Loved for half a life

My glasses fell down 
The back of the bedside table. I reached down
To get them 
Like Timothy Dalton in that scene in Flash Gordon; not knowing
What I would find.

14 coins
3 bobbles
1 of the kids' toys
3 socks, all different - I've thrown their partners away.

And then a folded piece of paper.

A letter to you, from half a lifetime ago.

Did you keep these?

Do you read these? 

Even now.

I opened it and read about a boy who had fallen in love. He made silly jokes, thought he knew things about the world
And what our life was going to be like.

He was completely in love.

Here I am, a lifetime older than him.

Scarred from battles lost,

Fading memories of battles won.

Old eyes.

Not who I promised to be in that letter.

And then there's you.

Scarred from battles lost,

Fading memories of battles won.

Bright eyed.

Everything.

He's completely in love.

A walk around Underbank Reservoir

 I drive up to Underbank Reservoir 

for a walk

with a bag packed with all I need.

I turn off my phone, which was harder than I'd like to admit.

The false start branches of the coniferous trees. The

thin trunk pulling my eyes upwards to the

green canopy. These trees are delicate, their fallen comrades

lay at their feet.

There's some people in canoes on the reservoir, which looks like fun

but I wish they weren't there.

A click and a whistle. I wonder what bird that 

is. I look for it and see the trees sway,

they sway too much. I can see why they fall.

And then, there it was. Along the western edge of

the reservoir, a heron.

I'd hoped I'd see one. I find them intoxicating.

It stood so still that I worried it wasn't real.

Then it started to wade

through the shadows and

marsh.

Something spooked it and up it went. Those

big slow wings from a time long ago

taking it away.

There's a beautiful hamlet on the 

other side of the path. 

Maybe it has problems like everywhere else 

maybe the people don't appreciate its beauty because there's no Wifi or shops.

But it sure looks lovely.

Suddenly the path stops and I seem to be 

in someone's garden. There was a gate out

into the road. I take it and I'm back in the real world for a while.

Before I find a path back through a small car park: "Keep Out"

It feels more like Autumn. There are acorns and brown wavy 

leaves on the path on this side of the reservoir.

These trees are much more substantial.

Gnarled, twisted and strong.

I found a spot down on the bank to sit

with my book. There's something about reading

next to water.

"I hope that heron comes and sits with me. Is that weird?

Surely it wouldn't. Imagine if it did"

I roll my ankle over the elbow of 

a root. I said "ow" before it hurt. It was ok.

I start and stop a jog a few times. I convince

myself that the ground is too uneven and it's not my

unfitness why I stop.

"I hunch when I walk. I can feel it across my

shoulders. Is that because I have an office job?

I need to fix that."

The sound of traffic mixes with the sound of the wind.

I can't tell which is which. 

Up on the eastern edge is the damn. Thirty geese

stand at its foot, watching, keeping

guard of the water.

It's much windier along the damn. A gull plays

with the wind, never flapping.

"I've noticed that for the past hour or so I've

got out of my own way. I spend a lot of time hating

myself but today, just watching things and 

noting them down, seemed to give me a rest."

It won't last. But it's here now. Which is good.

A little further along the path is a bench.

"Why here? There's no view. A tree is in the way"

But the plaque reads

'For Margaret's friends. May they rest here a while.'

And the world seems quieter and to

make sense.

There's a slight incline as I come back to the

beginning of my circuit. My breath is a little

heavier, which makes the ever growing

coldness of the wind, reach the bottom of my lungs.

It feels refreshing.

Good Koalas and Bad Koalas

The Good Koalas sit next to the trunk, on the thickest and safest part of the branch. They deserve this safe spot, after all, they are Good Koalas.

The Bad Koalas sit on the end of the branches.

The wood is thinner there and sometimes it breaks.

If the Bad Koalas proved themselves to be good then, of course, the Good Koalas would find room for them near the trunk.

It doesn't matter that the Good Koalas don't need to prove themselves, they were born near the trunk and so must be good.

Bad Koalas are lazy and ungrateful.

The Good Koalas even let them pick leaves from the branches to eat

(after they have given double that amount to the Good Koalas first.)

It’s only fair!

The Bad Koalas work from morning until night to just about get enough leaves for them and their families. Sometimes Bad Koalas are so lazy that they only pick enough leaves for the Good Koalas' pile and they go hungry.

