Thoughts. Random in Nature.

A grating snow shovel scrapes

My mind clean of thoughts

Worth having.

Locked down at home and lost

In an expanse of words

Tumbling about in my brain

Not connecting to a world I no longer know.

I reach for another beer

Assemble glass and can neatly in-line

Crack and pour with certainty

Watch the foam ride up the side of the glass

The biggest spectacle of my day.

Hops, glorious hops, burst forth

Resinous pine forest hops

Freed from my glass at last.

I take a long draught and

Sigh deeply and fully

In appreciation for a life

Reassuring beer.

 

Spring 2020

I am feeling rather aloof
The weeds are growing through the garden roof
Spring is here but sadly
Arriving in fear
Amid snow flurries and deadly virus swings
Red tulips languish in frigid zones
Not equipped for plunging temperatures and lethal squirrel raids.

I watch the swirling snow
And know I cannot go
Beyond the front door
To protect precious plants
From snow and myself
From the invisible killer
Lurking in our midst.

Life…

All those things we never said
Residing in the head

Love and life
Fleeting things.
That never brings

What ought to be said.

To anyone
Before they disappear

Vanish from your life
Or you from theirs

Voices in the darkened
Depths of your brain
Reaching for release
Stretching before the expansion
Or explosion
And then nothingness.

Life is life
But the end is always
Nearer than you think
Or believe in
Your heart of hearts.

Or wished for on the stars
You never reached.

Not Cornwall. Smell!

She had no sense of smell.
But for one incident in her lifetime.
When she was a young woman
The penetrating scent of a
Hippo having a large bowel movement before her
Invaded her sensitive nostrils
To their inner depths.
It was awful she said.
And she smelled nothing else since.
Nothing.
Nothing to the age of 93.
And beyond.

Writer’s Tears

writer's tears

 

Writer’ tears and

Writer’s fears

Bubble over the brain like lava

Hot on a flow with an

Undertow of emotions

That embrace the brain

Like a heated vice lock.

 

So I surf the web

As a distraction

And await

Inspiration

A needle in the brain

That sparks life and

Words on paper.

Sorry

(Intermediate step)

On the screen

Stored in memory

Finally

Printed to page

Where the words flow more freely

From the depths of the printer

And I am relieved that I have no more

Fears or tears.

Until tomorrow.