Moved by a shirt

With the beautiful innocence
of the very stoned man,
His imagination is captured,
enthralled,
by the motion of a shirt
Unable to contain his glee, 
Explosively he expresses his joy
Eloquent in its purity
"shirt that moves! Wey!"

Ennui for Henri

Ennui for Henri
Who was playing the wii
to stave off boredom
before tea

Nothing sparked our plucky fella
whose wii sports golf skills were quite swella
Boredom burdened his weary soul
although his house was bountiful
full of electronic games
exotic pets with local names
films on discs in massive number
could not arouse Henri from slumber

Henri was a fickle lad
and sad to say,
he turned out bad...

Another moany poem about my broken ribs

my insides are out of alignment
strange clicking sensations
accompany minor moves
I feel them without great pain,
but then,
a jolt sears through me
as if muscle tears from bone
once more, and leaves me
whimpering, alone

Ribs (broken, not king or spare)

The indignity of agony
As bone grinds on bone
And muscles tense
Is not lost on the me that
Observes all,  and winces
Not from the pain,  but
From the shame
of weakness seen
By others

The jolts of a broken cage
Seeking to reset itself
Inhibit conversation
Prohibit activity
Embarrass and remove
The protective layer of
Projected image that cloaks
The weak self within

Swearing and sweating
I am driven through the dark
To doctor new,  where I remove
My shirt and show my shameful
Flabby form in hopes of relief
That will not come
Nothing heals ribs but time

Sympathy just makes it worse
So all I do is swear and curse
And sweat and moan
And wish for peace
That will not come
And regret my fall
But nowt will numb
My ribs

The idea of a man

I work better as the idea of a man, 
Without form,  
without haste,  
without nerves. 
To be imagined from afar
Touched only in your mind
Seen only in your memory 
Rose tinted and rose scented. 
Better in thought than in flesh, 
Or over ether, deliberate, 
With thought in word and pictures drawn 
Of time spent in reflection. 
The true self lies,  of course,
somewhere in between
The rash,  rushed boy
and the considered man. 
The idea hovers above,  transcends. 
Your presence is not to blame
For that which it inspires in me
The fault is mine,  the blame lies here.
Remember only that boyish words of haste 
Spring forth from nervous mouths, 
And that the idea of a man
is watching 
Cautioning 
Wishing 
For the peace he once found with you. 

Kissing her

Her kisses are emphatic,  Ardent.

They seem to speak of a desire to become one,  

to reach a new state of mutual being.

The reading of minds 

and merging of souls

to be achieved through parted lips

and twists of tongue so searching 

as to leave no shelter for guilty secrets.

Uncovered, denuded of our artificial exteriors, 

the only options are to run or willingly surrender.

I choose surrender to her embrace,  

her kiss,  

her knowing me.

I choose to kiss,

and find peace.

Feathers

Conflict pervades, persists,
as those without influence
seek to exert what little power they have.

To fan out their feathers
and display their strength 
to those with whom they would mate.

Those who suffer,  however, are
those with no feathers to fan.

The victims of the ambition
of feathered fops,  they are
defenceless, unless,
standing together,  they fight.

No hollow display of plumage can withstand
the power of their unity.

Together they can win.

What has Hiroshima to do with Dundee?

From the heart of Dundee rises the Law,
a solid volcanic plug from which the city can be seen
miniaturised by perspective
shrunk by our relative height.

On Hiroshima Day, we gather
we remember all those who died
an indiscriminate death to prove a hollow point.
A death callous in its impersonality.

We stand together, and we remember them all.
We hope their death may at least prevent more,
but we contemplate what more would mean
to us, to our Dundee.

Spread out around us we see the homes of our friends
we see the world as we know it intimately
and we see, more than ever on Hiroshima Day,
how fragile that world is.

If one bomb could end it all,
if one bomb could take away those we love
if one bomb could destroy all that we know,
then the rock of the Law is as sand.

Hotel rooms

Hotel rooms seldom offer much
To rest the weary soul
A bed,  a shower,  a telly screen
But that won't fill the hole
A wholly empty,  aching gap
That craves for your touch still
A need that festers into hurt
As I take my sleeping pill
The air con hisses, shower drips
The bed groans as I turn
I close my eyes and try to sleep
But still for you I yearn.

Security, seen from a car

Frozen in my fleeting, passing perception,
a child is out of his buggy,
sat on the wall of a bridge.
He sits at shoulder height to his mother,
and her arms are tightly round him,
not to restrain him, but to enable him,
to let him see further than his height allows.
He may not know it, but in so many ways,
without her, he would not be there.

Ode on an ultra marathon

In misted car
We sit in peace
Hearing words that
warm the soul
Cake is eaten
Juice is drunk
To wash down
cold meat rolls
We wait for Ian
Running his hills
And laugh at Stephen Fry
We hope that Ian
Does not fall over
Or by some other means die