For my uncle Graham, this Christmas

Those good old days, of Santa's sleigh,
Feel different now he's gone away.
His joyful songs I used to play,
Those tapes which made my childhood gay.

Off to the chapel, on Blueberry Hill,
A winter wedding in December chill.
In that wee kilt, I felt such thrill,
And sailed to lands of pleasure filled.

My mind was flown to sunny seas
And christmas spent in balmy breeze.
I stayed up late, like the locals please,
Snapping crackers 'neath coconut trees.

That sunny year brought me a bear,
I loved that teddy, but teddy would wear.
I held in comfort his fluffy hair,
'Til time did make my teddy bare.

I long for those sweet, blissful years
As now those thoughts bring me to tears.
Life goes on, with creeping fear,
And on again, but distantly near.

Almost at once, those tapes were flipped,
Yet still, each year, more songs were ripped.
I loved to get those gistening discs,
With memories yet to reminisce.

With passing seasons I grew so tall,
And in his music, still enthralled.
The singalongs and melodies of old,
Replaced by stories forever told.

Those songs have never felt so true,
Or near to me, as I think of you.
It's hard to recall the man I knew,
Impossible to fathom why his time was slewn.

I wonder if he knows, that now,
I follow in his footsteps proud.
Bequeathing music, rhyme, and sound,
And rousing reels to play aloud.

I miss my friend, who filled my past,
With thought, and song, and happiness.
But every year, I'll raise my glass,
To that dear man from Inverness.

The blossoming tree

From seed to cotyledon,
New shoots were abundant.
Though fleeting and blurry,
Those times weren't misspent.

Then as the leaves grew,
Some more to name but few,
From shrub to shrub, and bud to bud,
Those times were well spent, too.

Well spent were those lush, lower leaves,
But shed each year with bitter breeze.
And with each breeze, those leaves, those leaves,
Would vanish to never re-appear.

But with each autumn's solemn fall,
This plant grew strong, robust and tall.
These leaves he shed, but kept his head,
This tree stood sure among them all.

And as this tree did climb and climb,
Those buds sprang freely, time after time.
But with the breeze, those fickle leaves,
Were but a gust away from the vine.

As branches swayed, in wind and rain,
Harder, still, they were to tame,
But longer splayed were the ones that stayed,
And swayed, in wind and rain.

This tree, in pain, could never blossom,
The winters mild, the summers sodden.
But still those leaves would sprout each turn,
To yearn for the next and not forgotten.

And now, so proud, this statue stands,
And boasts a sturdy structure sound.
Around the wood his widespread hands
Abound with the twitter of avian bands.

At last this behemoth can thrive,
Every branch flushed red with life.
Each Spring each bud springs into sight,
For a tree so happy, so lush, so bright.

The winter sun

The blinding winter sun shines through the curtains,
Misguidingly luring one out to the street.
A sole wasp, confused, buzzes 'round it's treat,
Decomposing heads of Halloween's furnace.
Those heads once were orange - now black, grey and green,
Those smiles once charming, now fester with hyphae.
Those eyes once flickering, sunk into the face,
Squished up like those which have seen many places.
Alas, for many, these faces may seem
Disgusting, perhaps, only fit for the bin.
But many a face, through time's fast elapse,
Will meet the same fate, losing youthful glean.
     But whether a face is withered, or rotten,
          There's never a face that's lived and forgotten.

Oxford Road

Students skipping as buses splash through puddles,
Showering shelters either side of the road.
Beyond, on one side, a grotesque building goads,
Faux-Roman blocks of rectangular muddle.
From September to May the thousands huddle,
Zipped up from that fine rain which soaks through clothes.
At ten to each hour, teeming as they roam,
Pavements prop up the hangover's struggle.
I was one of these, but not one of these.
These many a sheep, who without a shepherd
So often fail to see wood through gnarled bark.
This timber I chopped through with consummate ease.
   A breeze, this lifestyle, not one to defer,
     With brains and mild effort, surely a lark.
    

Autumn in Lancashire

Riding and winding around bendy lanes,
Scattering pheasants and other feathered game.
Turning and churning and spluttering fumes,
Aloft Bowland's Trough, dew-soaked in the rain.
The soft sun shines through but battles in vain,
As Lancashire's autumn drums a dreich tune.
Splattering moorhens and rattling the loons,
While Canada's geese stumble ski-jumper's gait.
'Gainst battering wind the sodden cows brace,
Heathered hills, harsh, and bleak for the cattle.
The sheep, though woolen, still solemnly bleat,
Longing for comfort, a warm hearthy place.
  But I, gladly, smell sweet cinnamon apple,
    While warm on the sofa, wrapped up, life's a treat.

