Today Concerns

I see the world standing still, I catch my breath in my throat, Envisioning an ocean crystal blue, Firelights pitched neatly in a row. I see the wonderful hue of sunset, Of you smiling when it goes down, Feeling flutters of a coastal wind, The refreshing sight of you each day. Feelings patter hard as monsoon rain,  Waves circle my feet dug in the sandy shore, Sensing the lion’s strength I hear it roar, No place is better than here with you. I see it burning breaking free, I sense it touching and reaching me, I look over at you sitting by the sea, Unsure I hold true love's key.

Clock strikes twelve,                          Its as old as I feel, I stand beneath firework sky,                        At Millennium wheel, A kiss on new years day,                       Equals all the ones I missed, Your eyes widen in the commotion,                       Bottles cracked and smashed, Feet trampled and voices unheard,                        Smiling hard you cannot stop, Holding you tightly my arms embraced,                       This time not letting you go, Your beauty traces the winter’s chill.

Days I cannot stand, I reach to grab your hand, And find you not there, I know you will be soon, But many times must I count, The stars and moon, Until I see you again.

I am hooked on this picture, Merely of a flower, Nothing special or petite, Nothing quite so intricate, Or sweet, No no, Only a picture of, A Primrose yellow, Vivacious and callow, Filled with life and vitality, Life and the Primrose flower, Compares me to a lulling song, Quaintly restoring my heart, To feel free from hurt, Or Woe or pain or dismay, Or tragedy or fear of anything, Everything is left to be a fight, Not violent or aggressive, But passionate and slight, Like the Primrose flower, Sits untainted and small, Enough to fit in my palm, In my memory uplifting and tall, Like a cherished love, A small babe, Or a lil bird, A thrush or dove, The flower battles,

Gillingham the best place on Earth, Where police roam and hoodlums hide, Children scatter after graffiti writing, On bikes and boards to the nearest clearing, A park or forest wherever easier, Its still freezing, wet, and damp, With misery met right in your face. As for Croydon its filled with, Chics and dicks and e’en more so dickheads, The shouts and clouts, spills and tumbles, Bears no thrills in me anymore, I’m bone sore with grievousness, Tone deaf from the knocks, Squinting slyly for no reason. Then as for London town’s rolling cars, Directing signs for lost travellers, Posts posted firmly against mystified walkers, Fences built and windows boarded up. Rubbish bags flung outside disdainfully. Hustle and bustle on tube, train and bus, Pushing, squeezing and sneezing, A man says desperately blurting, “Bust me your travelcard bruv?” “Please!” He screams in dire need, “I’ve been waiting to go home since three! All I need to do is

Lives intertwined, Coinciding and free-loving, Cartesian law twisting and depleting, Re-emerging and disfiguring, Contaminating thoughts, Poisoning my dreams, Quietens my soul.