The Ride

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On a long train ride
Across a big dark town
A woman looked up
As another looked down
And the smile she gave
Was full, and brave
So the other’s was bright
Though from a mother, a lover
 
And when she sat down
Those strangers in town
Looked forward to see
Those across could be
Just as open and young
As in their dreams tightly spun
Of hopes borne when small
Before news, before all
 
Could be bleak
Could be low
When there was a beauty in “slow”
When tiny steps were great…
When the world was a land
Of adventures to find
And no concept of fear or hate
 
His arm on the rest
Touched the other’s beside
And ashamed the man looked down
But the hand beside him
Took hold of his
As the train rode through the town
 
And a head rested
Upon his shoulder
As they passed so many lives by
And the world became the land that it was
Under the starlit sky.

A Sky That’s Blue

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Under a sky that’s blue

A mystery comes with every pace

To rival wonder too

To flood the mind and drown the thoughts

That note the bluest blue.

 

Under a sun that shines

Notions strike along the way

To block the path rays find

So steps are loads that legs can’t take

And eyes are good as blind.

 

But then,

 

The world, a shock of light and dark

With arcs of colour through

Swoops low to pick you off your feet

To lift the heart, and you.

 

For chests of thoughts once pulled by chains

Leave ankles free to move

A twist that shifts the mind so that

The soul may push on through…

 

And the breeze will blow

And the sun will shine

Under a sky that’s blue.

 

 

Light On

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Found an old simple poem! Maybe better spoken…

Sleeping with the light on
And I’m no child.
My night’s been wilder
Than the deepest jungle
At midnight and I’m riled
For it’s silly to be
Sleeping with the light on
When I’m no child.
Hiding under blankets
And I’m no child.
My dream was rockier
Than the steepest mountain
Walk at midnight
When friends are snakes
That come for a squeeze
So I’m ill at ease
Without my blankets tonight.
Tears on my pillow
And I’m no child,
I’m big and tall
But rolled in a ball
For I’ve joined the strangest circus in town
And if I’m no child
Then I’m the star clown:
Clutching at blankets and needing the lights
To get me through these pitch-black nights.

18:37

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The light that lit the tunnel grew fainter as the first person stepped onto the Waterloo and City line platform, starting it all again. The clock read 4 MINS.

Hands gripped mobiles and bags. Arms clamped papers and umbrellas, making a calamity of a sudden change in direction. Lines of people drew scrawling, agitated patterns on the platform. Those closest to the tracks stood with knees bent and eyes darting. Had they each, by a blend of good fortune and strong, crafted memory skills, managed to choose the right spot? Sharply, 3 MINS. Time but no room for changing minds. The lines thickened behind them and daylong, fought-for space lost its status as a chief priority. A hundred heads shot the day’s stresses and desires into the air above them to grey the walls and make them murky. 2 MINS. The front line was still, in position. Those behind twitched and peered. Some paced a few steps here and a few steps back. The more choice, the more the panic. Thicker still and the lines wove into a tangled, tight mesh. To see, across the tracks, was a family at breakfast, a child in Nepal, a hotel on a beach at sunset. 1 MIN to go.

At the front, a man tried to blink a new light from his eyes, the effort of which marked a break in his particular spiral of decreasing conviction. Would he get on? Did he have the time to wait another 4 MINS? The swing of his head triggered a Mexican Wave of nose, beard, glasses, lipstick. Bodies followed on automatic until the solid mass had robot-swivelled to face the light. Squinting, blinking, shifting. Some further to the back went on tip-toes as though for a photo. The train curved into view and they were shot, white-faced, framed in black.

The train blocked the wide grins and palm trees as it tore through the vacuum, affirming that the first line had indeed gambled with the skin of their noses. The whoosh, shriek and urgent pound of train on track left them swaying and as it slowed their heads detached from their necks like helium balloons. For a moment they were eyeball to eyeball, head-butting on the ceiling. The train stopped, hailing a jump-reach-thump which brought heads back to shoulders. The task snapped back into focus.

For those who faced the doors the trophy lost its shine the instance it was held. The victory came with the heat of a new challenge: maintaining the title with so many usurpers for neighbours. The doors juddered open in a pull of the wool that unravelled the mesh and the strangers were freed only to bind back together in clumps that forced into the carriages. The marginally perceptible victors led the charge but all contenders were freshly motivated by the prospect of a seat.

To enter was to wedge inside like a 4D puzzle, nose to armpit, employing the flexibility usually reserved for a yoga class. All seats won, the losers stood, irritable and with parts touching. The platform was empty and the train waited for no reason. A last woman ran, crouched and slotted in to render the rest resentful. A man read the paper and in doing so swiped its corners across several faces. Eyes met and one person smiled. The other was caught off-guard and pretended not to see. The first looked down and shifted the position of his feet. Someone coughed, the doors shut and the train pulled them away.

Feeling Good, A Sketch

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“It’s all about looking the part”, the woman advises.