Tranquil is autumn

Tranquil is autumn.

Leaves littering dampened streets,

Crunching under feet.

Crispy shells of former selves,

Ready to spring into trees.

The bottle of Lambrini

A bottle of lambrini sits on a wall,
Four months that bottle hasn't moved at all.
But in those months, unlike the bottle,
I've been on a journey, finding my throttle.

There once was a time when woods were trees,
I coasted along as driftwood by the breeze.
But now, I feel, I have reached the shore,
Like the bottle, assured, on that sturdy wall.

What lies ahead?

So often, not always, but mostly elated,
Not often, and sometimes, but rarely deflated.
All I can do is the best I can do,
And hope that's enough to see me through.

The leaves are turning, soon to be still,
The skies look dark above the window-sill.
The transition to winter, foreboding with chill,
The trees soon silent after migration cools the trill.

Pensively I stare, ahead into the looking glass.
I cannot help but wonder what lies beyond the last.
Alas, not blessed, with a crystal ball,
But lately, at least, a life of sweet enthrall.

In Geneva

White-tipped mountains descend into icy lake,
 Biting breeze nips crisply onto my bare skin.
Ears gently caressed by lapping waves within,
 No chatter but for gulls riding water's break.
By the banks, wrapped up against the bitter cold,
 Promenading, sharing warmth, hand in hand,
As winter sun glistens on Rousseau's Romand,
 Basking in frosted happiness, young and old.
Alas, I was not one of those wand'ring pairs.
 Instead, I gazed alone, with longing eyes.
Solace grows weary with each passing night,
 A feeling which crept over as I stared.
   Travel on one's own has its virtues, for sure,
     But straddling in tandem would liven that shore.

Pendle Hill

Past Pendleton, up, through mist and rain,
 To Sabden by a foggy lane,
A sleeping elephant, green and pleasant,
 Rises, majestic, from the valley plane.

By Clitheroe that hill bewitched,
 Astride the long, grey bypass pitch,
Calmly waits for travellers gait,
 Unchanged through centuries that glorious niche.

On a fine Spring day from Kemple End,
 Serene is the view that hill subtends.
Within that stretch of dewy splendour,
 A sight to behold, sore eyes to lend.

Unchanged while time has left its mark,
 By the swaying trees and twittering lark,
The Ribble ripples, swerves and trickles,
 Through a land that dwells within my heart.

If you were the ocean

If you were a bush,
I'd be a bee.
 I'd buzz all day
From flower to flower
And clutch to them quite happily.

If you were a tree,
I'd be a blackbird.
 I'd nest, warmly,
From crest to tail,
And in your boughs I would sleep.

If you were a rock,
I'd be a lichen.
 I'd hold you close when times get rough,
Though centuries may pass,
And grow on you with every mist, and fog.

If you were the ocean,
I'd be a driftwood.
 I'd buffer the tide,
Though storms may blow,
And always by your side.

If you were the sky,
I'd be an eagle.
 I'd ride the thermals,
Beneath the sun,
And soar for miles with pride.

You are not the sky,
You are not the ocean,
Nor bush, nor rock, or tree.
 You are all of these, from twig to wing,
You mean the world to me.

A day in the lab

Buzzing, whirring, clicking, stirring,
Bottles chinking, bunsens burning.
A laminar breeze flows soft over face,
Hands float in a sweaty sea of latex.

The putrid stench of Agrobacterium
Does for the nostrils that of spice to rectum.
A callous row of mutants in line,
Nutrient jelly under cabinet lights.

A constant tremor from vibrating rubber,
Liquids mixing in whirlpools in tubes.
A mortar and pestle chinks and grinds,
Powdering leaves in clouds of steaming nitrogen.

SDS, virkon and dry ice sit whistling,
Bubbles burst into a cacophony of twittering.
Whitney Houston blares on the stereo,
White coats splay to How Will I Know.

An appropriate phrase for research in science,
Unsure and sure are concepts intertwined.
The sounds, sights and smells make a hazy environment,
Each day a race against the onrush of time.

The Open Game

You need confidence
Or you'll struggle at any game.

You need to play
With good players,
Sink a few puts -
Hit it around a little...

Once you're in full swing,
You'll be smashing birdies on the regular.

