Truth

Should I give them up

my pockmarked truths?

(Each scar-shamed one.)

 

Are they deemed
too blunt and ugly, now?

(Although hard-won.)

 

As if unearthed
dirt-bound

like postholes under
abandoned ancient sites

which only speak
to us
in ash.

 

In charcoal’s black.

From lives undone.

By sufferings
that came on fast.

Remorselessly
unjust.

 

And where

(however much
its victims strove
at staying strong)

Fate’s sharpened heel
then ground things down.

Unto this
trace.

Unnamed.
Unhallowed.

Charred
across deep soil.

 

So to ask

(today)

Do I tell them still:
these damnably
unwelcome truths?

 

Or let what I know
be taken

cancelled

snatched
by
(that thieving death’s-hand)
time?

Or silenced
via law
and dogmas?

 

Either way

(it feels)

I shall
finish

lost.

 

Burning

in censored

exile.

 

 

Or

forgot.

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Konica1117319

 

 

(Post-poem musing)

 

 

 

Defeat code

 

 

 

Lies may be popular
yet still pollute the soul.

I’ve seen them spread.

Of course, I speak as mere outsider.
Reject.

Society had no place for me.

Love proved unobtainable.
Friendship unavailable.
Beauty unattainable.
Recognition unachievable.
Conformity unendurable.

But in this desert I sought Truth.
Among a myriad books.

Thinking til my brain hurt.
Bearing painful disillusion.

Served Truth as a mistress.
(Though she was cruel.)

 

Now I fear loss of legacy.
Taking secrets to the grave.

Dread a smothering control-grid
where free thought may barely breathe.

And dissent can get deleted
before even being read.

 

Anxious tyranny goes masked
conceals its mean grimace.

Behind sugar coated rhetoric
of “safety”, “care”, “community”.

Whose guidelines filter
disliked views.

And keep things hid
not argued with.

 

So perhaps my words
will all be wasted?

And hence bullies win again.
(I found they often did.)

Feeling need to speak in code
already signals one’s defeat.

 

What remains is fretting.
Muted impotence.

Watching
washed-up
on the sidelines

While a smug parade
struts by.

To hear its well-lit
noisy victory

sound

that triumph

 

of

the lie.

 

 

 

 


 


 

 

 

 

Belated Birthday Piece

 

The photo below is as close as I ever got to a wedding…

(That’s me, with the top hat.
And a girl even held my hand!
I always loved women’s company.
Hoped one might marry me.

But fate had other plans.)

 

 

11

 

 

I intended a post marking my 30th consecutive birthday isolated and ill.
(After living alone from 1991.)

Although too unwell for publishing this on time, I am pushing back against oblivion:
by including it, now.

(Please forgive the lateness.)

 


 

 

 

Nothingness

 

 

In a futile imitation of self-love
I’d vowed:

To mark each birthday
by a piece.

Though the date meant less
it still held worth for me.

Yet I sank too low
this year.

Hence failed (alas).
At feigning some significance.

Depression crushed my spirit
like a bug.

 

I lost a fight
which lostness won.

Then sensed a darkening destiny
a long-imagined fear.

Of joining those forgotten ones.
Who die unseen.

Who lie alone in quiet homes.
Unmissed for months.

As all around go rushing on
compulsive in their busyness.

 

And while I watch 
such fate approach

to change is growing harder
since

it does not just depend on me
but strangers.

As old age reveals
diminished status

shrink toward a nullity
beyond humane regard.

Where no other life
encountered

makes spare any space
for mine.

 

Thus I sit, again
with silence.

Only mapping out
these margins

In my
nothingness.

 

 

 

 



 

 

Wait ages for a poem, then three come along at once! 😀

 

(I wonder which one works best?

Did any lines stand out for you?)

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

 

Comments are always VERY welcome! 🙏

 

 

 


 

 

I apologise for blogging infrequently in 2021.

Was going to write about the reasons.
Yet this post seems rather long, already.
(Worry you may get too bored.)
Therefore I’ll leave that topic for another time.

 

I want to finish by expressing my gratitude.
To readers and followers.

