Tramp or Tourist.

Here in the break of a day
high on my sunseat
the river plays stage left
passing me centre stage somewhere
round the curve stage right
playing old songs with it
like a seagulls lullabye.

But the tourist stays on holiday
now always and there seems nowhere left to go.
Tossing away those sweaty well photographed clothes
the noble tramp emerges
dressed in hair and old shoes that takes him over to a
green verge across the swamp of road
feasting his eyes upon the foxgloves there
and the high oaktrees always at the corner of his rain washed eyes,
he finds his hotel room under sad stars.
She walks with me, he thinks and throws away the currency of leaves,
then lies upon a bed of twigs soft as mown grass.

Here in the break of a day
I travel round this world just to get my footsteps in time
and a new song in my head that ryhmes.

Christmas bopping

The snow earlier in the week curtailed my planned positive escape into the maws of unknowing known as Christma shopping.  I had done Christmas Shopping before the Ebenezer Scrooge Global Credit Crisis took over my wallet so instead as soon as I got up today I sallied forth into Town and soon it all came back to me. Other christmas shopping spree's had gone hand in hand with a steady pub crawl and I usually bought more things for myself, then anyone else. This time I got away with freebie nip of expensive whiskey in John Lewis' and an Emeli Sande CD, she is from Alford, where coincidently I went out for a trip on my birthday and is within driving distance of Culter if I had a car, or walking distance if I had a few spare days.
It's amazing how shopping, especially if it's not for 3 microwave dinners and a tenner on the gas card, can be such an ennervating and intense experience. I don't think I'd seen so many people, shared the same crisp air as so many people for many a moon. People dressed in the Graduation get ups and their families all smarted up and taking photies of the them, or at just about every corner homeless folk quietly waiting for some unasked backshesh or the odd busker who obviously had no idea which end of the guitar to use but seemed to be enjoying playing it anyway. Suffice to say it was almost like journeying to another country and seeing something new and beautiful with each eyefull until my thoughts were crosseyed.
If I'm lucky I'll realise that I've forgotten someone to buy a present for and get my passport stamped again.

Last day of November 2012

Once more he tries
how braves he tries
to strip
the clothes of soldier, robot, slave,
he forgived the facsists long ago
but they never let him go, they
took first the whispers of reassurance
the belt and shoes at the celldoor
stuck this arms with invisible tattoos, and the pause
between each hearbeat they took,
so he's always forgiving utill he can't forgive, forgive becomes just another word
he carries within him soldier in love with death,
the robot that could never speak for himself
while the old slave wears new clothes, illfitted
pointless clothes that no-one but a slave would wear.
And so forgot to try, try just another dirty word.

The past drove by

The past drove by with
an old address book
I lost in a lost jacket on a wet hot, booze buzzed night
but the writing was half run away with beer and tears, snot and soot
and these pin prick eyes don't see so good these days.
But, all the names were of people I never knew,
faces I never saw.
I told the past to drive away and not to come by anymore,
I know my on history, I shouted it on it's way. But here it comes again
urging me to race with it in the rain, lie beside it in the sun,
merging all my old, lost address books into one.

So strange this sleep

So strange this sleep
so strange this heart I never asked for
so strange these arms,
these fingertips, that hold
and touch the Earth around
so strange these eyes
these lips
that found your lips, that smile
so strange as if a smile before had never been,
So strange this sleep, this sleep
my dreams so long awoke in me.

Three return tickets and a Whopper.

Just you average Aboriginal
fea Aberdeen
aw the way from Auswitz,
Armenia and that place that hasnea a name.
Just your average Aboriginal fae Aberdeen
on my way hame.

Greenbelt Spring

The tree's were the first to go on strike
in solidarity with the memory of blue skies,
the many greens of bushes, foxgloves pink and hearts of heather.
All the insects picketed. Fed up crows
fly-papered the day with a dust of hope as
over fog riotous geese called down their comradeship to the grass.
While the sad striking sycamores and oaks
remember fondly daisy drenched fields and know their cause is right.
They were the first to die when the house-builders went in

Bar Josephine's

She hung about Bar Josephine's
plying her priceless dreams, I got so
caught one hot star night
in her lonely, solitary schemes.
I'd let myself loose unearthed by dreams,
black out and amber bright until time no longer past.
All my friends I'd left in their old trenches,
antique as Autumn.
while I went on
as I wander.
She still hangs about
Bar Josephine's wreathed in all her chains

Girl in the chemist

Such human blue vein sleep
so I see those eyes, lost green not looking away
and your hair like stark sunlight
falling orange like an an unkempt tree
falling behind you and falling over
your freckled whitewashed face
as you stood with such solitary grace.