365 Ways With Words

I Say, You Say

                                        
                                                                Where the good earth became steamy air

                                                                And rolling mountains tore into sea

                                                                There was often a serene serendipity

                                                                Some things were all right

                                                                Wines flowed between our lips

 

                                                                In a sudden break

                                                                With tradition, with continuity,

                                                                The old onward path turned unkind

                                                                A necessary change occurred

                                                                Only a change was needed

 

                                                                But storms came, the worst yet

                                                                The boat sank with all hands

                                                                Being lost in the open sea is terrifying

                                                                Alone, a mighty empty thing

                                                                After the struggle all hope becomes lost

 

                                                                The second vision was clear –

                                                                A total crash; a tumbling write-off

                                                                Leaving us standing in trembling shock

                                                                Alive but together on the dark forest road

                                                                Ready for the next unknown phase

The Kissers on the Bench

Sweet sixteen, or was it seventeen? They huddle, because life depends upon it, on the cold slats of the park bench – a public refuge from the cruel vaguaries of late-adolescent life, an open book for those without respect for their free modesty.

She sits on his knees, her long virgin hair cascading down his protective arm, and allows his tender fondling, his benign embracure, of her curves – both inner and outer. They pretend to talk, but each squirming move she makes awakens further his raging, each squeeze of his hands drives her wild with a tremble-legged desire. They coil together; their underwear wetter by the minute, their tongues never far from each other, their focus only on the amazing stimulation each now receives from the other. He holds her firm like a man – she is his eternal soft woman.

The grip tightens as his height ascends in the clouds. She is the urban meadow within which they are camped. As the dinnertime deadline passes, and night falls, they are once more in the red with parents. Another doorstep talking-to will wash over them. All they want is their freedom. She longs to care, he longs to be near her. They will text all night and into the next day. They will see each other on random buses, on TV, talking to strangers, until the truth is verified. A jealous god guards their powerful attentions.

And then one day the bench will be empty: a callous act, some quick words untrimmed, the heat turned down. It will finish on a misery – wet faces in pillows and hearts stopped: how could breath be drawn when such pains enwrap the very soul? But then the sun will shine, and movie laughter will return with a pal. The streets will be full, and the past will become history. As weeing dogs and vagrant sleeps take turns on the private seat, so the world will turn a few more times. That is, until the next couple make it their own.

About-Heart-Break

                                            Inspired-inculcated-cardholdheld-handshine-shiny-shake-keeled-keeper

                                            An earful accumulator in distracting detraction

                                            Drown and deafen and empty and deep

                                            They are the same

 

                                            On the rock-strewn road near the end there are few stops worth the time

                                            Spiteful eyes converge with daubed memories

                                            Emotic erotic rocket fire

                                            Spits up the morning

 

                                            Sleepy wellspring of devotion pushes in a proud undetected direction

                                            And effortlessly leaves a trail of star tears

                                            Ahead are cold mornings

                                            Shoulder skin frozen

Buster

                                        Noble guardian of the besieged keep

                                            (Cringing coward at the first umbrella sighting)

                                        Advanced guard into the boar-filled underbrush

                                            (Earliest to flee at danger’s approach)

                                        Big Man of the Mountain – all on his path quake at his approach

                                            (Watch him instantly shy into the forest)

                                        Few deep barks mean hidden powers well kept

                                            (Transformer into a first thunderclap quivering quaker)

                                        The shadowed outlaw returned, restituted in human kindness

                                            (Insecure chicken dumping loyalty at the first stinking beached fish)

                                        Poor patient of heartworm and wounded flank soldiering on

                                            (Wincer at the briefest of nailtrim)

                                        My brave boy, my old friend, my pride and joy

                                            (My old stinking, maddeningly annoying and now sadly departed beauty)

 

                                        I so miss you. Always will.

