Lacuna: Promoting the Poet

lacuna baldy3

Another great photograph from Damien Davis (http://damiendavis.co.uk/) for the promotion of ‘Lacuna’.  Perfect Poet, Polly (Stretton) has been working hard on my book, for which – I will be eternally grateful.  You can find Polly’s own poetry here: http://journalread.com/.

I must say a big thank you to my beautiful (and patient) wife, Sian.  My love, you are my all.  The kindness, encouragement and support of all, has been overwhelming; but yours is the most treasured.  I am blessed.  I love you, my biscuits.

Thank you to all my readers for your kind messages (on and off this site).  I do the baldy boogie in your honour.

Keep smiling (unlike the fugly in the picture, what drama!).  Much love from Baldy.

 

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Baldy and the Photo Shoot

 

 

 

Here’s a picture taken by Damien Davis (http://damiendavis.co.uk/) for the promotion of my forthcoming book.  Lacuna will be available from Black Pear Press (http://blackpear.net/) this summer!

 

lacuna baldy9.jpg

We Regret

We dislike all that we are not,

fear everything we are and that

which we do not understand

(especially anything different from

what we deem – urgh – ‘normal’),

we hate ourselves for aging and/

or becoming weak, stressed of

heart, or worse – of mind…

We find our vainglorious past,

pulling faces from a misperceived

image in the looking glass,

a poor projection, false reflection,

our tired eyes misconceive

a god-like imagining, that,

flawless forgery we are so

desperate to forget but cannot

banish before we vanish and

it spits on our grave; we regret.

 

Writer

Sometimes, I would sit

with a fresh piece of paper

and a pencil that I would

will the life in to, just

empty myself on to the page

until words became

sentences and, subsequently,

something of meaning,

possibly…

of some worth.

Whether I penned a poem

or scribbled an appendix

for my mythology

(or simply sated my need

to see thoughts collected,

in the way only a writer can),

I would breathe more easily;

knowing I had accomplished

something in my day.

Strange, how only my peers

appreciate such nonsense,

and recognize my reality,

my version of the truth;

pertaining to the nature

of such things.

Similar souls ache to be

amused by the muse

and refuse to be abused.

What Was in That?

Think game, think movie, what the player or audience,

Failed to see, the extra life, the hidden key, the lies,

What was it they intended to experience exactly?

Is there some familiarity or even believability?

I guess we start with the plane, or what was left of it,

It would be kind of stupid to ask how it got there

(As it appears to have crashed, considering its state.

But there is history here because that was some time ago,

There are signs of deterioration, corrosion, graffiti,

Left by the foolish who have let their presence be known.

Other than the curiosities, like how anyone managed

To get here, the jungle-esque lagoon atop an impossible mountain,

There remains the question of where anyone found,

Spray paint and if this was a game – what was the point?

What was the paint’s intended use if not for vandalism?

And if it was art, then there is no one to see that either.

Should we be more concerned with the eleven foot tall

Killer squirrel or the fact that there does not appear to be,

Anything with which to repair the puncture that has deflated

Inflatable Steve?

Proof Professed

If I am to fear nothing,

Must I then, love nothing?

I fear sleep but hold no,

Affection for it, I dislike,

The loss of time immensely,

The control forced upon,

My physicality, perhaps it,

Is this prison of flesh, the

Very body I reside in that

I fear, for its weakness and,

Lack of reliability, the

Linear confinement of meat.

If I am to fear nothing,

Must I then prove nothing?

The page would be pointless,

Records made redundant,

Literature left as litter, but,

The thinker, regardless of,

Whichever ‘ology’ they,

Profess to love or learn,

Would counter, never able to

Abate debate, as, whether

Points need to be proven,

Or not, thoughts will be thought,

And I fear, sleep will find me,

Before the words are able to.