I was free to dream in Paris

I was free to dream in Paris
when I was a young man
with my head full of ideals
I went looking for the real deal

I was roaming the boulevards
and in the cafés I met poets
and there in the bars I met artists
I went searching for some answers

I was talking to the dead in cemeteries
where mausoleums crumbled
and the paper flowers faded
I went praying to my own truths

I was smoking on the balconies
drinking beer between the daylight
in a hotel down a side street
I went to find my muse under moonlight

I was walking and reading
with a book opened to my mind
lying on grass under glass skies
I went delving in my mind’s eye

I was staring down the river
at grey water slowly moving
knowing also I was passing through
I went knowing I was leaving

I was there for the first time
when I was a young man
and all the world was spinning
I went to ease all the questioning

I was free to dream in Paris
and no-one could tell me not to
not a soul could ever stop me
I went to find my lasting freedom

I was always in my own world
thinking who would come and join me
to be forever dreamers
I went looking for that lover

Yes I was free to dream in Paris
and who could take me back there
oh please take me back there
I went then but now I’m restless

this world

this world has become
a shabby chic shit shack
with wooden words
on plastic mantle pieces
telling us this is our home
and it’s filled with our love
so you best buy into it
distressed and going cheap
this world’s not my world
I want nothing from it
no fake words of wisdom
cut and pasted consumerism
give me four bare walls
with wooden floorboards
and a shelf of worn books
shared food on the table
and in the woodland garden
birds singing their sweet songs
as we swing on the porch seat
holding hands in the warm sun
your lips on my neck
telling me you love me
that we’ll always be together
forever and for eternity
this world is our world
it’s what we make of it
but I’ll never know it
for my time is too late
the wood casket’s calling me
calling me to my fate
calling me away from
this world I wanted

s-l300

with sincere apologies to Woody Guthrie . . .

apologies in advance

all them words
all them books
all them poems
never did you no good
all them blogs
all them tweets
all them posts
never did you no good

all them likes
all them shares
all them comments
never did you no good
all them photos
all them videos
all them paintings
never did you no good

all them notes
all them quotes
all them thoughts
never did you no good
all them chats
all them spats
all them emojis
never did you  no good

all them friends
all them lovers
all them followers
never did you no good
all them steps
all them breaths
all them beats of the heart
never did you no good

(apologies in advance
if you catch me crying
when the planet dies
I’ve done my bit
now I’m tired

and it’s just complicated
that’s all)

some stories are meant to be written . . .

in a darkened room I caress my skull
a weight of words is bound in books there
some unread, some read, some read twice
some lost, some rediscovered, some . . .
my thoughts lie hidden upon these shelves
drifting between ancients and moderns
not knowing the origins of their species . . .
am I to disturb them in their sleep?
or should I leave sleeping letters lie?
some stories are meant to be written
like the one about the cat in the cemetery
the cat that appears only once a year
but goes unnoticed when the sisters come
to pray for the father they never loved . . .

escape routes

staring at the cracks in the ceiling
he went in search of unexplored lands
lost worlds mapped in lines and stains
one-eyed cyclopes in missing plaster caves

there the route to King Solomon’s Mines
Quatermain exhausted he falls to sleep
forty leagues of adventure dreaming
he climbs Kanchenjunga in The Lakes

exploring Slater Bob’s copper mines
‘sing out if you see rocks under water, Roger’
but there are only books lying on the floor
slipped from the hand of a tired boy

now the books are aligned on shelves
classics, fiction, poetry, art, nature, travel
and the man still dreams of unexplored lands
the cracks in the ceiling his escape routes

~

the black holes he passes through
huh, the mazes that he wanders
a different form of escape sometimes beckons
one that cannot be written in words

 

‘sing out if you see rocks under water, Roger’
adapted from Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome.

you are my thesaurus

you are my thesaurus
my concise o.e.d.
the verse and the chorus
to life’s symphony

be with me forever
my alphabet friend
bound tightly together
on you I depend

you are my wise mentor
my counsel, my lore
with words to explore
I will want for no more