Widely published over many years in numerous magazines, journals, anthologies and competitions Currently preparing a collection. Lives in a suburb of Preston with his wife, who’s friend, critic, muse and editor. Plays acoustic guitar averagely to her singing.
FOOL’S LEARNING CURVE.
This bed’s in a storm, has been a ship sailing the rage of the night. Sleep was lost, washed away overboard leaving the breakwater of a troubled midnight. Navigation charted the straits of disturbed waters when propelled by guilt, visible for miles from the vantage point of hindsight. I would have turned against the current I started myself but such words I could cobble together were just not capable of even seeing safety. I should have heeded the gale warning in your voice as the door slammed.
Hey persuasive jazzman, hiding behind shiny instrument, I think I understand you. Improvising the story of life, the shape of which outlines roots going way back to sounds of the earth, you tease out subtle melodies to lecture our well-ordered routines. You flirt your skill, stirring our feet to tapping rhythms, hands into links of approval, minds into a yearning for the ability to express such freedom on loan to us. More than sound travels across our differences. I think I understand you. More than that, I think I understand what I have to answer when life comes asking questions. Out there is so close.
The bird sings of his heaven, the tree full of delicate notes hanging down like leaves. He’s saying celebrate a precious moment of summer but when he stops there are secrets he can’t tell, nothing I can keep. So I find myself staving off the brunt of another hunger hidden like words in a book. I want a remedy for sins raging like a mad storm through this demanding world, a loner wanting something seriously satisfying, satisfyingly serious, to address our confusion. I speak an ancient language unknown called hope and I have never learnt to wait. In these uncertain times it will never be reduced to anything less than my heartbeat.