Yes, there are enough leaves for everyone but that is quite beside the point!

If the lazy, Bad Koalas worked harder than they would have enough.

Now the poor old Good Koalas, how hard they work.

They spend their days having to count all of their piles of leaves and working out ways to get those lazy Bad Koalas to work harder.

The Good Koalas are very fair. For instance, every Koala on the tree gets to vote-in the Decision Makers. And, any Koala can apply to be considered as a Decision Maker.

Obviously, there needs to be rules and the Koalas need to know prospective Decision Makers are responsible and good.

How better to show this than having lots of piles of leaves? Leaves are good and so having leaves shows how good a Koala must be.

Sometimes there are emergencies and the Good Koalas meet to discuss what is best.

The Good Koalas have even been known to let the Bad Koalas move closer to the trunk in these times-

Not that they deserve it!

During these times, gathering leaves is crucial to the health of all Koalas.

It is, therefore, only right that the Bad Koalas go straight back to work.

The wellbeing of everyone must take priority over the wellbeing of a few Bad Koalas who get hurt.

I know what you are thinking, "but what about all of those piles of leaves? Couldn't all the Koalas share those?"

Those poor Good Koalas didn't spend all of that time counting those leaves just to have Bad Koalas eat them.

No! Not on a civilised tree like this!

There's another tree where Koalas take turns to get the leaves, share what they have and they are happy.

How uncivilised.

Good Koalas and Bad Koalas…. And Worse Koalas

The tree on the other end of the plain is where Worse Koalas live.

They have slightly different coloured eyes and wildly different ideas of good and bad.

Simply not the right sort for a civilised tree.

One day a terrible storm occurred and lightning struck the tree home of the Worse Koalas. 

Some died as the tree burned.

Some had the temerity to grab their children - who are just as guilty of having slightly different coloured eyes - and fled to the plain.

Now, any Good Koala will tell you that there are Dingoes on the plain who love nothing better than to hunt slow Koalas.

“What kind of parent would put their children in danger like this?"

The Good Koalas ask.

“After all, the Worse Koalas chose to be born in a tree that was flammable. Why wouldn’t they just choose to be born a Good Koala like we did?”

As always, it falls to the Good Koalas to solve things.

The Good Koalas, in their infinite generosity, explain things to the Bad Koalas (not that the Bad Koalas deserve the time away from working)

“If those Worse Koalas come over here, then they will want to pick leaves. Even though you Bad Koalas have barely enough to eat as it is. We, the Good Koalas, will not stand by whilst these Worse Koalas try and make our friends go hungry.”

Rapturous applause

Sometimes the Good Koalas, in their haste to do good, forget about the huge stores of leaves that they have; which could feed everybody.

What, with all the work that they do and how much time it takes to educate Bad Koalas, they can’t be expected to remember every small detail.

And so the Good Koalas and Bad Koalas take a vote on what should happen.

Some of the Bad Koalas still think that Koalas-with-slightly-different-coloured-eyes-whose-tree-has-burnt-down should still come to this tree and maybe they will benefit the group.

The Good Koalas take note of these Bad Koalas explaining how stupid they are.

On balance a good decision is made.

The Good Koalas go back to the safe part of the branch, eat their well deserved leaves and watch those Worse Koalas get everything they deserve….. Dingoes.

Good Koalas and Bad Koalas…. And Hungry Little Koalas

The danger to the tree hadn't passed and no-one knew what to do. Of course, everyone had their own ideas about what to do for the best.

But as usual it fell to the Good Koalas to fix things.

The Good Koalas knew that they needed to keep the leaf gathering going because to not have a store of leaves is a very Bad thing indeed. And so the Good Koalas gathered and spoke together.

It was agreed that the only course of action was to get other Good Koalas - ones they knew very well - to devise a new way to keep leaf gathering going and help out the tree. Obviously, this work would take that second set of Good Koalas away from their normal work and so they should be paid handsomely for helping. And they will be helping everyone, so everyone must pay them!

Quite fair.

Some of the Bad Koalas offered to help. For they claimed to "know what it was like on the dangerous part of the branch and have some ideas of what might work". Clearly these Bad Koalas were trying to get out of leaf gathering. After all, if they had any decent ideas they would've had the decency to be Good Koalas in the first place.

So stacks of leaves were shared amongst a close circle of trusted Good Koalas. They came up with a perfect new way of leaf gathering whilst keeping everyone safe.