Butterfly Heart

In the river’s course scoured deep through summer torrents, beneath the canopy and beyond the screen of bamboo, upon the bend where the afternoon light settles before the sun falls below the crest of the mountains above, the scene is played. The butterfly rests, its wings open, quiet, alone, in Lepidoptera meditation. 

The existence of one life amongst a myriad of forms is nothing unusual, even one so bright. And in this present, in this capture of time and place, the butterfly is at once without need and without being needed; it feels the satisfaction of hourless eternity, the successful connections of a billion genetic computations, the generous confluence of a sympathetic location with benevolent season, and can only be content.

It neither trusts, nor is cautious. Without a grasp, the hand reaches to support this moment of significance. And without a worry, the butterfly is at ease within the palm and on the fingertips. She dances, she stops, she turns, she closes her wings then reopens: there is no fear in the communication, for an open soul receives without hindrance or demand.

This is enough for both butterfly and hand. The gentle occasion over, the hand replaces her again to rest on to the warm rock face, safe within the glow of a golden sunbeam. Separated, each is happy with the exchange of time and consideration, fully respectful of the other. Of such honoured connections, there are precious few. They are the devout unions of separate souls.

Walk My Way

                                        
                                        walk my way

                                            lady with the big boobs

                                        and

                                        fill my nasty head

                                            with your perversions

                                        so that I am

                                            freed in your arms

 

                                        walk my way

                                            tall dark strangerman

                                        in time

                                        to

                                        save me from my

                                            sick loneliness

                                        by attachment

                                            to your beauty

 

                                        walk my way

                                            friend without ‘complications’

                                        or other attachments

                                        and

                                            solo

                                        make me

                                            your only queen

 

                                        walk my way

                                            pretty girl

                                        and

                                            give me energy

                                        in

                                            your life

 

                                        walk my way

                                            the grown-up's suit and tie

                                        and

                                        packed wallet

                                            care ever

                                        for lil' old me

                                        because I need

                                            your value

 

                                        walk my way

                                            turn me into a family

                                        of

                                        love

                                        and

                                            new affection

                                        to replace

                                        the lost

                                            with you

 

                                        walk my way

                                            walk-walk

                                        quickly

                                            my

                                            way

                                        mine

                                        me

                                            me

Draw

                                    Draw near, in the sunshine, between cranesbill blue and trefoil yolk

                                    Draw near, under dark hammered incendiaries consumed by rain

                                    Draw near, as dawn swifts scream through sun-carved canyons

                                    Draw near, feet dangled mid-stream, clear sweet sharp root-tangled

 

                                    Draw closer, in cinema seat immediacy, your sweat breath on the ear

                                    Draw closer, through long hours of talk beneath the lime trees

                                    Draw closer, in a wine glass impromptu picnic on the park grass

                                    Draw closer, by the mid-morning coffee eyes and cakes for the soul

 

                                    Draw closest, in hand gently held, a twilight stroke of the arm

                                    Draw closest, when afternoon naps guzzle useful hours

                                    Draw closest, on notes from songs that herd the heart

                                    Draw closest, divine inamorata, the deep pool, the cloudless night sky

Down Through the Ages

                                        Down through the ages –visible to all–

                                        What concrescence turns the timid into tough

                                        Drives disruptive chaos into solid steadiness

                                        Leads anomaly to form, form to anomaly?

 

                                        The end of all worlds appears

                                        At the foot of each bed

 

                                        Theory towels that wrap magnificent bodies

                                        Are sieved through touch and taste

                                        And leave a residue of meaning

                                        Or are worthless

     

                                        Singularities redirect all, awake or asleep,

                                        To an awkward finality of infinite body

 

                                        Delusions of history –of smidgens and epochs–

                                        Unravel within a guitar’s strings and a voice—

                                        Dragging rugs from under troubled feet

                                        Leading to unfolded paths

 

                                        To seek love in the ever-normal

                                        Is to find no love at all

 

                                        Honest prayers, if said well,

                                        Through the long night

                                        –If torn from the chest–

                                        Constructs authentic

                                        Gives the heart-needed

                                        A new improved structure

Caught!

