Human hair

The trees show their skins
Without shame, to the cold
They glare back, when we
Hide.

A shedding of hair is akin to
A shedding of complacency

When it was there, we noted
It not, when it is gone, weep

We it’s going, alone, without
A cover for our head, our

Bidding chip for love and more.

Should I keep a lock of it in a
Tin in the Watford soil, a relic
Of my time on this earth past?

My dearest friend

He passed away. Did he?

Surely he is here? Surely we

Will see him, hug him, be 

Hugged by him again?

I believe he has not gone

He has

 just left his body

And is more present, true

Present, real present, as we

Are, more. He is now more

Both deeper and lighter,

So free that he can no

Longer be

Framed in a picture.

So free that there is 

Not a corner of the

Universe he has not 

Reached. He has become

One and is now everywhere

We are sad because 

We cannot see him, but 

We can believe him and 

Love him forever , as we 

Did before, our dear Dumbledore, Harnaik, Arnie.

The mouse

A little package of furry hunger

Scratching at the hidden

Corners of our lives, dashing

Between a fallen rice crispy 

Here, a popped pumpkin seed

There, a forgotten pod of arborio

Or basmati, no longer safe behind the stove.

The little patter of complacency,

A little token from the underworld,

The wide world outside, the

World of keen smells and  bendy

Eyes, scanning Nature for

Morsels of respite between the

Springs of my trap

Sorry little one, quick one

I am sorry and I hope 

You find another place

To call your own, you

Are not welcome here

Sink back into Nature’s

Raw Peace 

Always

You are my something

You claim nothing

You inhabit no space

In my psyche 

That is how universal 

You are. You are 

The very thread 

Everything is made of,

 I cannot 

Hear you, like old 

Lovers, I cannot

Feel your absence

I feel your presence 

Always, amplifying

My reality.

Back stage romance

I know they think

Less of me because

I am not seen with you

A single woman

A single human

A strange thing

A heavy thing

A pack animal

Alone.

A flat plain

An empty pan

A loose string.

And so alone we go

And it goes on and on

Like Herbie Hancock

Playing to himself,

Cooking music on his stove

Avoiding all the expected notes.

London’s bleeding, London’s bleeding, fetch the engines…

So many of us have

Noone but the people

We love. And everyone

Else, they, they are not

Loved. Loved ones are

Warm. Everyone Else is

Out there, there in the

Night, every day, night

In, night out, night

Owls without feathers

To flap over their empty

Guts as they spew spit

And cough phlegm into the 

Ruts on their palms

Long lines cutting round

Their thumbs, cut off 

Too soon, so the tealeaves

Would say, if they had

Tea, hot water and a cup and

 A spoon full of sugar to

Sweeten them into something

Warmer than blood

Quiet panic

The heat has taken our

Breath away, has robbed us 

Of free will. Everything must

Tilt towards the coolness

Between our self and this.

But where is it?

She is angry, she is raging 

The taste of Nature has curdled

And we were curdling it 

Deliberately, like we could 

Sell it on to the next generation

Or aliens as some sort of

Local delicacy roasted slowly

Between Venus and Mars

Or somewhere in that primitive 

Galaxy, so strong, so stupidly.

Am I? Are you? Are we?

What does it mean to be alive?

Is it a race thing? A sex thing?

An age thing? In that order?

Add place on in the space between race

And sex and you have a human?

No, you are forgetting Time.

Time keeps pace with all those

And throws in a few tricks of

The light. The lights.

Home safe, at last

The omphalos – the navel

This is my place of healing

This is my life in my

Navelbowl. I must not

Let it spill empty, I must

Keep it full, the seat of

My whole, the connection

That birthed me from

Ancestors, I tried

To exist without it,

It is the door to the

Home that is me, I

Was locked out and

Now I am in, I am

My body, at last.

Eat, Sleep, Work, Repeat

These feel like the end days

Of life. The sun, the moon,

The clouds that move, the

Train that stops at every stop

And then goes back again.

The cyclists in the queue

At the traffic lights, leading

South. How long it feels, this

March to death, this mess of

Locks and wheels and limbs

That we call civilisation. How

Vile the stench of sweating

Plastic and half-eaten sandwiches

Discarded in the wrong section

Of the bin, into general rubbish