Simply:" do your work where you sleep"

The Good Koalas slept next to their stacks of leaves so could continue counting them and being very productive. They followed the perfect rules perfectly. The Bad Koalas, however, didn't follow the rules. They made flimsy excuses like "but we don't sleep near the leaves we have to pick" and other such foolishness.

There came a sad day when the danger got so bad that everyone had to stop working and stay safe.

After two days of this the Bad Koalas started moaning that their families hadn't had any leaves and were hungry. The Bad Koalas claimed they had given up their own meagre rations for their children but it still wasn't enough.

"Hungry Little Koalas indeed" scoffed the Good Koalas. "It's as though they think that leaves grow on trees and we can just hand them out to everybody. Maybe they should have thought about a once-in-a-lifetime-threat-to-our-existence and made provisions like us Good Koalas did"

Some of these Good Koalas spend their lives in service to the tree for a pathetic 10 times what the Bad Koalas earn.... and they still managed to not go hungry.

After all "If you feed one of them Hungry Little Koalas now they will only want more leaves tomorrow. It is much kinder to not feed them at all"

Some of you will think this is mean. Well let me tell you, there are some Good Koalas who give half a leaf to a Bad Koala family. Half a leaf from their own (quite unfathomably large) stacks of leaves. They call this supreme act of generosity philanthropy. And the Good Koalas celebrate such generosity with grand titles and lavish leafy dinners.

Good Koalas and Bad Koalas….. And Green Koalas

It became quite noticeable that the Home Tree was suffering. For it couldn’t get enough sunlight to keep it strong as its leaves continued to be over picked.

For some time now a group of younger Koalas who spent time out on the very edges of the tree, where the damage was most noticeable, had been trying to bring attention to the issue.

These little Green Koalas had been nothing but noise for some time - ignored for the attention seeking fools that they are.

But then one of the Good Koalas noticed that a crop of leaves was browned at the edges and bitter to the taste - this affected that entire seasons profits (which is a fancy term for all of the good work that Good Koalas do). Luckily the Good Koala had the good sense to bring it to the attention of the rest of the tree.

Unlike those Green Koalas just making nuisances of themselves.

A council of the goodest and (deservedly) richest Koalas met on the top branches and shared an abundance of leaves whilst they mulled over the quandary. Now of course, the Good Koalas did invite and Bad Koalas to join them if they were interested. After all, all voices are important in this debate.

All voices except those whining Green Koalas, no good ever came from talking to them.

The Bad Koalas spouted their usual claim of ‘we will lose our jobs if we take the time off to come to the meeting.’ As if the Good Koalas are to blame for them not showing up to work.

Lazy Bad Koalas.

“The Home Tree just cannot survive the amount of leaves that are picked. Something must be done." The Good Koalas murmured their agreement through leaf-filled cheeks. 

One of the oldest, richest and therefore most Good Koalas spoke.

“It seems to me all rather simple. Us Good Koalas, by virtue of being here, have shown how much we care for the Home Tree. But those greedy Bad Koalas; absent... careless.... and not even taking a day off from leaf picking to be here, are to blame!”

The Good Koalas cheered. 

“Those greedy Bad Koalas must change their ways” continued the old, rich, Good Koala. “They must offset their greed. Every step they take to pick the leaves must be counted and counteracted. We shall call it a leafy-footprint.”

The Good Koalas unanimously agreed. “They made the mess and should tidy it up!” they shouted.

Thank goodness the Good Koalas showed up to make sure the tree is protected and not lose one single leaf more in the process. For a good society is measured in the number of leaves the Good residents have.

And so a great proclamation came down to all Koalas. 

Offsetting the leafy footprint

‘Any Koala who physically picks a leaf must pay ⅓ of that leaf in the Leafy-Footprint tax. For it is the pickers [Bad Koalas] doing the damage.’

Some of the Bad Koalas moaned about this and how their meals were already meagre. There was a little unrest on the Home Tree and protests led by the Green Koalas stifled productivity. The Good Koalas, always finding ways to please everybody, called for independent research to be done. The criteria was obvious.

'The Koala that is the most good out of all of us must do the research!' Unanimously the Decision Making Koalas (Good Koalas) agreed. And so the heavy burden of deciding whether he was right or wrong fell to that same old, rich Good Koala. Painstakingly he looked at all sides and then finally declared.....'The proclamation is right.'.