Life's giddy highway

In life's snaking highway there'll be tribulations,
Roadblocks ahead and anxious situations.

But don't be too pensive, or tense for the future,
What comes will come, treat life like a suitor.

The end is the only thing certain since birth,
So live untrammelled, unabashed, with mirth.
 
For what is life,
if not the giddy exploration of the path towards death?

Live for the moment

It's the moment that we live for,
Success will come with passion.
Dreams should be left in the bedroom,
Pursue what you can do...
Enable your dreams to come true.

In life, a free mind,
and a free heart,
is preferable
to a life craving success
beyond all else.

Laugh and rhyme

To poetry,
rhyme is as
laughter to comedy.
Without it,
for either,
it is neither.
What then
for a life
without love?

The Sole Mole

A skunk never drunk on spirits intertwined,
Nor skulking 'round reticent, charming other.
A gopher tortoise does not need bother,
Excepting rare occasion to wine and dine.
A jaguar roams freely, mile upon mile,
Up trees, no troubles but for swooning prey.
A cougar, prowling, up sheer granite grey,
No time to part ways with a cursory smile.
A blue footed boobie picks one bird for life,
Some wonder blue feet have that colour turned.
A gannet may plunge into Atlantic churn,
But diving turns sore after years of strife.
  A coast mole does not suffer solace, and cry,
  But sniffs the earthworms through the soil, and thrives.

Ethics

Ethics, as a field, causes me great dismay.
  Supposedly the definition is what we 'ought to do' - yet still it panders to the flock of a fabled, silver-bearded benefactor in the clouds who supposedly has some say.
  There are, very often, no grey areas at all - just beams of light under which some people are too thick as to be illuminated.

Just chillin'

Just chillin' in Monterey Bay,
No care in the world, reclining all day.

Feet in the air, hands making prayers,
That perchance an urchin I'll catch unawares.

Bobbing along on a fine aft. in May,
A couple elope to the sand and play.

With my friends and family all around me,
I'm as happy an Otter you'll ever see.

Dartmoor's joy

From Dartmoor where the Tors stand free
To Shetland Isles in stormy breeze.
I roam for miles and sometimes gallop,
Save the stiles and clippity clop.

I'm little but I'm hardly brittle,
I'm a little hardy and in fine fettle.
In fact I'd say I show my mettle,
When it's cold on the moors I need no kettle.

I'm dainty from hoof to mane,
I'm playful and never hard to tame.
I'm the pride and joy of many a dame,
The silver lining through clouds and rain.

I may be small, up to Shire horse knee,
But when I roam in the moors I'm free.
I gladly fill your life with glee,
I'm cute, I'm hardy, I'm called...  Pony!

Lost

If you
Look long enough
You will see.

If not,
Make like a tree,
Then return, renewed.

All will be apparent.

Overthinking

Stuck, ear-deep in a mire,
Each day a rut of sheer gluttony.
On Sunday, a burst tyre,
A kerb to clear the mind,
However briefly.

Talent

Talent is anything but inherent;
Rather, a state explained by the mediocre.
Attainment will be upon anyone blessed,
Who best themselves by skill and labour.

Mind your own

If someone is shitting in your back yard
Then by all means, justly, take offense.
But if that someone shits in their own back yard,
Then stand back, please, behind the fence.
It defies logic and lies beyond sense,
An intangible, but true, saddening fact.
That some among us must rush to defence
Of actions that cause no malicious impact.
It strikes me that those lacking caution, or tact,
Must themselves be fearful of their own wardrobe.
And in their fearfulness, race to attack
Those who embrace their freedom to elope.
  It staggers that unabashed, enlightened hope,
  To some unenlightened remains beyond scope.

The bluebottle

The skipped beat of an irregular heart.

No rest for the wicked, no wicked unrest.

False comfort long spent to flower’s sweet scent;

Comfort long lost in relentless lament.

Repenting, yet not regretful in solace;

Making pace, a trace, but bleak consolation.

Overwrought in apprehension’s solemn place,

A brave face, though unwittingly condemned.

Overwhelmed by unremitting confusion,

A conclusion seemingly out of sight.

Like the bluebottle’s plight to window’s pane;

The other side, greener, teasingly bright.

But as yielding of clouds relieves endless rain;

In sunlight, a reprieve from heady disdain.

Insomnia

Faithless
Between rain's melancholy drip, drip, drip;
Shadows belie awakened senses, racing -
Slumber outcast 'til morning's chastening light.