From this to this

Its been some considerable time since I’ve written any commentary about the day to day. After all, the poetry is my documentary, and for the periods when the pen is silent, I am probably dead.

But, that aside, some changes have occurred. One that can be published here is that I no longer live in the original city of this place, having moved, last year, across the road* to a new place. This place. Of course.

*In this instance, the road is indicative of a geological boundary, as well as a means of transport.

The old place – or That Place, as it is now known – is a past whose memories can be kept alive as only the happiness of guilt and regret can muster.

The beginning of everything

We stand, to
shadow the ground with our looks
and uncares

The sun burning our skin with
not yet that cancer to come

others, who we know
or at least, acknowledge
words, distractions

A sharing of
time, already too limited
and ideas of
What if
And what could
it be

We lock ourselves
inside the world
hidden, safely
for days, and dazed
at the thought,
and the fear

Sunday Market

We looked into the window but the figure didn’t respond. Swathed in the most expensive of that season’s goods, it looked blankly to entice a materialistic world to enter the shrine and make offerings for the religion of credit. Nothing to do but to purchase. Besides, even the churches charged entry on a Sunday, now that God was just a figure selling entry to a tourist attraction.

Christmas decoration

Amidst everyone and
The chatter and charge of
Happy Christmas
He, alone in the crowd
Quietly so as not to disturb
Or let loose the reflections that others could see

And when it comes
Down to brass tacks
The facts having been laid bare, or
At least
Presumed for another year
He smiles
Of the happiness ahead
And of its when, and where