You can't say fairer than that! The Good Koalas, who use their goodness to give jobs can’t be blamed and therefore shouldn’t pay any of this tax.

Just think, if the Good Koalas started doing silly things like those silly Green Koalas kept suggesting such as taxing their millions of leaves so that the tree could rest and the Bad Koalas had full bellies, then that would just reward them for being Bad.

That won’t do.

Green, after all, is the colour of envy.

Four Stories From Lockdown

There's the artist who deals in joy, caring softly for girl and boy,
Who must fight back the greyness
That the World demands to see.
For her soul and paints enlightened, in a world that's frozen, frightened,
Seeks to find a way to share,
Share the things she shares with me.
And what I wish that I could be.

There's a man who lives alone, yet has found that love has grown.
He is longing for a girl like he
Has never longed before.
Where in his walls he feels trapped, his mind wanders, enrapt
Across the seven hills of his town
And to her front door.
Just to see her once more.

There's another who can't conform yet must adjust to a new norm.
He impresses when he dresses
Anybody he lets see.
Eccentric and disarming, in a world in need of charming,
He looks at the outdoors as
It's where he needs to be.
In the fresh air and free.

In a garden well and rested, where the robins nestle, nested,
There comes a little noise
And three suddenly are four.
For in the night a Wren was born and the birds rang in the dawn,
Robins feeling feelings that they
Had never felt before.
She was everything and more.

What Used To Be Posh To Me

When I was maybe half as young
And half as young again,
There were certain things for certain people.
They seem a little ordinary now but they used to be posh to me.

There was bottled water. Dad said,
"Taps would do." If you bought a drink
Then it was fizzy.

Playing any sport other than football!
Other sports needed equipment or special courts
That we weren't allowed on.

Unsliced crusty bread with flour on top
For some reason.
What a treat with stew.

Going on a train!
We once went to Southport on a train with Nanny Nuckley.
The Seat fabric itched my bare legs. "Why wouldn't posh people fix this?"
I thought.

Going abroad! Proper posh.
Eating whatever a croissant is and telling people about it
When school started in September.
I used to love Anglesey though.

Knowing that you put your knife and fork together after a meal at a restaurant.
Going to a restaurant!
Ordering coffee at a restaurant after a meal.
Sometimes with wonderful - Italian sounding- names.

Having a garden.
A big car.
Knowing what brands of clothes to buy and buying them.
More than a 16-bit games console.
Fruit that wasn't apples or oranges.
Memberships.
Poetry. I know!
Musical instruments. Although a lady at church did teach my sister piano once.
Errands - only posh people had errands.
Recording the top 40.
Not watching The Pools results. "Score draw"

Posh people had funny lives to me back then.

The Moon Follows Me

The Moon has followed me
For a number of years.

I feel very lucky to have had it along with me on
Long train journeys. It stares at me
Through windows, not looking where it's going.

I think it's because, when I hold up my thumb,
My nail fits perfectly into its smiling crescent.
We fit together.

It hovers over me like a hummingbird when I sleep.
Still and timeless.
Comforting.

It must be hard work pulling the tide or
Making werewolves or
Whatever it is that celestial bodies do.
So it's strange that it picked little old me to follow.

I suppose we understand each other.

Conker Season

The beginning of Autumn in the early 90s
We would walk home from school through Sandfield Park
Where the rich people lived.
Stab the end of a stick through a fallen husk
And then take aim at the great conker trees leaning
Over the fence.

See one that you want and throw the stick.
A hit! But it remains.
Then one falls. A miracle.
Who's stick was it as they would claim?
A spiky ball clips the leaves, landing on the ground
Behind the fence, where the rich kids played.
It was theirs.
As it always will be.

One season I sorted through my haul.
Seventeen conkers to string
And take to school.
Some would crack as Dad put holes through,
They had such potential, lost.

This year they all had faltered in the first game
Except for one.
It was small with a flattened side.
Lighter in colour, threaded with a black shoelace
And single knot.

No treatments; see-through nail varnish, 6 months in the loft, paint.
Just a champion.
A seasoner.

People noticed me and I played to them.
Spinning the champion around faster and faster,
Demanding challengers.
It hit the wall behind me. Cracked.

The challengers came quickly

Just Another Day

Today I lost myself

This has happened a few times before.

