Tried to trip me up; tie me up in knots.
Questioning framed to elicit my guilt.
Attempts to incriminate; there were lots.
Reputational damage to the hilt.

Only conceded because was required,
and on advice, that would be easier.
Already outcome forced that undesired.
Thought, get over worst with amnesia.

But do remember the inquisition,
including the re-writing of answers,
and interpretations of position.
Thereby, ‘guilty party’, I was cast as.

Fell from grace, but I did not fall over.
Untied myself enough to recover.


Understanding, or not, be much the same.
This multi-celled organism, complex.
Its multi-functioning linked to the brain.
Capable of more than one would expect.

Body, incredible biology.
Organs all essential, and blood pumping.
Skeleton, with skin and face that can see.
Curable, when illness interrupting.

Whilst alive, keep at bay the bad microbes
and bacteria which wants to eat us.
Deals with whatever it is that corrodes.
Surviving the whole time until we bust.

I am in it. I am it. It is me,
this complicated carbon entity.


Me, I’m phenomenally literate.
I can put my words in the right order.
Well, the odd misphrasing, if accurate,
creeps in, but there is not much disorder.

I have successfully used this language,
manipulating it to good effect.
My brain, tongue and pen, all on its bandwidth,
and have broadcast more than I would expect.

‘About me in four lines’, was asked to write.
Said, ‘You must be joking.’ ‘I demand more’.
(Two lines, there, joined. First, hiding in plain sight.)
‘Or I’ll be revolting.’ There, that makes four.

Phenomenal, then, in that prolific.
But clever, too? Not always specific.


Ritual is not important to me.
Do not think it virtuous in itself.
Psychological effect, probably,
on its adherents, for their mental health.

Its closest relation, though, is Routine.
And that is common. Is the expected.
All utilise that, even if extreme.
Living patterns which are self-directed.

Routines can become ritualistic.
Rituals lose meaning, become routine.
If do not do, or not do all, miss it
Rhythm disrupted, will be what it seem.

Time-consuming, but both mostly harmless.
Just check routinely, in own interest.


‘The unexamined life’, said Socrates,
‘is not worth living’. Consider yourself
and what you are doing, great Greek’s message.
Chance to use it to good effect, or else

frittered away inconsequentially.
Perhaps on multiple banalities.
Or aggressive acts, intentionally,
that deserve the term ‘inhumanities’.

Just a check, then, now and again, to see
if happy with the way it is going.
If can say what am doing is worthy.
If, what I am on about, I’m knowing.

‘I don’t pretend to know what I don’t know’,
too, said. But before dead, who you are, show.


A shame about the violence of his.
He might have been a suitable husband.
In other ways, he knows the way to please.
But nastiness and temper out of hand.

Advice to her is to escape if can.
Not be embroiled with such a character.
Be better off if free or some new man
Abusive behaviour a barrier.

It’s still underrated if domestic.
The woman seen as contributory.
Most often that is wrong and simplistic.
An attitude discriminatory.

Because there’s wounds and death, to large extent.
If he is like so, then, for you not meant.


To be with the liquid gold of the sun,
the aim that she expressed in her poem.
Glorious aspiration to become,
but what, and how, not yet really knowing.

The path to take … which one? …, so confusing.
And imagine where am, treading treacle.
But still have options, and time, for choosing.
May even recognise a miracle.

I recall from a therapy session,
saying limits I felt, like prison bars.
Was told, ‘are, but your mind can extend them’.
Maybe extend so far that can touch stars.

The sun, or whatever encountering,
a fountain of gurgling water spouting.


Murmuration of words around my head.
Yes, I did say ‘words’. You may have thought ‘birds’.
It perhaps startling to some, what I said.
It’s with starlings, murmuration occurs.

But a metaphor, the black dots like ink.
Swirling around in co-ordination.
To form in language form, showing as think.
Seems cursive, their flying oscillation.

If not joined up, likely desolation.
It’s intuitive communication
to have access to the murmuration.,
so can join-in with the conversation.

My poetic thanks to my feathered friends.
Words like this are means to meeting my ends.


He speaks to me. He even speaks for me.
His voice speaking out in my poetry.
An alter-ego, it would seem to be.
Lot to say, and does so impressively.

The speaker is not a ventriloquist.
I am not the dummy being talked through.
Expresses thoughts that, otherwise, be missed.
Mostly coherent, if give him his due.

And I get to hear what he has to say.
I jot it down and then read it after.
It seems to rhyme, at least on a good day.
As self-made poems, not a disaster.

Who’s speaking now? Who’s making sense of this?
“You”, he tells me, “but you know I exist”.