“In place of green, try the blue. Shadow is not merely a toning down, it often completely changes the colour – the perception, even.”

He stared with disbelief as Mr Carter used his brush to add a blue dappling under the trees. But once he’d finished he was amazed at the effect. It was his first impressionistic experience.

“That’s amazing!” He was very pleased. His work now looked somehow more… mature.

The Art Room was nothing more than the top floor of Oakhurst, the beautiful old Lutyens house that had been converted into the school some years before. It had that familiar school art room smell—all acrylics and poster paints, slightly septic drains and cleaning fluids. Always a place of calm and reflection, the classroom became more than another teaching venue, it was the location of a growing dedication to inner discovery.

“5 minutes, ladies and gents. Can you clear up now, please?”

These were words of almost universal disappointment, even for an anticipated break time or end of school day. Art was fab. Available at any time, someone was always working away at something interesting after lessons or during frees. Portraiture was difficult, so most opted for still life—sheep skulls and fruit, chequered tablecloths and coffee pots. Each week newly acquired skills would add accomplishment to the merely observational, style to the perfunctory tasks of the curriculum, and permit a certain amount of freedom of expression. Some enjoyed taking this route further, others diverted into the realms of expression free from direct form and true abstraction, overcoming the inevitable embarrassment that first accompanies exposure of the soul until there developed a certain clarity, and something called ‘voice’ or ‘presence’ could be detected in the finished pieces. These were exciting times for the unveiling of the machinations of soul and mind. Lines and circles, angles and shapes became reflectors, colours became moods, the canvas itself a portal to the inner experiences of the artist.

“Have you thought about the field trip?”

He heard the question from the good teacher, but could not resist a glance over to the object of his squishy affections, on the opposite side of the room. A pair of female eyes returned the warmth: quite what would occur on that trip would only become apparent once the bus was parked and the beds were assigned. The mind filled with thoughts of dorm rooms and showers and group sex and the very extremes of adolescent sexual fantasy.

“Yes, my mum says I can go if I get improved grades in all subjects.”

Because it was always so busy, the art room never became the venue for the typical teenage shenanigans. That was something best left to walks back to the station, late afternoon rendezvous under the trees, or even a weekend date. Not having much money, mutual affections had to be enjoyed at a bargain basement rate of little or no cash. If you couldn’t do it at school itself, or on a park bench, or in an empty carriage of the non-stop Metropolitan Line, then it wasn’t going to happen.

“Can you return the form with a cheque then?”

Of course, there was a certain amount of imagination involved in finding niches for cross-pupil naughtiness. There were quiet places around the grounds away from watchful eyes where the usual five-minute grope could be extended to fifteen minutes passionate wet kissing. Behind the gym became a regular, although inclement weather made it ultimately unsatisfactory. There were fox tracks in the cherry and birch woodland the far side of the football pitch led to a small clearing, but it was obvious to all that a couple entering the woods were not going there to pick flowers or go bird watching. That left venues within the school buildings themselves; empty classrooms, music practice rooms and, at the right time, the cellar/common room under the main school itself.

“That’s the bell, boys and girls. Off you go.”

Mr Carter was himself already on the way to the staffroom for a break coffee. He was not on duty today, but even so he would sometimes take his outside and either sit alone or with one of the teachers or whichever student would appear and talk cordially about one thing or another. His father ran an ironmongers, supported an impressive ginger toupee, and grew vegetables on an allotment. On the wall of his kitchen hung a framed poem that had been fried, a quirk of previous artistic direction.

“Can I stay? I’d like to finish this.”

The answer was almost inevitably positive. Showing an interest was always to be rewarded with time, only the interest was not merely arty.

“Yes, but you must both clear up before the end of break.”

