Perspective

It is strange
How with so few
Different variations,
The whole Earth
Can shift around
And face you from
Yet one more direction.

As, when the sun is on your skin
You remember the cold as only thought
As if it had never really happened in any reality
But your own.

I have taken the same walk
– Step for step –
Three months apart,
And the only similarity was me.
And even I was only just.

It is a journey we are on; these lives of ours,
Each step along the paved and wild ways
Are more than enough proof
For any man, woman
Or child (who is older than their years).

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Busi-ness

It is easy when you look at me to see a busy man
But the truth lies in between the constant flow
Of a non-stop calendar.
As a man distracted does not feel the pitfalls over which he stumbles.
As it is you who helps me find my feet
And let the circulation flow again
I can breathe and sigh and love
As we match each other’s steps
In the soft white sands of time.

You make me the man I am

I am not half the man
I am
Without you by my side.

Every moment’s echo is thrice-trebled
With the resounding knowledge
That when we bask in the warmth
Of each other’s loving presence
Every single passing second
Is a second shared
And a second cherished.

It has been a while since my aching heart
Has held your head in my hands;
Stroked your hair
And felt the gaze of your almond eyes,
But it is tonight we reunite
And I become Thrice-trebled the man I am right now once more.

Melody on Repeat

It is the rhythm of my feet
That I hear as the rubber cracks on the pavement
Breaths hit the second note
Of the 4/3 beat.

The train throws in a high pitch squeak
As the commuters listen for the time to their beat
Clack their shoes to the low bass tone
Of the conductor hanging on the microphone

As each wheel then hits the ground
The sound of snoring adds to the sound
The percussion of the rushing right off the train
And the sound of people’s shoes go just the same
As they step out the station into the light
Over the bridge and out of sight.

The buses then purr to the ring of the bikes
The men then grunt as they shield their eyes
From the smog and the soot of the drivers-by.

The keyboards tap, the phones ring
The people stir, the salesmen sing.
The beat doesn’t stop as the cup of teas chink
The brains whir while the strategists think.

After work drinks while people rest,
Now time for home where they face the biggest test.
Nighttime falls, dinner eaten,
Arguments had and chairs to fall asleep in.

Time for bed while feeling defeated
Reset the alarm for the beat to be repeated.

A place to call our own

It has been a year since we set foot
In our humble abode
And we were brave enough to call a place
Our own.

And it is our place
For us to know and love.
Our first apartment
To revisit on some future date
When my wrinkles have
Been set, and moulded.

We’ve done our chores
And made our bed,
Watched countless episodes
And always come back to a loving home.

Yes, the shower goes cold after several minutes
And the washing machine door sometimes doesn’t open,
But not a day goes by when
I am not grateful to our younger selves
For finding a place
To call our own.

Redundancy

I used to play

To joke

To smile at jokes that someone once made.

I had a dry sense of humour

And I had many friends in the people I met in my day-to-day.

 

But once my cap and gown were safely packed away

And the next step in life was heading my way

I soon had to face the harsh light of reality

As wages had to be earned,

Egos had to be tolerated

And agendas – both known and unknown –

Pushed me through the plasticine mould that it saw fit for me.

 

And while I worked away, thinking

With only my aspirations, goals and dreams in minds

My voice was shrinking

My chest was tightening

And time was running out.

 

But my goal was there

And I knew what I had to do,

Or so I thought

As the days grew longer

And I grew ever critical of the smallest mistake

That no one would notice but me

And maybe my boss.

 

But my goal was still there, though ever smaller and dragging me on,

As I travelled upstream, seeking that final respite.

 

I was called into the board room shortly after 12.

I could see the sincerity in their faces,

I was just finishing a project.

 

As surreal as it was, I just remember exhaling.

I was free to explore at last.

My work, my life I could have it all back

No more toxic environment and endless tasks.

 

I could breathe. And most importantly, with my head held high.

 

I was made redundant at the beginning of March and have since worked hard to regain everything that gave colour to my life. I am now fully employed again, in an environment that I can live in. I have my weekends back, I am learning so many new skills and have learnt so many life lessons. This empty time on my blog has been the most important of my life and I hope to rekindle my passion for my writing and my connection with the blogosphere.
Happy Writing!

Death’s Stare

When I look forward

I see the eyes of death pierce down

The narrowing stretch between I and he;

His mouth drooling as the scent of my anxiety

Touches his foul nostrils.

 

I am paralyzed with the eternal presence of his stare:

Where is the meaning if all we can do is wait?

But as I look down, the skull is not yet in my hands,

And my breath is still firmly in my lungs.

 

As the intensity grows too infinite,

I turn, using all the reason in my body

And face the fertile past:

My birth, my victories and my losses.

I smile,

As the hearth of my heart

Rekindles once more with the warmth of life.

 

I know, Death’s stare will never be the same again.

Radio News

As Sense: A collection of short stories has been out for 24 days now, I have some very exciting news. I had a radio interview (recorded on Thursday) and it has now aired. For the next seven days only the link can be listened to here:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p01dy030/Peter_Holmes_24_08_2013/

(You’ll have to skip to 50 mins approx.)

If you are interested in the collection it can be found and purchased here. I’d love to hear what you think!