As a person absent from other platforms or social media
it has been a moving experience:
exposing my work online, for the first time, here.

Finding people so supportive and kind.

Your likes, follows, and comments, help keep me going.
Maintaining morale during chronic illness.
Countering those temptations to give up. 

 

Would really love to thank you all in person. 🤗

But must make do with sending

 

Best Wishes!

And

Thanks
for reading!

 

 

 

 


(  art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / photography /poem / poetry / thoughts / truth / writing)

 

Desire

Konica128519

 

When day returns

like something never reached

Aflame
on the air.

Then
(O muse)
let me speak
from my dream

of her eyes

I so wanted
to meet
with mine.

(Yet
which always
stayed
behind their clouds.)

 

Just once
(Yes!)

Let me sing

while still
I lie
and seek

Imagined dawns

New-breathed.

Inspiring
to the lungs.

 

Or wish
for years
less lost.

 

As these
thoughts

attempt light.

 

Through
mere networks

of signs.

 

 

 


 

 

(Above is a piece based on poetry written aged 23.
I’ve felt unable to create poems, lately, due to illness.
Hope you think it works?)


(Below is a prelude to this post…)


 

 

Digital nightmare!

 

After logging in, unfamiliar sights transfixed me.
Waves of anxiety coursed through my body.
What was happening?

The screen now resembled a strange, alien puzzle.
A digital nightmare began.

The WordPress Block Editor had taken over! 😱

ARGH!!

 

(I soon nicknamed it “Blockheaditor”.)

Perhaps designed by geek sadists?
(Who’d decided we tech-phobes were not suffering enough already,
just trying to be bloggers.)

Being a humble poet: an image with some words underneath was all I knew.

Struggling against disorientation: a panicky nausea arose.
As if betrayed by a trusted friend.

Amid confusing options, I sought pathways to coherence.
Painful hours passed.

Finally, my nervous hand crept toward the “Publish” button.

Would this reveal success?
Or disaster?

Click!

I squinted into an electronic glow.

Had the words appeared correctly?

There?

 

HERE?

 

 

 


 

 

Have any others found the Block Editor an unwanted change?

It may be great for those with more ability than me.
Or who need extra features.

But I prefer freedom of choice to compulsion.

 

Comments are always very welcome!🙏

 

Thank you 👏
for reading.

 

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

 


 

(PS:

Sorry for the lack of content, recently.
Depression’s been hitting me hard.
Motivation got crushed.

Intended to post at least once per month, but failed.

On the positive side, I’m still active:
following 277 people;
using the reader,
and discovering new blogs.)

 

Wishing you all well.🙂

 


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


The message

1_Page_04

An ancient code
long wove through
souls.

 

Its falling tremor
a veiled melody.

 

At times
barely heard.

 

As if
breaking

on distant shores.

 

Or sought
in old minds

beset
with
dismal thoughts.

(Like dark soil
chafed
by some goading
plough.

As heckling crows
caw down
from
the pointed wood.)

 

 

Though
still

a message
may come.

Scorning our rules.

 

(While men pretend

to have
understood.)

 

 

 

So
legends
are made

breathe.

 

In their
ageless

certainty.

 

 

 

Then carved.

 

 

Upon

wrinkled

stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

(The poem above is a revision of one written when aged 23.
I find myself too ill for creating new poetry, at present.)

 


 

 

Impostor syndrome?

 

This blog passed 1,000 followers last week.  🎉
That appeared an unattainable total just a few months ago.

I am very grateful for all your support. 🤗

 

Yet depression (which currently grips me) has triggered a sort of impostor syndrome.

My inner-critic’s voice sneers:
“Ha! Get a book published before calling yourself a “poet”!
And putting old stuff online, means you aren’t even a proper blogger, either!”

(With a psyche like mine, who needs enemies?)

 

Yes: I do dream about being published, someday.
But have no idea how.
Or where to approach.

And when my symptoms are bad, I often end up feeling overwhelmed.
The energy required for self-promotion seems completely absent.

 

 

Does anybody else struggle against impostor syndrome?

