A popular disease

Please let me out of here

Enter at your own peril

Not for the faint hearted

To be avoided at all costs

Until I die

Put your left arm in

Funny how?

Everybody needs somebody

Exactly

Let me tell you about my life

In other words…

Never nothing no-one

Get me out of here

So many reasons not to say.

Rushing

Realisation: I’m not going to make it, even if I fly
Undoing: the benefits of sleep slipping away
Sensation: hot, cross and dangerous
Hold on: this is not going to happen
I‘m not: I won’t do this to myself
No more: no more rushing
Going to: breath a new dimension, going to slow things right on d
……………………………………………………………………………o
……………………………………………………………………………w
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Spider

I wonder whether or not the spider is still there, outside the village toilets on the grass. He had an unfortunate experience, suffering badly at my hand. Public conveniences must be cleaned, and I am that person in the gloves. I had thought to rescue, plucked him, wrapped in a cloth, from the toilet bowl. He had sat upon the water, I presumed in peril. So, as I say, I picked him out. He moved so fast I lost him from the cloth, and there he was, that sizable arachnid, by the wall, in full health, so it seemed. Again, my over zealous heart piped that he would be best abroad, outside in the undergrowth – we live in a pretty place, in the hills. I stooped again, with said cloth, and captured him for a second time. And in his haste and mine let go and flung him in the grass. But now the woe, for though released, he did not run, he did not move.

Stop, in fear my heart did stop. I had taken a life. Now, I do not claim any particular goodness. No, I feel anger at wasps and even some people. But spider had caused no upset, and I had behaved in error.

I hung about, with no more work to do. I would wait a while and then go back, back to the spot where he sat, legs curled up, half the beast he had been before, before I killed him.

And then something else – his eight legs straightened. His still corpse (perhaps half an hour had passed) began to live again. Though still remorseful, I was overjoyed. I inquired as to his health, in humblest tones, then backed off, fearing my own ability to clumsily tread. With many backward look, best walk away.

One more thing. Spider said this to me. You need to slow your pace. You need not think so hard. You need to be still, take time to recover. Do not respond to everyone’s emergencies (periodically, turn off your phone). And if you can do this, you will be well. If you can do this, you will not die so soon.

A Quiet Ride

Who wouldn’t relish the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive?
Oh, for a quiet ride.

But Anxiety is a mealy-mouthed passenger:
no stuck out chin chest beating bully;
insinuating instead into the drivers seat,
she slips my gears.

Oh, for a quiet ride, but undeniably too
Vexation sits, inclined as though struck,
like a damp yeuk sandwich on the seat beside me,
puckering his lips to sip from
a plastic flask of patched up paranoia.

Oh, for a quiet ride indeed. Enough.
I swerve onto the curb, and
belt unclasped by confident denials, depress
an inbuilt ejector switch. Out they tumble,
rumbled by optimistic assertion.

Ha! In the Hollywood diversion, at last, a quiet ride,
pink skies deepening to best radish red,
conundrums left behind, nothing to remind me
of mistakes, unlucky breaks, driving west…

Okay. Apply the brakes. Get out. Slam the door.
Pick up the pieces, crank the heater,
dry their rusty tears and drive them home.
It seems we are not ready, each, to function on our own.

Surviving, and sucking last year’s fruit pastilles,
we all three, at least, appreciate the pink skies
of a twilight winter drive, but sometimes, sometimes –
Oh for a quiet ride.

The Witch and the Wasps

Yesterday, I made notched cotton reel
and candle tanks and tied on each
a little waxy sack.

In awe of their extreme anger
I knew from the first, I’d use the wasps,
that’s why I hid them in a drawer
with pens, spells and assorted rubber bands.

Tonight I let them out.
On charge, without goodbyes, the yellowjackets boarded, driving past my face,

towards
the last August light.

Flies and bears would
never do. Badgers are all used up…

Yes, it is high time for those
wood chewing, stripy jacks with
their dripping oviposters
to fly,

taking away our anxiety, etched yellow, in their little waxy sacks.

Vote

Scritch, scritch, scratch,
there I am again
teetering
on the edge of sleep
clutching a ball point
oh Elpis
I left a message for you on a slip
inside Pundora’s box
folded inside disturbed sleep
these desperate disordered times
are too many sheep for me to count
jumping

running

 fumbling in the gloom.

Scritch, scritch, scratch,
quickly, lock me in
and I will vote for you in the morning
my children
none of them have tails
perhaps we will never be well again
docked
writing nonsenses
criss cross
dressing hurriedly
dashing in our hither thither
setting our souls on tenterhooks…

Reach

The quick flick change dealt by the day

is hard to reconcile

when trauma preys on happiness

and grief tugs on its tail

and like a rusty spring, resolve

grows brittle over time

so every heaviness weighs more

than once, when we were primed.

 

But do not turn away from me

to spare me from your care

I also suffer silently

don’t be afraid to share.

Perhaps, if we tessellate our years

collaborate our smiles

we’ll find new ways to gird ourselves

to bear life’s rocky miles.

 

More

A man flew over the corn today. I glanced him sideways, caught his flight, an impossibility on days when anxiety peppers experience.

He wore a long brown overcoat against the gold, and when I did a classic double take, he had simply done with flying and left the vicinity of Myslow Peepers.

There is so much more in the bigger picture, things too fast or far away to see. But if fortune takes a shine, you may catch a glimpse of something wonderful in the distance, as you abseil down the abstracted slope from Mount Busy.