The arrival

All seems muted, bleary yet together

At once familiar but at the same time brand new,

Shapes and forms become a crutch for the senses

Of a tale from the past sliding back into view.

Tricks of time shifting the scene and sequence,

To make up a world woven by déjà vu.

The departure

When the clock turns

To mark the escape,

The minutes gain momentum

In a rally that's opaque

What is this speed that the hand picks up,

And why is it marked every day

By the dregs of a cup?

The coil

Throw the coil of angst

Against the wall.

See it unwind and unravel

'Til it cannot enthrall

With its tales of woe and its tired repartee

Disempower its burden with the will to be free

Keep thrashing at its core

As it makes its way back,

And as it returns

Project the fiercest attack.

The retreat

If the urge is always

To scamper to retreat

What does that mean

For all those people to meet?

What does that say about

An experience of the world

That is consistently shaped

By an escape from the herd.

Why does solitude seem so good?

To be lost and alone

Just oneself in a wood.

The stones

Let this be the time

To source the seamless energy

The intuitive nature that governs without doubt.

To be free from the flickering passage of thoughts

That entertain like a trickster

A means to truly opt out.

From the current of lethargy,
From the trajectory of blues,

That densely gravelled path
That leaves stones in the shoes.

The projection

If the mind projects onto tomorrow

While in the today,

Does that make every experience

Just a forecast to display?

The revelation

When the revelation spewed forth

Like blood from the veins,

It was hard to see what

Had brought some give to the reigns.

Yet the sudden liberation

Gave way to a fear,

That took to the throat

To clamour for a tear.

It beckoned reminders

Of an experience far gone

But still engrained inside,

Like a legacy

That never passed on.

The details

When I remember the day

It won't be the stuff,

That made its way wearily

From the dawn through to dusk.

The banter within buses passing through towns,

The squirreling street chasers in search of their crowns.

It will be the details and the feelings they stirred,

Captured yet liberated like lemon in the curd.

The charge

A punch in the sequence

Sudden colour in the room

Sometimes something comes

A window to transcend the gloom.

The slogan

The slogan on the side said 'built for the trade'

But the driver's expression said we'd all been made

A reputation concocted over moons and miles,

The work of 'outside agents'

Flashing fake smiles.

What can we know of anything at all

When we're bombarded by messages

Like scrawl on a wall.

Always back pedalling to relieve the threat of a curse,

The everyday portrayal of myths in reverse.

Maybe words should have more to say

And not just promote games to create the play.

The scream

Stop. Take a breath.

Then holler into a chasm,

With all that is left.

Shout for the beats

of a screaming heart,

Unbridle the voices

Silenced for the part

That has to be played,

That has to be sustained,

The civil, the courteous, the forever restrained.

The imprint

I left an imprint in that armchair

On that street with no name,

I thought of the others who'd languished there

And played the same game,

Of wondering what the life of another was like

Spectacular and worth savouring

Or unremarkable and trite.

It's funny how these are the places we mark

Like thumbing through pages as a way to stay sharp.

But stranger still that we seldom return,

To all those seats, steps and stairwells

Leaving traces but nothing to learn.

The simplicity

When the moment has passed

There will be nothing to relay,

No statement in time

No place left to stray.

So instead let's record

The simple acts of the day

Those things that are forgotten

The objects on the tray.

Glances returned like change from our notes

Dancing street wrappers that steer their own floats.

If nothing is noticed,

Then time has its way

Capturing only the seconds

Of a mannequined display.

The havens

When we have all left

The echoes will be no more,

The soles and swirling cases

Will have taken to another floor.

But what of these places, these homes full of 'things',

With their quirks and curiosities and the comfort that brings.

A carpeted staircase may be luxury for one,

A decked out camper van more sacred for some.

Where are these havens only known by so few,

By stepping inside would we see what is true?

The mould

Your feathers bear the weight of days

Absorbing the shift and the shuffle

Of the dreams and malaise.

A third of a life captured

In the nest of a mould,

You are plumped and cried into

Cradles for the cold.

Inside your fabric are stories once uttered,

Are scents of the sacred that have all but since fluttered.
Bedtime journeys make up your domain
You steady the course as the mind takes its train.

The receipt

At 16:07 I was served by Sarah

But something told me those words didn't dare her,

Trapped behind a counter where not even her name

Could make her a memory

Could provide some acclaim.

What a tragedy they are

Those words that receipt

From a noone, a nameless, of whom we don't speak.

The day

Cometh the storm

To shake up the day

To awaken the sleepers

To forsake the delay.

To counter the continual roll and repeat
To break out and bust

The rhythm of nonchalant feet.