Perhaps viewing themselves as a chronic amateur, among experienced bloggers?

Or imagining that others are “natural” writers, in ways one can’t match?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!🙏

 

Thank you
for reading.🙂

 

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

 


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

Fame!

1_Page_05

 

 

Fame

when now imagined
strays
from certain wilder dreams

to tamer ones.

In any case
persists.

Just

out
of reach.

 

Though chances
ebb
my heart still
lacks

self-love
enough
to
stop

that search.

 

This quiet

craving.

 

For
some
sense of

full
esteem.

 

 

Which never

grew

 

within.

 

 

 


 

 

Fame!

 

At last. 🤩

“Beyond my wildest dreams!!”  🙌 🎉

 

(Well, er, maybe not that far, but…)

 

Bristol 24/7  SW England’s biggest independent magazine
published a piece about me, this month:

“Blogging against oblivion

I promised them to put the link here.
And ask if you lovely people could be kind enough to click it, for a moment?🙏

 

That article is the only recognition I have ever had, outside of WordPress.

(Given my obscurity, age, and poor health: it might remain singular.)

The feature contains biographical information, plus artwork and photography.

 

I don’t enjoy self-promotion. Yet, perhaps, you will forgive me, on such an occasion?

So, please, take a look, if you can.

 

Did you like any of the images?

I hope you found it of some interest?

Comments are always VERY welcome!🤞🏻🙂

 

Thank you
for reading.

 

 

(PS: Any art, or photography, on the blog is mine.)


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

 

Forgotten happiness

scan 21-1

 

 

 

 

 

When I was a small boy
at the zoo

This world seemed
fresh.

And yet

If someone told me
then
how lonely
life would grow.

What could I have done
(or changed)
to stop that fate?

 

(Hence
not finish up
as melancholic.
Black-clad
faded soul.

Like a goth in spirit.

Minus
style.)

 

 

 

Perhaps long illness shows us
who our true friends are?

With mine revealing
I had none.

Except
a loving uncle.

Close
until the end.

 

His photographs were left for me.
Preserving childhood days.

Those early sunlit trips
escaped oblivion
again.

 

 

7

 
To my surprise
he claimed I’d been
a source of fun and joy.

 

(Depression
arrived later.

Once art waned
I lost my way.)

 

His favourite picture
caught me unaware
a swan approached
behind.

 

 

Konica12496

 

 

Recently
I found an unseen image
of what happened next.

 

He’d made it known
the bird drew near.

So I turned back
delightedly.

 

 

8

 

 

Thus
these few shots

which now
survive

though blurred
or aged

might still display

their faint remains

 

of such

(forgotten)

 

happiness.

 

 

 

 

 


 

(This is my third

Birthday blog post.

🎂

After 30 years of spending them alone (and ill)
I often feel sadness, on the day.
It tends to emphasise continued isolation.

My uncle used to ring me.
But, since his death, the phone stays, mostly, silent.)

 

Hope everybody is well?

Do you like any of the photos?

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!

 

Thank you
for reading.

 


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

Elusive

Konica1248

 

 

Phrases arrive.

Discrete.
Homespun.

Through various fathomless
apertures
of sense.

Like empty sprites
word-bubbles
flash.

 

Then these visitors
(vanishing)
shrink to a speck.

Cross reeling
complexities.

 

Weaving down
past deeper veils.

Where older shades
lay mingled
in their graves.

With an
enigmatic
trace.

 

And thus
(I found)
remained.

Only certain
broken

images.

 

 

Half-

purified.

 

 

By
dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

(Above is a revised poem, from when I was 23.)

I’m still unable to write fresh poetry, since a recent illness.
Post-viral depression eased, yet the creative spark’s gone missing.

 

 

 


 

 

 

I’ve spent more time than usual on WordPress in the last few months.
Enjoyed discovering loads of new writers, poets, artists, and photographers.

As a result the number of blogs I follow has reached about 240.
This is making it difficult to keep up!
(So far, I try to read every post from blogs I follow.)

Seeing my audience grow is exciting.
(I’m truly grateful to each one of you.)