“What shoes are you wearing?” she asks – and must simultaneously decide to find the answer for herself, for now she’s leaning under the table. “Oh no… Are they espadrilles?” The girl frowns, shakes her head and ducks to have a look of her own. Her pumps shift at all the sudden attention. Opposite, a suede knee-high kicks and folds over the other. “Well, we need black court shoes. Have a look at any of the girls upstairs, they look really good. And that top, have you got a blazer? Or what I really like is a nice black shirt.” The girl fixes her smile and nods. “Actually, I’ll show you an agency girl on Facebook who looks great… See? At the moment, I really wouldn’t feel comfortable putting you on Lancôme or Dior, or any of the premium brands.”

The woman puts her phone back in her bag and smiles. “So how do you feel?” The girl nods and replies, “Good.”

Paris

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It has felt extremely lonely today, all-pervading has been a feeling of grief, fear and utter helplessness. But so very many of us ARE united across the world. We must strive to remember that and to show each other daily, even in the smallest of ways. The atrocities across the world must not be hidden; we must talk, we must listen, we must strive to understand and we must equip ourselves with knowledge. We must carry the sense of unity through our lives ALWAYS, not just when we are so tragically reminded on such a large scale of the importance of kindness to one another, and of peace.

Missus Grotesque

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Missus Grotesque has skin so see-through that broken blue spiders lie visible at her temples. The effort to form even uncertain words revives their legs in pulsing flexes and they believe her to be trying DVD pilates again, such is the stress on their limbs. In fact, Missus Grotesque has gone to buy some candleholders.

She has made it through the obstacle course of dining tables, kitchen tops and couple-strewn sofas and now she slows to a stop as she sees them lined ahead of her in polished battalions. This has never been her job, to be making these decisions. She hadn’t put it on the list for Jean and now her chest pulls in rotting elastic band stretches, twisting and knotting into a hard and shifting ball. The tearing, bloody strips loop and fasten over and again as she tries to make sense of what she should do.

There are the shiny and matte kind. Then some are bright and some are neutral and others are patterned. There are big ones and there are small ones and some have quirky designs and some are sharp and others are curvy. And she has always been a classic kind of a lady she thinks, but she can’t be sure. Perhaps she is, but wouldn’t Mister Grotesque say that he is a modern kind of a man? So perhaps something black; wouldn’t that be very modern and wouldn’t he say it was minimalist? Yes, he’d say it was a bold candleholder and a very bold choice. The mesh of elastic tears into long and writhing eels in a shallow pool. Sunlight breaks the darkness fast and the eels relax into spaghetti and Missus Grotesque is dizzy and must sit down. A minute passes and in the next Missus Grotesque notices that she’s sat at a mahogany bureau. She imagines writing letters with a fountain pen, from Victorian India, for Kipling. She’d sign off with a ‘Yours. Alice’.
On the way home her shopping bag holds two of a sleek type. These candleholders are brave; they know their own mind. They will stand there in the centre of the table, in the middle of all the dining guests and they’ll be a talking point for the room. Someone will end three or four conversations with a loud, “I just have to ask -“. Forks will drop, breath will be held. “Which one of you chose such excellent centre-pieces as these candleholders?” Missus Grotesque will say that it was, in fact, herself that went to the shops and chose them. Mister Grotesque will look across the table at her with pride and tell the room, “Her excellent decision-making is one of the many reasons I married her”.
They are all downstairs. Missus Grotesque is in her powder room. They’re waiting and she should already be seated but there’s no ball of panic, no bullying inanimates. The mirror in front of her reflects her as she is and she was right: she is a classic kind of a lady. She smiles for her rouge and then smiles for practise. Then finally a real smile, remembering the alarm she had felt in the shop. She sprays some perfume and stands. Her shoes feel secure under her feet and she feels that she is strong.
Missus Grotesque opens the door to the dining room. “Oh and here she is!”, Mister Grotesque rises to introduce her. She holds the handle for support and waits, made entirely of pumping heart. “She who bought some very fine candleholders. But who forgot the candles!”

Let It Be Night

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It’s dark with lights off

But the right way to be
With eyes open when nights
Are sad and strange
When the shapes in the room
Are the people you knew
When you were a child
So you get there again
And you’re back with the sounds
And the smells of a fair
And the touch of a hand
Might as well be right here
With the lights off.
Fear with lights off is
A fair way to feel
When your thoughts rule the air
Without any love
When they seek a hole
That you can’t get out of
Before you work out
That you like it in there
You walk through the graveyard
And relish the pain
If it’s all that you have
To feel closeness again
Time’s slow with lights off
And traps you inside
With all the dark secrets
You dodge in day’s light
Yet if that means you know them
Then let it be night.

Chapter 6

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Winston remembered being seven. He’d never been able to remember much about his childhood but he remembered a small, white square of cloth with a red and blue number seven stitched in the corner, alongside the brown outline of a cowboy hat. He would carry it wherever he went and run his thumb over the stitching. The few basic lines inspired the adventures of Winston, ‘The Baddest Cowboy in Town’. There were dark wooden swinging doors and he wore boots with metal capped heels which clicked through saloons. He’d chew tobacco and ride his horse, Harold, very fast, leaving a trail of swirling dust behind him. His arch enemy was Sheriff Thompson who was always trying to catch him out, but Winston was far too fast and far too cunning. His nickname was Winston The Whistler, so renowned was his speed and the impressive way in which he carried a tune.