Hols are great,
you get to escape.
In a week of bliss,
all stress is at bay.
But unease seeps into dreams
that taunt and hunt,
Those easy-gone days
are just a front
for darker matter
that needs a straitjacket.
Give me routine,
the thrust and grind
of everyday life.
Some peace of mind.
The mists o’er the Loch
are breaths, they say:
breaths o’ the lost,
prolonging their stay.
The blue mist seeps
into grateful bones.
Within these deeps
I’m never alone.
A 21st century word
was just a syllable single
until I felt its surge,
setting my nerves a-jingle.
Then it wreaked its singular havoc
through my jittery, jellied knees.
My adrenaline ran wild, amok,
my sanity begged a muffled ‘please’.
No more will I see stress
as an excuse that’s ever so lame,
that steals away its guests;
that’s lazy in all but name.
It contorts and claims its vulnerable scalps.
Oh, stress has a will of its own.
But face-to-face I’ll expose its cruel traps.
Only with calm will I mute that old crone.
I think when I see
something done with glee,
it’s a crime not to enjoy your talents.
A charming backstroke
with a winning touch point.
What a shame not to swim your talents.
The flick of your paint
elevates canvas to saint.
It’s a sin not to colour your talents.
But the angst over words,
will always occur,
when writing’s your heaven-sent talent.
It’s been fourteen years
since Fathers Day has hurt.
I have no one to buy a card for.
I let the day pass unseen,
my grief rarely overt.
My maudlin nature I abhor.
But today my tears
I cannot avert.
Some days I just miss him more.
We all change and move on.
I know that’s a fact.
So why bother to maintain
those friendships with cracks?
Is it to keep those pals
who give you big follows
on social sites?
To spy on their lives;
dazzle
with stories bright?
To delete would hurt
both them and you.
Or would it?
If you don’t like them
and they don’t care,
why be so polite?
There are ‘friends’ in my life
who don’t give a damn
what I feel, where I go,
how I roll, who I am.
Yet I keep a pretence
of wanting to meet.
And when I do,
it’s myself I cheat.
The paint is thinning
on my fake-friends tableau.
The question is why
I just don’t let go.
Do what you love
and the money will come.
That’s what we hope
when we chuck it all in
for a new career and life
and fulfilment’s great charm.
The pursuit of money.
Is that really what life’s for?
Or realising a dream,
a do-it-or-damned score?
I know what I want
before I bid goodbye
to my breath.
That’s to publish and be whole.
To bring openness to heart
and hope to the soul.
In my head is a perfect-shaped rhyme.
On the page it’s stinky old slime.
In my head is a thoroughbred thought.
On the page it’s mixed-up, debauched.
In my head is elegance and pace.
On the page it’s a cluttered disgrace.
In my head I want it to be all right.
On the page I fear it’s a right old sight.
In my head are obstacles many.
On the page the delays are plenty.
In my head I’m tired of the woes.
On the page I close my eyes and just go.
How can I distract myself? Let me count the ways.
It’s amazing how I can usefully and helpfully fill my days.
My sink is super-shiny, my rubber gloves worn out.
My fridge has no more mould, just freshly prepared trout.
That old shed of mine, with boxes of old books,
is now a spider-free den; a children-friendly nook.
The piles of beauty sachets in my bathroom cabinet
now languish in the bin. They give me no regrets.
The stray strands in my eyebrow, the split ends of my hair
are now all clipped and neat. All are gone, I swear.
The clothes from years gone by, that I promised I’d wear again,
are stuffed in plump black sacks, going to causes humane.
The oven’s clean and spick, dried-in dribbles gone.
Anyone would think I’m a domestic goddess reborn.
But every writer has to go there,
to a cave-like, darkened gloom;
to that wibbly-wobbly place
before you move from womb to bloom.
So when the deadline’s there
and you’re picking up the pace,
remember to give some space
to creativity’s ultimate grace.
My blooming great big garden
surrounds my wooden seat
with a tickle of full-grown leaves.
A lushly verdant treat.
Green fingers? Not for me.
I leave my lawn to live
its meant-for, yearned-for life.
And my laziness it forgives,
as the sunset gently butters
the grateful, eager leaves.
I’m full of love for life,
connecting to some heart-felt peace.
inktuition 