Essay Writing

Apple on the desk.
A swig of tea left in a mug beside the laptop
and strewn papers that fill the space.

It’s essay-writing time and
inspiration flicks off the walls
bounces round the books and forms,
through careful fingertips on the keyboard
an almost masterpiece of thought
and excitement
all captured on a page on a computer.
But it radiates much further
in changed thought and action
and the by-products of distraction
- the many things that get done when procrastination
threatens efficiency.

But essays get done
eventually,
with a smile and a change in style

and an apple on a desk
beside a cup of nearly-drunk tea.

Will you proof read my essay for me?

Silent rail

The bright yellow drawing
Of the outline of the sphere
Of the centre of London
Doesn’t represent the shade
Of the walls and of the rail
Of the circle line

The hand rails are painted to fit
The brightness of the map
And not the blackness of reality
Or the blankness of the faces
Under the metres of sound absorbing
Barrier from the wind and sun

Before the light has appeared
At the interval in the tunnel
The train creeks to a halt inside the darkness
With not a hint of anything ominous
But the weight of the silence of a full carriage
Not one talking to another; suiting the blackness

Like a brace of brittles bonds
No one wants to stop into the spotlight
And break the silence
Which suites the blackness,
But not all is in its place
For the voices should be rivalling the world above

The voices should be bringing
Invisible waves of light to bounce off
Every surface we can perceive
But this was silence on the circle line;
The earache of an illusion of deafness

Something that outlasts being exploited

Lamenting nature has
Coughed out black tar
Across the face of the occupant
Who so blindly consumed.
Now the burn marks are
More permanent than the best
Age repellent money can buy

It has breathed out heat
That bites the back of the arrogant
And burns the smile from the face
Of those that have prospered.
Their gain will be their loss.
As for all mortal flesh
All receptive surface
Is turning grey before you

All of this is not going to last forever
Let me show you something that is

The Handles Are Knives

And I'm standing as still as I can

But the stiller I stand the more it all moves.

Forgiveness is moving too,

It is something I can only glimpse.

I run

For the door

For the handle

To escape

To flee the enemy

But the door is made of glass 

And the handle is a knife

All I can do is stand and stare

At my salvation

On the other side

All that I could be

Is not what I am

I stand

My hand gripping the blade

Turmoil behind me

Calmness in front,

I can't do it.

I run

Into the door

But the glass doesn't break

And the knife draws blood.

But the hurt is not as painful as the turmoil behind.

I can't do it.

I fight to stop my authority flight

I want to give myself up,

I want to hear the sweetness,

Hear my salvation.

The beautiful sound that shatters glass,

Melts the blade, 

Commands my turmoil, "Cease!"

The room explodes

It is not longer my fight

I am calm, peaceful, redeemed.

I can't do it.

I don't understand it.

I fight to trust it.

A Process of Thought

I have a great idea

It will stay right here

In my mind so near

To my heart, my dear.

I have a need to fear

Throughout this night so clear

Talking with too much beer

So scared I'll lose, my dear.

No, I don't mean to leer

I can't believe my ear

Is this really what I hear?

You're not for me, my dear.

I love the fear, my dear

But love isn't quite that clear

To love you so, so near

There goes my great idea.

There goes my great idea.