His voice led away down the creaky maze-like corridor system, past the swing doors that flapped under the little stairway up to the caretaker’s flat. Mr & Mrs Clooney were an oddjobman and dinner lady/clearner partnership who enjoyed living in a relatively small flat under the eaves that must once have functioned as staff quarters when the house had been privately owned. Mr Clooney was a dour, unhappy Scot, prone to months-long bouts of frowns and a stiff gait that no doubt described the presence of rheumatism. He it was that had a certain responsibility for arranging the drivers of the minibuses, the cleaning of classrooms and the constant work of maintaining the lawns and gardens. It is he, therefore, who would have arranged for Ted to conduct the cleaning of the cellar rooms one particular evening.

“Hi!” he peeked over at her concentrating face, gleefully aware of their time alone at last. She was happy to return his gooning glance for a second, but returned her eyes to the work on the easel before her. What did that mean? Was she really working? Perhaps she didn’t value their time together with as much excitement as he did. They continued for a few more minutes, blissfully alone, he all the time wondering what more to say, and she probably quite content with things as they were.

“How about I meet you tonight, after school?”

The door burst open as an early squidling rushed in to bag the best chair. She nodded, turned red and returned to paint.

It was normal for pupils to be hanging around school long after lessons had finished: some practicing music, some sat in discussion, some working, some reading and some just delaying their journey home. Some, however, saw this time as an opportunity to connect with their favourite person’s mouth, to swap sweet words and saliva and have arms dangle nonchalantly over shoulders precariously near to breasts. In general, however, nothing went much further; apart from the issues of privacy, there just wasn’t the opportunity—unless one was created.

“Come on. No-one’s down here.”

They slipped into the common room, now weirdly devoid of life. Usually the location of spontaneous juvenile guffawing before school, at breaks and lunches and even after 3.20pm, the animation that accompanied 20+ musician children resonated long after their departures. Leaving the lights off and using only the natural ambient orange glow of the city beyond, he led her by the hand to the second little room, which was little more of a locker room that housed benches and pegs for coats and bags. There they pitched their intimacy, on a slatted bench, all fingers and sighs as together they overcame her natural modesty, and took things decidedly unsteady for the better part of an hour. And then Ted the cleaner walked in on the two scared rabbits.

“What were you doing?”

The headmaster’s words were cautious, but firm. It could be that there was a perfectly reasonable justification, one beyond the expected fumbling and kissing. But how exactly was he to give explanation for himself? It had been nearly seven o’clock and the rest of the school was locked up for the night.

“We were talking. Just talking.”

He eyed the squirming spotty teenager with a pause. Could he really punish this?

“You are expected to go home straight after school.”

He’d got away with it, but now the word was out. They’d been caught; the architecture of their love-zone was common knowledge, no matter how he bluffed and joked. He didn’t need to hear the whispered conversations to know the object of their tattle-tattle—through bravado the newly acquired reputation did not thoroughly unnerve, but he felt it was, perhaps, unfairly won. At least there was always Art. And there was always the field trip.

Cloud Forms

Out of the mind, a cloud forms—

They didn’t have a particularly close relationship, sharing a bed like sharing the shopping. In her mind he was a casual friend who she happened to live with because it was convenient. He considered her a regular girlfriend, unless he was out at the weekends alone.

They often privately wondered about all of this, but between them nothing much was spoken. The lack of precious lovey-doveyness gave them each a freedom from over-attachment, a robust approach that allowed for late-night work appointments, guiltless travel and any number of things that a proper couple would have to first negotiate and then navigate.

Their flat, a nice little upper floor flat with sea views, was comfortable without being pretentious. Their shared furniture (his sofa, her mattress, their table, etc) was modest; most of their money was given over to interests, both separate and mutual. She enjoyed spas and weekend breaks with her girlfriends, he took his mountains seriously and was in the middle of systematically bagging every Munro—that is, every mountain in Scotland over 3000 ft.

She was happy enough when he left, and every time enjoyed seeing him return, bedraggled and steaming, sometimes fit and ruddy-cheeked. It was at that moment they enjoyed the best sex.

