A cat has taken up residence in our garden. They didn’t ask, they simply chose their spot and stayed without a please or by your leave. Each day they laid there as still as the ground below, until yesterday, when they saw a squirrel. Transformed, they moved by quantum mechanics from here to there seemingly in one instantaneous blurry blip, Schrödinger’s cat on ‘speed’. Luckily, for every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction, and Newton squirreled the squirrel away.
I think we’ve been adopted. I don’t know if it’s a stray or domestic cat that’s simply taken a liking to our garden, but it’s certainly staked it’s claim. (20.09.24)
I only know it’s me because it says so, scribbled in blue biro in the corner; a photo of a cardboard box with legs: my legs, toddler legs, and shorts full of nappy. Above the words ‘Solidev Ltd’, my eyes and fingers peek through a crudely cut hole.
You tower over the top of the box, white shirt, back buckled, a Seventies moustache upon your lip, holding the box in place. My eyes are laughing. Yours? They’re full of concentration as you guide me across our manicured lawn towards the camera, making sure I do not trip.
Later, those same hands propelled me as I learned to ride, a love that now unites us. The bike was secondhand but you repainted it, made it new for me, and set me on my way. Turning, your hands have gone, I’ve been released: holding and letting go is a father’s task.
Next they’re teacher’s hands, hoiking children from a writhing mass of bodies, only to find me at the bottom. Your turn perhaps to want to hide in a box? Alas there’s none, unlike that time you proved you could do a headstand inside one’s fragile walls – don’t try that now!
Next time hands and boxes mix, I’m married. We’re on the move and you’ve kindly hired a van and driven down to help us. I know how much that stressed you out and yet you came regardless. We work all day, the two of us, shifting in silent concentration until it’s done.
Soon, another photo. No boxes now but four generations: Grandad, Dad, myself, my son. Like a flickerbook we move through time as eyes are traced across the image from left to right, and now we smile just like our fathers’ captured faces did back then.
Dad’s birthday’s coming up and it’s got me reflecting on our past and some of its memorable snapshots. (19.09.24)
Conflicted. A time to speak and a time to be silent, a saying that says two ears, one mouth demands twice as much listening as talk.
My grandad joked the secret of a happy marriage lay in two words not three. They were ‘yes, dear’. We laughed.
This compliant child tends to silence. Perhaps a cuckoo supplanted virtue with the instinctive desire for an easy life.
To speak too fast can barricade, prevent the chance of conversation, asserting mine is the only view.
But staying silent’s a game of hide and seek, denying the other from seeing within and closing the door on their face.
More seriously some words are weapons a battering ram to be raised in protest against words designed to divide us.
So how can I tell when is it best to take my stand or hold my hand across my mouth to keep these thoughts within? Conflicted.
Someone asked me today if I found it hard to share my opinions because of my job. Perhaps, but there’s also a dash of simply being quiet with an aversion for conflict. (18.09.24)
A wall of circles trace eternity. In contrast, a wooden hat-stand speaks of home. This is a strange yet familiar place whose walls encompass everyone who dares to enter. Somehow, in here, there’s room for all regardless of where or when they come from, what their tribe – it’s bigger on the inside than the out. Nearby, a central pillar oscillates in hopeful motion, gently rising and sinking. We wait, prepared for imminent transportation. At last lights dim, our childhood theme begins, and years begin to peel… dee dum de dum, dee dum de dum, dee dum de dum, ooh wee ooh….
Tonight I experienced the delight of attending the live reading/recording of Big Finish’s ‘The Stuff of Legend’ in celebration of their 25th anniversary. What a treat it was! If you’ve not heard a dalek doing a sound-check, you haven’t lived!
The early morning sun rises at we do, shivers then casts its rays upon our windows, revealing in their panes the evidence of life that has pressed itself against their glass. These traces sparkle under its caress, lit up in brilliant white to make us blush. A delicate weave with downward threads outlined like the curving paths of stars in timelapse captured. A smear from Reynard’s tail when jumping the fence. Paw marks made by a mad squirrel seeing a rival in his face reflected there. The outline of a feathered angel captured transfigured in a momentary pose. These illuminated memories shine but briefly; all too soon the spell has passed.
I should be embarrassed by state of our windows, but when the autumn sun shines on them, something beautiful is revealed.(UPDATE: A few have asked me who the Reynard is that appears in a few of my poems. He’s a trickster fox from stories starting in mediaeval times. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reynard_the_Fox) (13.09.24)
It’s not enough to take our jobs, And skulk upon our streets in mobs Be housed in what were once our flats, Apparently they’re eating cats
They come here for an easy ride An onslaught that’s a rising tide And swarming like a cloud of gnats Apparently they’re eating cats
Their aim is to corrupt our children Destroy all our fathers built us And now we find on top of that Apparently they’re eating cats
This is the heart of Donald’s moaning To tell the truth it’s all baloney Like much he says it’s made up, phoney, So laugh with Kamala when Trump claims that The immigrants are all eating cats
Trump’s absurd one-liner in last night’s presidential debate just had to be turned into rhyme… (11.09.24)
Ode for the Day 