I forgot who I am and what makes me,

I fell out of myself at the door.

I watched as I was manic,

Selfish with time and attention.

I cringed as I listened intently

To my lack of sincere intention.

With or at? At or with?

A spectacle or experience shared?

I’ll say something else as always,

Too afraid to not be heard.

Then manic gives way to loathing.

“In their eyes, a cartoon I’ve become!”

I want to show them I’m real

But my real will be boring to some.

At home I’m honestly me

But there I’m old and tired.

She deserves those men in the stories-

They're interesting and inspired.

It’s just another day

Tomorrow will be better or worse.

Maybe the same will happen.

For her, I’m becoming a curse.

The night train

Sat on the night train
Just my pen and regrets again.
When I get home I just hope you're awake.
I ran to the station
A peculiar sensation
That not seeing you in days is making me break.

I rehearse what I might say
That, "this is the last day
I'll let anybody take me from you."
But you and I both know
That soon I'll have to go.
Why it's like this I haven't a clue.

I should have been there
When we had that last scare.
It wasn't my choice, but I chose I suppose.
You're fine and that thrills me.
You were scared and that kills me.
The last lost moments go where nobody knows.

Remember that jigsaw?
And the dusty old flat floor?
We laughed and talked until morning came.
This time when I tried
With my immature pride
I ruined the night worrying it wasn't the same.

These days I'm not sure
Of who I was before
Time and again I just fall back down.
But please, please believe me
That the thing that you can't see
Is me loving you means I won't drown.

My Book Smells of Popcorn

I wasn't at my best today.
No reason, some days just happen that way.
I felt sad because some people I love are struggling.
But they are brave - braver than me.

There were moments when I was high,
Bouncing around, talking fast.
This happens quite a bit-
I turn into a puppy, needing attention and knocking things over.

But then it hits me.
I'm a joke, people don't take me seriously because they have no cause to.
Damn them! They are wrong. I have things to say.
Important things.

Maybe they don't see me as a joke - maybe I see me as a joke.

My book smells of popcorn.
I wonder why that is?
Some people always smell nice
- that's nice.

For a moment I thought about when we were young and my aftershave bottle spilled onto Becky's pillow.
She said she didn't mind because the smell made her think of me.
I like that memory.

Some people are very consistent. I appreciate that.
My head swirls with good and bad, faster and faster.

I think my integrity is important to me, but I'm worried that it's breakable.
I hope I don't disappoint Becky.

One time I wrote a poem and she named an entire business after it. Ha.
She makes me laugh.

I just noticed a canal I didn't know was there. It's still.
I want to throw a big rock in.

Someone is being loud on the train.
They are shouting at a person who is sick because they are drunk. I think they are homeless.
I want to say something.
I'm going to say something.
Dammit, I'm a coward!

This is my stop.

My Lovely Little Ava Paper

My lovely little Ava
With her lovely little smile
And her lovely little hugs
For a lovely little while.

My funny little Ava
With her funny little games
And her funny little songs
Calling us funny little names.

My strong little Ava
With her strong little thought
And her strong little stance
She is a strong little sort.

My giggly little Ava
With her giggly little grin
And her giggly little tricks
Causing a giggly little din.

My tired little Ava
With her tired little eyes
And her tired little teddies
Holding back tired little cries

My dreamy little Ava
With her dreamy little kiss
And her dreamy little whispers
Before her dreamy little bliss.

I'm Lost But Don't Want To Lose

It's 20 hours until I'm with you,
Only to be pulled away.
That dusty street
Where we said we'd meet
Keeps me moving day by day.

I can't shelter from the cold
It exists inside of me.
My eyes have aged
Through wars they've waged
But there's one thing they long to see.

I don't remember stopping.
Feet too swollen for my shoes
Through market stalls
And city walls
I'm lost but don't want to lose.

Time to Imagine

In an imaginary world
I had an imaginary talk
With an imaginary friend
On an imaginary walk

We talked of imaginary times
Where we had imaginary deals
That all imaginary people
Had rights to imaginary meals

When imaginary colours
Didn't matter an imaginary jot
And no imaginary borders
Split those with an imaginary lot

Then all imaginary money
And profits it imaginary brings
Would buy imaginary care
And other vital imaginary things

Who we imaginary loved
Caused no imaginary alarm
Just some imaginary happiness
Doing no imaginary harm

If we had time to imagine

Dancing with you

Wearing shoes that dance in time
I knew that you were not real,
But you held me close so I could feel
You follow one more rhyme.

