Seasoning.

Autumn in Herrenalb,
Spring in my step
And Winter slowly resting on my head.

And Summer,
Summers long gone,
And headed South for the Winter time.
There was Jays and Magpies too,
But all gone.
Thats the worst of Winter,
Every thing is so sad.

And Winters not even here is it?
Just Summer gone,
And headed South.

A lady called and asked how i was,
I lied and said ok.
How do i say, i miss you?
How do i say Shitbag?

If it hasn’t been stolen
My bicycle is still standing at the Railway Station,
Locked and undercover.

And me?
Don’t ask.

Undercover at least,
And finding peace and comfort in
Some Whitman prose that flows through this Web.
Stranger in passing, he says,
And this stranger in sitting drinks another cup of tea,
And watches this Autumn in Herrenalb,
Through a window.

Last Night.

Even the Tomatoes blush when they see him walk in the room.
As naked as a sunrise,
As pleasant as a cold.
Come neighbor look and behold this gent,
How weary years now mark him.

How soft though he walks,
How low he stoops,
As he lays his trail.
Like a cat
He marks territory.
Once, twice,
And is done.

Man with a Tractor looks his way,
Sees him,
And hurries about his tractor business.
Funny neighbourhood this.
Must be English.

Cat comes and sees nothing new.
Nakedness to her is a sight seen before,
All she wants though is her daily titbit.

Still naked he waters the plants,
Two,
And turns on his PC.
He logs in and seaching Favourites
Finds his Blog.
A new entry,
When did i do this he thinks,
Ah yes.

Last night.

Bed and a Book.

A bed and a book and a look back on the day.
Which turns and twists
Did i manage well,
Or not at all.

Did i do
What i planned
Or was i forced to flow
With
The new and unknown

And all these words sometimes seem so futile.
What if no-one reads them?
What if its just me again,
Just me
All alone?

I am though.
Alone.

My head is hanging now
And my eyes
Concentrate more on the darkness
Of the coming night
Than on my nightly inventure.

Never go sleep with unfinished business on your mind.
Sort it out.
Rectify and be grateful.

Still my head hangs.

One page more
I do
And out with the light
On to my back
And ask
For the presence of Angels.

Goodnight sweet Sunday.

Visitor

She was there again today,
Same smile,
Same coat,
And same procedure.

She comes in,
We kiss,
And dive for the bed…
Or the sofa or the floor or the kitchen table.

Good to see you i try to say,
But words with her don’t seem to matter.
She doesn’t need them
She says.

She puts the kettle on
But before it
Boils
She’s on the kitchen table,
Or the floor or the sofa or the bed.

Love is touching souls
She says.
Joni Mitchell sang that
I said,
Love me she says,
On the floor on the bed on the sofa,
On the kitchen table.

She left after a while and i slept,
I tried to,
But couldn’t.
She was still there,
On the bed on the floor on the sofa,

On the kitchen table

Morning

The shower is good today.
Water
washes off
Sunday awakenings
and
Saturday dreams.

Feel fresh,
clean,
baby soft and silky.
These
are words
i
would
use.

Toothpaste lingers on
through
morning Earl Grey and Musli
and a clean tongue
from a year on not smoking
enjoys
it all.

Simple pleasures
i enjoy
the most.

Simple words
express
the most.

A simple story for Sunday morning.

The Little Wooden Hills To Bedfordshire

That’ s what i need now.
To climb those little wooden hills and fall softly into bed.

Twelve minutes will take me to Saturday,
Saturday will bring a sunrise again,
And a sunrise will awaken me with its delights.

Shower, breakfast, visitor, stories to be told.

The wooden hills call
And somewhere a sunrise slowly moves its way towards me.

Goodnight.

Painting A Picture

Just collecting the colours,
searching
for brushes
and touching
very
gently
the canvas.

It feels good.

Heaven must feel like this,
so soft and safe.
Like my bed
as a child.

It must be a good day.