He similarly anticipated her homecoming from any number of spas across south-eastern Scotland, or maybe further afield. She’d laugh, holding out her new fingernails, a mane of soft hair exuding the most gorgeous scents imaginable.

To many they seemed like the most contented couple, but others knew the more sparing truth. Smiles in photos and arriving and leaving together from a party, mean different things to different people. But they were not planners, at least not of the long-term variety. They even holidayed separately, she returning year after year to St Lucia to be steeped in beachside luxury, him in recent years taking in many of the peaks of Switzerland, Bavaria, Norway and Italy. It wasn’t that they wanted to be apart, but were mature enough to realise that their respective interests meant vacationing together would be a disaster.

On those weekends as much those longer breaks they would both find others. It was not that they sought them out, so much as they allowed things to happen. He’d find a similarly minded female climber at the bar of the loch-side inn that was his accommodation that night, she’d be surprised by a handsome masseur taking his time with her body and would suitably rise to his hands.

And so, during the week, they slept together, usually without sex or anything other than the bare bones of intimacy. They went to work and did what they had to do without guilt, prejudice or jealousy. It appeared they had all they wanted, at least temporarily. And indeed they had, until one summer Monday morning she was sick. She leapt out of bed straight for the toilet. It was an impulsive retching from the pit of her stomach. He came over and did the polite waiting at the door thing while she dabbed at the side of her mouth and blew her nose.

“I’ll make a cup of tea.” he said, and headed for the kitchen already lit with the healthy rays of the July sun.

They sat giving thought to her horrible vomiting, but put it down to the evening’s pub food where she’d had the fish.

Their tea consumed, they busied for work and the customary departure time of 7:55.

Their evening was spent before the TV, but she was asleep by 9 and he watched something about badgers. The next morning, the same thing happened, and their minds turned serious.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” he suggested over the old 1930s kitchen table.

“I can’t be!” she returned, somewhat dismissively, “I’ve been on the pill for three years.”

“Nevertheless, hadn’t you better check?”

She added sugar from the cupboard, to try to remove the acidic sourness from the top of her tongue. On her way back from work she stopped off at the chemists beside the bus stop. Before he got home she did the test. It was positive.

She didn’t understand. How could this be? Surely the doctor had prescribed the right pill. She sat on the lid of the toilet staring at the plastic indicator before her. They didn’t want this; that was for sure. They were moderately happy, not unrealistically ecstatic, but just enough to make each year together as pleasant as pleasant could be. And now this would change. He’d react badly, run off, leaving her to deal with this on her own. Maybe not. She’d never made demands, but bringing up a baby was a job for a couple. If he did stay around, and they had a baby, it would be costly. They’d have to move up to get a bigger place. He’d have to earn more because she’d be expected to take time off. And the biggest question of all; would it change their relationship? She’d seen how unhappy her parents had been for most of their lives, chained to each other out of convention and good manners and promised only to enter a relationship with someone based on amicability alone. And she’d had it, until now.

He knew, somehow. The long uphill ride home on the bike told him that things had better change now. Perhaps they should get married. Perhaps he should seek a promotion, or they should move away—to London, perhaps, or even abroad. He’d thought of parenthood only in vague future terms, perhaps even with another person, where everything felt right and where the obvious passion of a new love would seek a means to bear fruit. For one ghastly moment he considered both their parents, each couple staid and steady, rock solid in kirk and standing, seeking harmony and respectability at all costs. There was no way they could live like them, even for the sake of a baby. No, they had to do it right, whatever the costs.

She heard his key in the door downstairs and was about to call out his name, but felt her tongue shrivel in her mouth. The most she could come up with was a quiet, dry ‘huhg’ that sounded more like a plea for help. He brought the bike upstairs and left it on the landing by the front door. He sat down next to her, the rivulets of sweat and roadway dirt patterning his sunburned crow’s feet. She held out the test for him to see.

