Hibernation

I crawled under the shed

amongst dust and stones

why I was there is not important

belly to the ground, back to timber joists

next to my head a nest

badly made of hay and leaves

dragged there

during a frozen time

there too within its bed

a sleeping badger

sleeping for so long

through ice and summers

seven years since

we met in January -

you had your arm

around a chicken

curled together in the coup

looked up at me and sighed,

so warm, such bounty and warmth,

looked down at the chicken

then ran,

a two toned bear across frosted fields,

too cold to be awake

and so you came back

tucked a bed under your arm

and went to sleep.

Here we find ourselves,

you and I,

under the shed;

I am alive

and you are dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

ar 2025

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Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.

A few recent poems discussing the two halves of an argument, perspectives, and landscape. The soundtrack is also a collection of moments seen from the present moment back across the space of thirty three years and includes people and places of great significance to me. Musical Credits for recordings and samples to Nicky Spence, Catherine Carter Brand, Dougie Hudson, Florencia Garcia Chafuén, Gwen Sale, Breezy Lee, Marion and Jamie Kenny, Oliver and Anders Rigg.

Two Halves

An axe is only metal
without a handle
and a tail without a horse
is only hair.

An anchor without a chain
holds nothing
and a riser without a tread
is not a stair.

Conjunction without love
is only friction
and a word without a meaning
only air.

A step is not a journey
without intention
and colour without light
is just not there.

A palm without a life line
is only leather
and here is only here
if there’s a there.

The left and the right
were born together,
mirrored twins;
a hemi semi spherical
or demi demoniacle
acceptance of direction
rejection of dejection
the button and the whole
systole and diastole
the beat and the off
of a heart doubling
Venus and arterial.

A mountain is high above
The falls below.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AR 2025

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Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.

Doppler Gang

Thought it was you but no,
it was just your hair
on another woman’s head
she said I heard
you split so sorry
but
I wear her hide with pride.

Thought I was paranoid
until you stopped watching me
and now my daily motions
pass into obscurity,
my thoughts stranded
on the beach
of my own emotions.

Thought I was ready so
I girded my loins
for the afray, but hey,
the stage was empty
save for a discarded face
wipe that smile clean
into next week.

Thought I had the spunk
punk rocked me flat
with two blue eyes of
insolence sincere
and hench hens
surrounded me
with imagined complicity.

Thought my mind was made
up goes arse over
never say ever and
afterwards I lie,
separated from my own
head;
you’re such a globe ache.

Thought this song was
about you you’re so
lame your life’s a poem
that doesn’t rhyme
with mine goes into
re-verse so
I think I’ll walk, thanks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
ar 2025

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Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.

A peedie poem about a muckle bird.

Albatrossicals

By full moon on the first of November
a great bird preened its wings
hunting far out on the oceans
by night and by day wandering.

She cries salted tears for her lover
lost in equatorial zones
across the Northernmost waters
and so far, so very far from home.

An aviated quest for redemption
a search beyond limits of sail
sleeping through tempest or peril
fallen down on the back of a whale.

Albatross crosses the wave tops
each wing is a hundred feet long
soaring and wheeling and diving
her heart is not where it belongs.

Albatross glides the Atlantic
a creature of infinite grace
displaced queen of the Gulf Stream
Pacific, alone and misplaced.

The truth is there for the telling:
reconciliation,
a soul all alone on the North Sea
fly south to your love and be one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ar 25

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Some thoughts on the most peculiar relationship that the fast moving modern town has to its situation. Executive versus historical. Nature versus Cafe Latte. Rocks versus paper and scissors.

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Some musings from the Irish Sea on the way from Galloway to Galway.

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Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.

This is a further exploration of transience..... of passing to and fro...of lives begun, lived and ended. It is also a celebration of all life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Life Lived

The Life Lived
brought us both here,
yours and mine,
you and me.
Genetic lines -
I am your impurity
your blood mixed;
our commonality
seeming clear
makes each a hybridisation,
nothing pure in the world.
Your dear dead wife,
was she the sorceress
or the apprentice,
the saucer or the cup?
But I am not your cup of tea,
never was.
Your dear dead self
within my thumbs,
some aspect of my nose;
where is your residence now,
if not in the way I swing a hammer
and a certain mystical absorption
with the sound of a clarianet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ar 2025

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Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.

A few thoughts about the process of change, the fragile nature of human relationships and the value of learning how to be yourself.

Becoming Other

When the hysterical becomes historical,
I’ll see you there -
Don’t mean to be funny but,
you crack me up
like crazy paving.

When daily becomes doolally
I’ll sort it out -
schizophrenia?
I’m a mosaic for you.

When the parting becomes central
I’ll be more Man -
for god’s sake -
Just kick the habit!

When hoping becomes coping
I’ll reconsider -
read the cards?
Get royally flushed.

When promise is compromised
rip up the letters -
Alpha and Beta;
I’ll tear your translateables.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ar 2025

Support the show

Thanks very much for listening. Art is an act of generosity and as such is made to be shared.