Maybe I was just with me.
I had an umbrella in the warm
And sunglasses against a storm
And only I could see.

We were wherever we cared to dare
The sunset and the breeze
Belong to us, do as we please.
We held them still, right there.

I can remember it quite clearly
We spoke in glances and sighs
I lost my breath in your eyes.
It must have happened really.

Late Home

By the time I get home they’ll be sleeping,

I wonder what they are doing now.

They are laughing with their mum, getting bigger,

Giving those hugs that complete me somehow.

Maybe they’ll get upset because I’m not there

And didn’t give them a kiss goodnight.

Did they wait up for a little while?

Did they want Daddy to hold them tight?

I’m trying to show them right from wrong

But I think they teach me more.

If I was half the person they think I am

Then I could do anything, I’m sure.

My boy has a heart of gold

And the world should live in his mind.

My girl is fierce and wonderful

And thoughtful and naughty and kind.

He started school this week with his uniform,

How do I keep him small?

She was looking for bees and scraped her knees

But was brave after her fall.

I wasn’t there.

By the time I get home they’ll be sleeping

Twisted Spire

If time can bend my shoulders
Each new second, piled up boulders,
That cast my body in a fire;
As a cruel and twisted spire.

When it breaks me to my knees
And I beg for mercy, 'please!'
It calls at me, 'You Liar!'
I am a cruel and twisted spire.

Upon others backs I ride,
I dare not stand alone - I hide.
My face wrinkled ill and dire.
I am a cruel and twisted spire.


Twisted Spire

Those moments that define us,
Shape us, move us and design us,
They mould us in the fire
I love you
You twisted spire

And those marks that shape our soul,
That break us down, but make us whole,
Those imperfections that conspire
To make you
You twisted spire

We have been cut to our core,
You rise, different from before,
More beautiful than prior
More than you
You twisted spire

Against providence you face
The scars of time you own, embrace
A strength that all admire.
I love you
You twisted spire

Painters and Poets

You dropped a picture onto the floor
That one you painted by the window -
I fell into it and into me.
Then I stood,
I stand.
Then I march.
For the painters and poets.

On your orders I stand.
I march.
The world is not fair so I march.
The painters and poets are with me and we sing;
For all that we are worth we sing.

I have cause - you gave me cause!
We grow together with the painters and poets
And we show what it could be.

We suffer as all people suffer
But you gave us strength enough to care;
To help.

At the river we gather and wash our hands.
We clean them of their shackles
And see each other for the first time.

You become me, my decisions, my thoughts and dreams.
I don't want to fight it.
I'm scared and you hold me
Without knowing the power that you have.

The painters and poets follow you,
Are protected by you.
But you don't say a word.

Oh for the painters and poets.

Lyrical Challenge

I've been doing a bit of thinking recently about the difference between lyricists and poets. I know there is a difference but I haven't quite found the right way to articulate it to myself. Those of you that have followed these blogs (thanks Mum) will know that I have been guilty in the past of being a little snobbish when it comes to poetry and certain writers. Well folks that has changed for 2017!

You see... I get moved by poetry. Moved in a way that is difficult to explain and all the more powerful because of that. I don't, however. get moved by music - I know, strange right? And it's not because I'm emotionally turned off or anything in fact I consider myself very much in touch with my emotions - yes I'm a crier!
 My wife can listen to a song and be taken somewhere that I've never been able to go. When Becky listens to the Beatles she is heartbroken, elated, aroused (probably) and in love all in one moment.

Historically, my thinking was that it can't be the lyric because they are just poor excuses for poems. Very often there are lazy or, even worse, forced rhymes that need to be manipulated in order to fit the structure. Lyrics fall in that space between a well structured poem and a free poem. Both are fantastic but I often found the middle ground a bit, well... how would one say it.... bleh!! (That's right in a post about the importance of words I'm using the word 'bleh'!) Or so I thought....

There is a raft of lyricists who don't even sit with musicians and they can create some of the greatest songs in the world. Songs that will cut people (like Becky) in half. The words must be important.