“So.” he replied, as if that was all required. They stared for one moment in each other’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if she’d been crying.

“So,” she echoed, before taking a deep breath, “it’s positive.”

He nodded. “And what…?”

“What do we do? I’ve been thinking about that all day.” She paused, tapping the table with her beautiful fingernails. “I don’t know.”

He nodded again and stared at the view out of the window. “I mean…”

His words dried up. They were useless and artificial, an interesting juxtaposition considering his recent handiwork. And then he had a thought.

“Is it mine?” He instantly regretted saying it.

She looked at him, at first a little taken aback, but recovered. “Yes, yes. It is. You’re all right.”

He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that.

“So, what do we do, then?” He removed his bag and cycling shoes and getting his solving head on.

She shrugged the shrug of someone who has yet to get all the facts. “What do you want to do?” She admitted to herself her laziness.

“The way I look at it, we have three options: keep it, give it up or abortion.”

She didn’t like the sound of any of them, especially the last one, but nodded the long nod of the ponderer. He got up and made tea, but this problem was not going to go away in the next five minutes. Whichever way they went, she questioned whether this something they could survive?

“And what about us?” Her words stopped him dead. He had thought the very same. The pressure of a baby, not just of nappies and changing, but also of school, growing up and 18 years commitment; it just wasn’t something they’d ever considered as an option. And yet here it was, ready-made.

Those were the last words they spoke together for the next half hour. The man in the flat downstairs came up to discuss the leak and there was a phone call from the Manhattan branch which he had to take, by which point she had opened the balcony doors to sit with another cup of tea. He came over.

“Hey!” She acknowledged him with a pained glance. He stood arms folded, leaning on the doorjamb.

“Sorry.” He tilted his head.

“But it’s not your fault.”

“No, I mean about the call.”

She shook her head.

“That too. But we’re are both at fault. No smoke, and all that…”

She smiled, but inside she was a little numbed. “Have you thought?”

“I have. Do you want to do this?”

She was thinking the same thing. “Nobody knows yet.”

He barely nodded. “And we could carry on, as before.”

“It’s not like we’re in a relationship with it, or anything.”

“No, I mean it’s not even a baby yet.”

She froze. He’d used the word. For a baby, a real live baby, is to be protected, to be nurtured and provided for—it’s unconditional. There was an instant upwelling of bitterness and self-loathing. Could she do this? How could he even think this? And yet, how could they not?

That night they slept poorly. It was hot and they floated naked under the sheet on the coals of their combined turbulent unconsciousness. In the morning, she rushed to the toilet just in time. She did not want to be sick, but could not help it. This time he patted her on the back. She shrugged him off.

Perhaps they should have a baby, he thought all that day. After all, people have to change, and the change of a baby is a positive one. He thought of taking a young boy up the hills, spotting deer in the bracken, camping beside streams, of picnics in the park. The undeniable pleasures of parenthood wafted in on untested clouds to deposit their pleasant rains on untested ground.

She called in sick and in-between sleeps spent the day online checking out websites for local clinics, for planned pregnancy centres, Marie Stopes, even for local hospitals.

That evening as they ate spaghetti they went through their options with very serious intent. It was not easy: as soon as one thought positively, the other reacted negatively.

She had set a target of three days to make up their minds, before the week was out, Friday night beckoned and their expected attendance at a friend’s eldest’s First Communion. She could not work, they could not sleep, and their time together became dominated by this sole discussion. They were sick of it. In bed she told him that she’d made an appointment at the clinic.

“Are you sure?” his came back had a ring of uncertainty.

“No. But we have to do something.”

He desperately wanted more time, the one thing they really didn’t have. And even if they went ahead with it in principle, would they be able to carry it out at the end? Could they walk into a building to do this thing?

He held her hand, supporting her decision whatever it was. She gripped him, then squeezed him, then began to sob, to grieve and to howl. Right then she knew; she wanted him more than anything else and would do anything for him.