The Verb "To Be"

The verb to be we over use,
We claim to "be" and then confuse,
The things we do with who we are.
We mean it not as metaphor
And thus reduce ourselves. Refuse
To pigeon hole.  "To be" imbues
Significance, we change our views
Of who we are, so don't misuse
The verb to be.
We're complexity which argues
Caution, not summation, choose
Wisely, speak of that which you prefer,
Use do or have. Better by far
To be precise than to abuse
The verb to be.

The verb to be just gives Carte Blanche
To others to fill with prejudice,
With their idea of what it means
To be the thing you've said you are.

Hormones

The funny, happy woman who yesterday
inhabited this space, known as me,
has disappeared, cleared off, gone away
and left behind this tired wreck; the sea
of chemicals which has its high spring tides,
washes clean my eccentricity,
leaves me boring, dull on the inside.
And misery is muse.  Creativity
does not depend on happiness, but still,
humour makes a pleasant change; monotony
of mood does not help insight and the will
to see things clearly under a monopoly
of cloud is hampered. And yet "Be gone dull care",
you're only hormones, not despair!

Tescos Finest Flowers

Amazing colour, form and shape,
Chosen each one for the sake
Of complimenting him adjacent,
A subtle blend of pinks and reds,
But no scent.
Rising over roses heads,
Lilies trumpets cream-white, perfect,
Dusted lightly with dried mustard,
The anthers on each filament
Glow their crude advertisement:
But no scent.

A Crow in the Ouse

This morning down beside the Ouse
I watched, as in the silt and mud,
which shows in stretches ridged and grey
when gravity sucks tide away,
a crow taking his morning bath,
as tentative as any girl,
dipping in his lower half,
ruffling up his shivering quills,
daring himself to greater depth,
splashing the shimmering cold
to his skin, egged on to greater
daring and thrills,
by his friend on the path
and a crowd of gulls.
and when he was done
he just went his way,
and his friends stood about
with nothing to say.
And I walked on,
thinking I'd seen
an insignificant incident,
a fleeting moment of morning routine,
like my own by the river,
each day with the dog.
Yet I've never seen it happen before,
and might live to grow old
ere it happens again.
And our lives are like this,
though we seek profundity,
clarity through metaphor,
yet there's something to learn
from dull old simplicity,
witnessing things as they really are,
enjoying a thing for the sake of itself,
not always trying to understand more.

Just a Load of Sweaty Kids

I'm like sitting in the armchair by the fire,
when my daughter strolled in, I'm like "Hiya!"
She'd been singing at Huddersfield Town Hall
I'm like " Celia, how was the other choir?"
I'm like " Were they as good as SCJC?"
But she just stood there looking vague and I could see
that she just didn't care at all,
I'm like, "Celia, how was the other choir?"
She's like Veronica Lake meets Garbo
channeling cool with a kind of retro
and then she turns to me
and she's like
"They were just a load of sweaty kids,
just a load of sweaty kids,"
I'm like "Celia!"
I'm like "in this context what does sweaty mean?"
hoping it wasn't something vaguely obscene,
she's like "Its like, kids that try hard,
just a load of sweaty kids,"
I'm like, "Did they sing in tune?
Did they have charisma?"
She's like, "No, and they had really bad posture"
I'm like, "What did  they sing, was it owt good?"
She's like "No, I thought I told you,
I thought you understood:
they were just a load of sweaty kids.

Bingo and I Listen to Alex Writing a Fugue.

The cat and I upon the sofa,
Lying where the sunlight warms us,
Underneath the oil lamp pendant,
Where the crystal rainbows glisten,
Stretching out our limbs above us,
Mine on cushions, elevated,
His on mine, in faded denim,
Purring with his claws retracted,
Black and white and blue and beige,
Keeping still and trying to listen,
To a fugal composition,
Emerging quietly from the piano,
Noted down upon a page
Of manuscript quite artificial,
Existing on a laptop screen,
And sometimes playing back
Notation, accurate,
Though sounding less serene
Than when each phrase was first created
By the mind of a musician
In control of two hands.

Different Sorts of Water:

The spiral twist, a corkscrew curl
Of cloud, sucked up the sky,
A steamy, smoky slate-blue snake,
Before a wash of creamy, flake-white streaks,
A shimmering, droplet, glistening twinkle
Of starry wetness in the bristling grass,
A wide, curved sweep of tidal churning
Waves of grey and silver rushing
Ever in land, while the air,
Retains its tenuous, vaporous hold
On a myriad, microscopic globules.