I hereby appoint you as my judge
and charge you weigh me in the balance.
The reason is you must not bear a grudge
against me for my foolish dalliance.
You could not call me thief or fraud -
I've stolen nothing, only wanted to;
deception I have kept for other folk
and nothing that I've told you is untrue.
One crime however I confess I meant
but that is only loitering with intent.

Another overland trip

Shipwrecked from normal life, afraid to sink, we float
a surging sea of foreign-ness in a lifeboat
of overlanding truck provisioned with alcohol,
protected from the press of people critical.
Embarking alone shows courage past mere posturing;
adventurous self-image now needs bolstering
by tales of previous travels, funny anecdotes,
with all in harmony and no discordant notes.
'Don't rock the boat' becomes the order of the day
when saying something matters more than what we say:
as long as you don't disagree or question things,
we can enjoy the comfort group acceptance brings.
Now every comment ends with prompting laughter
and jokes echo around the group for minutes after;
each adds another verbal pebble to the pile
then basks in mutual admiration with a smile.
For some it's an extension of the mating game
not played too well at home perhaps but all the same
upgraded to an international event -
results unknown but definitely overspent.
For many it's adventurous to leave their work
so even necessary chores are cool to shirk.
For most the famous tourist sites are only seen
through eyes obscured by cataracts of what has been
absorbed through years of travel documentaries
and writers' hype about romance and mysteries
of foreign travel. So we cannot separate
the sights we see from our expectancy and rate
'fantastic' what we think we see, quite unaware
it's just excitement at the fact of being there.

Menial chores are necessary
to satiate our time
and also temporarily
anaesthetise our minds,

a way of occupying hands
while letting our brains rest
from mulling over everyday plans
and so become de-stressed.

Alternatively, when we're bored
with nothing much to do,
it's better to be slightly  chored
than just boil up a brew.

There is some satisfaction in
completing little tasks
and it also lets us answer something
when somebody asks

"So what have you done today then?"
But there is a problem lurking:
clearly we do things the best we can
to minimise our working

although there may be better yet
which we just haven't found.
Repetition creates habit
and we can end up bound

to do things in the same old way
that we think is the best,
regardless of alternatives
that others might suggest.

Habits can turn into rituals,
demanding strict observance,
where we cease being masters of them
and just become their servants,

angered if we're asked to alter
the way we run our lives,
unable to effect a change in
our fixed emotional drives.

We live in a world of changing ideas
where new technology reigns
and we need to be able to throw away
outdated mental chains.

We need to remain adaptable
since dogmatism's rife,
remaining open to innovation
in all aspects of life.

Persepolis

Among the scrub of hills enstoned with Persian script
the slender elegant poplars stand
with sapling spruce like fine paintbrushes taper tipped
in re-afforestation land.

The scoured background mountains chiselled in bas-relief
anticipate Persepolis
as lines behind each proud though subjugated chief
engraved within the edifice.

Where lions savage horses distant emperors
and local kings queued patiently
to give their tribute to the greatest conquerors
thus far in ancient history.

The murals catalogue the diverse styles of dress,
the beards in curls and ringlet hair,
Persian pyjamas giving trousers to the West,
Asian variety to spare.

But past the stark simplicity of Cyrus' tomb,
in outlook though not miles or years,
inheritance of power and riches presaged doom
when decadence met foreign spears.

The rock-built platform of Achaemenian fame
weighed down with monumental pride
was shaken when the upstart European came
and made the East and West collide.

Yet Alexander and Darius thought the same
in many ways: men could be gods
until a later militant religion came
with anti-immorality squads.

Now a reminder of a freer grander age,
the palace where those legends strode
stands an anathema to Islam's soldier-sage;
yet golden eagles scan the road.

The Philosophy of Identity

Somehow I used the word 'person'
which he seemed not to understand
so I tried to explain with examples
but it didn't go quite as planned.

We both agreed that his mummy
was a person and daddy too
but certainly not his sister's dummy,
his train or his toy kangaroo.

And as for himself, was he one?
He didn't seem any too sure.
Well, what could he do that his toys just couldn't?
He sat and pondered some more.

Eat? Walk? Talk? might he have brooded?
Then - Eureka!  finally .
He pursed his lips and his tongue protruded -
a person can blow a raspberry.

Contemporary art

It has to be original;
the skill required is minimal;
avoiding jeers of mimicry
leaves only shallow gimmickry.

Elegy on an English allotment

The track beyond the gate leads to the sun
low in the sky now day is nearly done;
tall hedges either side harbour the birds
that cackle disapproval when disturbed;
bright clover heads' white horses fleck green seas
while trees, restless as waves, ripple the breeze.
A blackbird porpoises the viscous glare
with feathered fingers dipping, trailing air,
spreading behind invisible vortices
that swirl the few remaining bumble bees.
A lake of silence drowns the distant knolls
and flowers swim deep in scattered perfumed shoals.

The sinking sun inflames the anchored clouds
and I relax alone far from all crowds -
and yet not quite alone, one rabbit peers
between the bushes, still but taut with fears
of fox or weasel or that monster, Man,
and I try not to scare it if I can.
A little magic mouse, night's butterfly,
eddies the air with angular sallies by,
hunting the edge of these allotment plots
where moths seem unaware of what's
in store for them - a sudden end to life.
Will my end be as quick? I see my wife
below the slope where our house stands alone
empty of children now our birds have flown.
Our lives drift onward with momentum kept
from busier days and interests now all swept
away. What is there left in life for me
but her who's been my partner constantly ?
I haven't always treated her as well
as she deserved and she could surely tell
of pain unmerited caused by my flaws
which she for love of me kindly ignores.
The lingering summer light still drains away
and evening fears crawl out again to prey
upon a mind enfeebled by old age,
still mired in mediocrity, not sage
as honest effort and experience should
have made it and the young man thought they would.
A distant car crawls like a beetle by,
lights in the gloom aping a firefly
but sweating dirt and grating through its gears
to leave the twilight whistling in my ears.

June is so poignant, mid-summer eve like death;
evenings that last forever vanish like breath.

Now they begin, the funerals of friends.
Where previously one dutifully attends
a family wake with relatives unknown
to younger members, now those young have grown
to fill the coffins fashioned at their birth
regardless of success or moral worth.
Old friends begin to tread the narrow track
where all life's multitudinous paths lead back
to what they came from - time's oblivion
in dissolution not reunion.

The floating band of dusk wears like a charm
the burnished copper coin against night's harm.

I missed what life was all about and why.
What can I do worthwhile before I die ?
How can I fill, so late, a fading life
that never played a part in business strife,
that's nearly picked undone the Gordian knot
oF disentangling children from the plot
and long since willed itself against all chance
of aged infatuation to enhance
an otherwise dull life that lacked the drive
to status, power or fame (while still alive!)?

The Earth revolves some more; the stars soon vie
the absent sun, a flush upon the sky.

Too late for action, knowledge may suffice
but what's important is told in a trice:
things living die however long their day -
there is no shrine that sells eternal play;
and wealth does not ennoble but deprave
both those who have and those who only crave;
Man's vanity and pride are a disgrace -
love and compassion save the human race.
But turn your eyes away from human strife;
admire the impossible complexity of life.
Without such truths, trite as they are, to show,
knowing no more than when we came, we go.


The blushing pastel cheek of sky's delight
brushes the dark jowled face of  Earth goodnight.