÿฅ
I underwent a medical procedure at local hospital (urgent gastroscopy) earlier this week.
May discuss it when full results are back.)


( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / depression / inspiration/ life /mental health / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Last love

 

1_Page_21

 

 

There’s no-one here to tell.

Of
still remembering

my last full love.

 

How

after she was gone
the same old places
seemed so empty.

 

Or

out walking those
familiar paths

(their gravel sounding
its low crunch

compressing
underfoot).

 

Aware of others
looking on.

Who saw my
downcast steps
raise dust:

Not knowing that
I felt as if

some windblown ash

now lodged
inside

 

this

 

desolated

heart.

 

 

 

 


 

(2018)

 


 

 

(Please note

 

Hello everybody!

My New Year hasn’t started too well.

Am feeling quite drained, anxious, and low, since suffering an internal haemorrhage (melaena/black blood), on Jan 2nd.

Struggle to focus on blogging.

Doctors told me I should’ve headed straight for A&E (it’s classed as a medical emergency).
Instead, experiencing no pain, I just went food shopping!

Saw a GP next day.
Being informed that I could die, if bleeding recurs, left a weight upon the mind.
(From lack of clarity about cause, source, or state any wound may be in.)

Also had a fall, at home. Which shook me up.

I’m due for an endoscopy.
This sounds rather stressful, given my poor health.
Going without food, and especially drink, over many hours, is hard when one is already very weak.

I hope you might wish me luck?)

 

Comments are always welcome!

(Art on the blog is mine.)

 

Thank you for reading.

 


( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / depression / life / love / mental health / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Goodbye

scan 22

 

 

Goodbye.

Said not just
at a passing year

But for my last decade.

(I won’t survive to end the next.)

Instead
I’m quietly drifting out
toward a closing dark.

Its cold seas wait.

They’ll drag me from
all light.

Through depths that
none escape.

 

While looking back
upon a life
now seen as largely waste.

Youth’s foolish thought:
“There’s always time…”

Left any gifts
so long neglected.

Til

the chance
to track their thread
round fate’s labyrinth

grew faint.

 

Then lost

 

in
night.

 

 

 

 


 

Goodbye constant blogging?

 

Wanting this blog to grow, yet finding stats stay almost flat for two years:
I may take occasional Sundays off, in 2020, and try a different approach.

I read social media could help increase an audience, but have never used it.
Does anybody know which platforms are best for poetry?

 


 

 

Update!

 

My new year started with an extra health problem: Serious internal bleeding.

A doctor told me I should’ve gone straight to hospital, and may need transfusion.
(I already had long-term, unexplained, anaemia.)

He said that I could die if it happens again.

Was instructed to rest. (Probably shouldn’t be writing this post.)

 

Feeling really anxious, drained, and alone, at present, folks.

Clinging to the comfort of routine.

 

Please wish me luck.

 

Comments are always VERY welcome! ๐Ÿ™

 

 

Thank you all for reading.

 


 

(PS:
I intend to blog next Sunday. So, any lack of post will be a bad sign.

Afraid I have no-one to update you on my situation, if it deteriorates.)

 


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / photography / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

 

The Aunt I never had

 

2

 

 

Thinking of her

(now
the family’s dead).

A little girl
I never knew
who would have been my Aunt.

 

Grandparents didn’t discuss this.
The pain remained too deep.

A daughter taken
by diptheria.
Aged just five.

When fearful poverty
delayed their seeking help
until a crisis stage.

Then doctor’s fees were paid in vain.

They blamed themselves
for hesitance.

Though not much could be done
to treat such germs
in 1929.

 

Next I recall
as a teen
discovering
Granny’s cupboard hid
(below stacked papers)
one fragile yellowed page.

On which a childish hand
had practiced ways to write
and sign
“Kathleen KATHLEEN
Kathleen“.

 

But the fragment later
became lost.
I don’t know how
or why.

Today our world
contains no trace
of her.
Except
a birth certificate.

 

Yet, sitting here
I brood alone.

Still wishing we had met.

Or that some photograph
survived.

And ponder if
those eyes were
brown
(like mine)?

 

 

At least these lines
revive her name.

The only thing
my art can save.

 

From cold

oblivion’s

grasp.

 

 

 

 

 


 

Kathleen Webberย  1924-1929.

 


 

 

Hi all!

Some of our ancestors believed the dead prefer we continue speaking of them.
I had that in mind when writing this.

My own name could soon disappear, once I stop blogging.
(Being last of the family line. With no-one left to mention it.)

My grandparents were very poor. They went in fear of debt. Before state welfare.

Coincidentally, I also live on the same street my grandfather arrived at, over a century ago. After he fled the coal mines of his homeland, aged 14.

So I may end my life on the exact spot our (local) family history began.

Though, as remnant.
A lone, forgotten, man.

 

Please let me know if you think the piece works?

Comments are always VERY welcome!

 

Thank you for reading.

 


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / mental health / photography / poem / poetry / reading / relationships / thoughts / writing )