Creative Coping


Fatal Reflection

Round and round it swings

With centrifucal force,

The cycle of pain and self torment, the

Frustration of procrastination

Why not do it today?

Cant! Wont?

Loud the pound, Narcissus

Streaming round the brain,

Pumping full the eardrums

With the sound of sheer

Doom

Boom, it goes, again.

 

Forget the sun, what

You had won through

Ernest Toil.

The boil on your leg is the

Clumsy spy, whose

Yellow fuss gives away

Conspiracies beneath;

Self sabotage.



Poetry in a cafe called Coffee@Bricklane shortly before closing time

 

Sweeping round my feet, no ceremony.

Customer-centric ? What?-

Too close to closing time.

Anyway, this tables’s mine for now,

And on its pink lino I’ll rest

THis little black book,

And a tweed elbow

Like so many others, hordes, in fact,

Vintage with Youth.

 

I’m here now writing, instead

of Yoga or eating, to stop time

And take stock.

Of what? Of myself, of course-

Narcissism or self-awareness I can’t

Tell, self-indulgence, perhaps.

 

‘Soup of the Day was three pounds ten.

Why ten, what’s in it for them?!

Three pound is round.

Rhyming won’t get me anywhere.

 

One day I hope to be above all this.

Taller trees generally have deeper roots to

Counteract the blast of the wind.

 

Blast this music! Always the same

Here at Coffee@, NOISE,

Racket designed to be heard,

No need to listen.

 

Why have I come here

To get myself in tune – all this din.

Well, if I can’t tune here I can’t tune anywhere..

 

Thats it! Back to Kipling,

‘If you can keep your head when

All around are losing theirs

And blaming it on you..’

 

Yes. I’ll keep my wretched head and

Forget regret and neglect

The errors of a self

Lost, waiting for a way out

Not picking up Ariadnes’s

Guiding thread.