Still. What a meaningful word. Static. Still.
Without movement. Frozen in position.
Thinking of it, not all it can reveal,
with some analytical precision.
Continuing along existing course.
Continue the same, say, like still alive.
At best, still champion. At worst, still false.
Movement and action from this still, derive.
Further meaning from motionless, quiet.
And there’s also nevertheless, even,
starts or ends sentence. Still. Restrain, effect.
Appease. Still objection, for a reason.
Then, there’s brew, distil, thrown into the pot.
Poet’s lifeless word can mean such a lot.
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4 of 100
Early colour cine photography.
The moving pictures fearless symmetry.
Silent then, so hear no cacophony.
Now digitalized for current viewing.
Restored in all its colourful splendor.
Seen as. From the reel to the renewing.
Process, part of historic agenda.
Of children playing, goldfish and parrot.
And of film accurately recording.
So, now colours of the artist’s palette
upon white screens faithfully disgorging.
And grays and blacks of computers and phones
can see colour in that other time zone.
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6 of 100
Love is not. Love is not, to be famous.
Together’s not about celebrity.
Because we’re private, does not mean aimless.
Care for each other’s our integrity.
Our hearts are not bleeding for all to see.
We are not an ephemeral freak show.
Won’t share with the papers, what’s you and me.
We’ll avoid the eyes and ears of Big Bro.
Love is what we feel toward each other.
Want it to be completely authentic.
Not waylaid, so it’s hard to recover.
Photo’d puppets, not ‘ way to augment it.
Love is not subject to their agendas.
Our own show, in which we’re co-presenters.
I recall, now, ev’rything must finish
as, all caught up in the process of change.
Does not automatic’lly diminish
the love we’ve shared, which I would not exchange.
Things continue after we’ve departed.
Buildings lived in. Institutions go on.
But even their decline will have started.
And, like the two of us, have to move on.
Perhaps a footnote is all there will be.
Or mere names as a registry entry.
Our joint love beyond distant memory.
But no longer around for us to see.
Yet it existed. Surely existed.
What have had together is unlisted.
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8 of 100
On the edge of disaster; writing songs
‘cos our love affair’s gone wrong. Writing songs.
What’s the use of a plaster? Writing songs.
on my heart, now that you’ve gone. Writing songs.
Knew it could end in heartbreak, all along.
Accept that I’m to blame for what went wrong.
I acted stupidly far too often.
Humiliating you was very wrong.
So, to escape disaster, writing songs.
Pour my heart out on the page, writing songs.
Admit there ain’t no laughter, writing songs.
But I’m coping, stage by stage. Writing songs.
Songs about romance and a broken heart.
Write them, for pity’s sake, ‘cos we’re apart.
Minute molecular infrastructure.
Particles beyond atomization.
Body part totally incurs rupture.
Ready for a re-organisation.
Most aspects completely original.
All were, before start of the recycling.
From beginning, the origin of all.
Pre-formative lake’s means of enabling.
Gases, fluids, periodic table.
When come together, forms of adhesive.
Some concoctions that emerge, unstable.
Then a singularity of pieces.
Sustainable, for a passage of time.
Then organisms to the primal brine.
10 of 100
11 of 100
The man in the hologram isn’t there.
Where’s he come from, then, and where does he go?
Not a ghost who wants very much to scare.
Without bodily substance, or ego.
But he’s there according to perspective.
His human shape on a screen transparent
of air, or light. What thought was, corrected.
The apparition clearly apparent.
3D presentation fully rounded.
But he’s just an image, not substantial.
Put hand through. Feel nothing. Am astounded.
That which seems to be absent’s, potential.
Hologram Man, not what was thought to be.
A projected peculiarity.
Old Vic told me he went to see his grave.
Purchased, so that he does not lose the plot.
Wondered whether might not be enough shade.
Won’t have to worry about that a lot.
Next to him, a Mr. Parrot. On perch?
Joked, might be talker. Bird on Vic’s shoulder.
Jane spoke of her own macabre research.
About cremated ash. What been told her.
Can be pressed to a semi precious stone.
A jewel worn, or burned in as a tattoo.
Or granddad smoked by druggie Rolling Stone.
All recyclable uses that she knew.
Vic said seeing Hermits, old sixties group.
Jane asked “support?”. Crutch, wheelchair, hearing loop.
No poem emerging from me today.
Earlier migraine left me brain damaged.
Creativity, likely stay away.
Too many cognitive cells were ravaged.
Cannot bring sense to the verbal musing.
Nothing to make up a note of renown.
Unsure what supposed to be producing.
Subject matter seems to have gone to ground.
Maybe a very short song the answer.
La de da da, loving you, loving you.
Not enough to satisfy a dancer.
La de da da. Yes it’s true, only you.
Very basic, thought pattern for this rhyme.
Sentimental aspect, all I could find.
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12 of 100
13 of 100
How can there be such a monumental
break with continuity. It’s mental.
Or rather, it’s incomprehensible.
No room, it seems, for the sentimental.
Alive one moment; dead the next. What link?
Taken away from the face of the earth
and disposed of as so much waste. Extinct!
End, it seems, of what was started at birth.
Surely a connection is there somewhere.
How can there be such a stark difference?
Disappearing like that into thin air.
Meet, it seems, with complete indifference.
Swept away to another dimension.
Disbelief, or not, held in suspension.
Santa Claus is dead. Long live Santa Claus.
I’m told a reindeer crash, and he got slayed.
Maybe he even went off to the wars.
Anyway, he’s had his time, his game’s played.
Mummy says the old Santa Claus is dead.
It happened the same time as daddy left.
At Christmas, she says, we’ll still be well fed.
And, over Santa, not to feel bereft.
There’s a new one paying a call, this year,
with some presents for me, apparently.
And ‘though the old Santa’s died, have no fear.
New one’s slimmer to get down the chimney.
Long live new Santa for Christmas delight
She will be visiting around midnight.
The Grand National is dicing with death.
Two more equine fatalities this year.
Tough to accept that it caused their last breath.
Their names from runners will now disappear.
Synchronised and According to Pete died.
A desperate race to the finish marred.
Assurance that safe. Taken for a ride.
Danger that too easily disregard.
Too bad those horses had to be destroyed.
Horrendous injuries they had suffered.
So quickly the propaganda employed.
‘No ones fault’ in this sport run by duffers.
Halting horse deaths is more than they’re able.
The die cast. The result is unstable.