In times like this I like to set my brother (Chris) and sister (Shel) a challenge. Below is a poem/lyrics that I have just written. I'm asking them to make it into a song
a) because they are talented musicians
b) and most importantly, I like to publicly mention how cruel my little sister was for kicking me out of our band just because I hated singing in front of people and would get hideously drunk before our performances in front of 7 or 8 people.

Chris and Shel... enjoy (also anyone out there is blog world who fancies putting music to this feel free)

When I wake before the Sun
And feel you lying there
When shadows make your body
And the moonlight isn't fair.
I forgot to remember to forget you
Maybe I wish I had never met you.

For a moment I can see you
I breath in and you breath out
Then dawn, and you are gone again
And the World just turns about.
I forgot to remember to forget you
I'm not sure I really want to

Ghosts pass me throughout the day
It is they who see through me
I walk and walk without direction
In a mist I follow truly
I forgot to remember to forget you
Maybe I  need something to hold on to.



Rules
- Don't fuck with my lyrics (that means you Chris!)
- You can add a middle 8
- If you want 'I forgot to remember to forget you' to be a bridge then add a chorus
- 1 week to get the song finished

Enjoy

At the Point of Madness

At the point of madness,
Where people dare not tread,
I live, if just, to live with you
And those words we never said.

At the point of madness
My answers question me.
And all that has gone before
Coalesce in ruinous levity.

At the point of madness
I'm overwhelmed by thoughts
Of love and life and hope and loss;
Of everything and nought.

At the point of madness,
Where people dare not tread,
You waited so I could find you.
In the madness we were wed.

They Matter to Me - Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Robert Browning 1812 - 1889 and Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-1861

I am, at present, suffering from a form of writer's block. I know what I want to say to my wife, but when I try to put pen to paper it becomes; at best cumbersome, at worst cliche and one dimensional. How can this be when I love her so much that I'm quite sure that she doesn't exist?
The premise of what I'm trying to write is that I don't love her because she is so beautiful, frightfully intelligent, hysterically funny, kind, etc etc she is all of those things and much more... but I love her because I love her - even if she was none of those things..... I know what you are thinking, 'Peter it's time to give up poetry!' And you may be right!

I am,obviously, embarrassed that I can't find the perfect words to tell Becky what I feel. And I make terrible excuses to myself like 'this is the plight of the poet though Peter. Poets are searching for the perfect way to say something and are never satisfied.' Bollocks! Can you imagine being Shakespeare and not being satisfied with Sonnet 18? I bet the moment he finished it, he couldn't wait for Anne to read it - knowing full well it was perfection, knowing that every single letter was exactly what he wanted to say.

This leads me to my favourite couple of all time.... and a lesson in how to put your feelings on paper.

For those who don't know, Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning were both successful poets in their own right before they met. The year 1845 had barely begun when Robert first seen Elizabeth's poems and without ever having met he knew that he loved her completely, In fact on 10th January 1845 he wrote the worlds greatest love letter...
January 10th, 1845
New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey

I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,--and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,--whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius and there a graceful and natural end of the thing: since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me--for in the first flush of delight I thought I would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration--perhaps even, as a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of hereafter!--but nothing comes of it all--so into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living poetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew.........
I do, as I say, love these Books with all my heart-- and I love you too: do you know I was once seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to me one morning "would you like to see Miss Barrett?"--then he went to announce me,--then he returned... you were too unwell -- and now it is years ago--and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels--as if I had been close, so close, to some world's-wonder in chapel on crypt,... only a screen to push and I might have entered -- but there was some slight... so it now seems... slight and just-sufficient bar to admission, and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles, and the sight was never to be!

Well, these Poems were to be--and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself. Yours ever faithfully Robert Browning

Wow!!
Yes, they lived happily ever after - of course they did! They are the royal couple of poetry because, through their continued writing, they were the closest we've got to documenting true love!
As an aside - after the initial letter Robert struggled with the same message as me. He would tell Elizabeth that he loved her from his core, not for her attributes or genius etc... Elizabeth said it herself;

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 

Except for love's sake only. Do not say 

I love her for her smile ... her look ... her way 

Of speaking gently, ... for a trick of thought 

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'— 

For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may 

Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought, 

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,— 

A creature might forget to weep, who bore 

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! 

But love me for love's sake, that evermore 

Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.

Robert got it right in the end.... maybe there is hope for me yet.
They matter to me because they matter to all of us. They say what we haven't the talent to say, but have the depth of emotion to feel.