Though I also feel quite guilty, for not following back all 
of those who are kind enough to follow me.
But the number (700+) seems rather large to make that practical?

 

I’d love to hear how many blogs other readers follow?

Do you think 240 is a lot?
Or am I being a WordPress wimp?🙂

Do you ever feel bad for not following people back?
Do you follow blogs you don’t actually read?

(I worry that over 300 may become hard to focus on?)

 

To be honest, I notice myself hesitate about following long-form, writers, lately.
Especially if they post more than once per day.

I’m much happier to follow those posting weekly, or infrequently.
Plus, art and photography blogs (which are often less text-heavy).

 

Comments are always VERY welcome!🙏

 

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

 

Thank you
for reading.

 


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / drawing / life / mental health / photography / poem / poems / poetry / reading / writing )

Under closed eyes

1_Page_07-1

 

 

 

“The self is not enough.
But that’s all we’ve got.”

Said a voice
across
my dream.

 

Yet I sensed a
small bright
glow

emerge
within.

 

As if some light
had already
opened

the tick
of a tiny
flower.

 

Split from
its negative

through darkness.

 

 

Under

these

still-closed

eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

(Above is a poem from when I was aged 20.
Inspired by things glimpsed during semi-conscious states.)

 

Creating verse seems beyond me, at present.

The flu, with its fevers and headaches, has eased.
But post-viral depression lingers on.

Viewing the current lockdown, from the perspective of someone
isolated by chronic illness (mainly housebound and alone) for over 30 years:
it feels rather strange to see so many people now
struggling to cope with a slightly similar situation.

If symptoms improved, restless urges for social life would also trouble me.

As fate turned-out, the chances for love, friends, or normality, faded long ago.

Of course, current restrictions could, shortly, be lifted.
While my own health problems remain incurable.

 

I thought of writing a post about dealing with solitude.

Though I worry this blog’s reach is too small, and my circumstances too unusual,
for helping others.

 

Comments are always VERY welcome! 🙏

 

Hope everybody is well?

Have you spent more time online?

(I’ve found lots of interesting new blogs in the last few weeks.)

 

 

Thanks for reading! 🙂

 

 

(Art on this site is mine.)


( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poems / poetry / reading / 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! 😊

Hope everybody is well? 🙏

 

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.

 


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

At an end?

scan 16

 

(Third blogiversary post.)

 

 

From a summit
the only way leads down.

 

Starting this site, three years ago, it felt like I had a mountain to climb.

Chronically ill. Isolated.
The last of our family line.

Worried a lifetime’s creative output might be lost, once I died.

Eager to preserve some work, I blogged.

Through pain, exhaustion, vertigo, brain-fog, depression, infections, migraines,
technical ignorance, self-doubt, and bereavement.

 

Told regularity was important, I stuck to Sunday posting.
Never missed a week.

 

Yet, now I’ve reached a kind of end.

Until this point the path’s been clear:
edit, then upload, past work.

But, after 224 posts, seeing poetry and prose all published,
the future looms uncertain.

Anxiety has risen.

I fret over not being a proper blogger.
Thinking my existence too dull to write about.

 

Should I just stop?

What to do next?

 

 

Here are three basic options:

 

1) Take a break?

(Which risks resumed oblivion.
Would anybody even notice I’d gone?)

 

2) Recommence Daily Notes?

(Presently terminated at 2012.)

(My concern is, these notes turn increasingly political, from 2013.
Since politics are notoriously divisive, I fear alienating valued followers.)

 

3) Recycle forgotten items?

(During the first eight months my blog remained text only; and under-tagged.
Views were very low.)

I could update selected early pieces.
Thus keeping things active: while leaving more mental energy,
for new writing.

 

(There’s also a novel, left unfinished.)

 

 

In seven days
a choice must be made!

 

 


 

 

I am sincerely grateful for your support.

And hope you continue visiting my site.  🙏

 

Comments are always VERY welcome.

 

Thanks for reading!

 

🙂

 

 

 

(Art on the blog is mine.)

 


( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / drawing / life / mental health / poetry / politics /  prose / reading / thoughts / writing )