It's embarrassing to realise just how much I value beauty
when all the time I tell myself it's character that counts.
So when sometimes (amazingly) a woman really likes me
but I don't feel the same for her because she's rather plain,
I actually feel guilty that I ought to do my duty,
respond to her as best I can and hope affection mounts.
The un-lovely are not unloving and shouldn't be unloveable.

Bad dreams

The early hours waiting dawn
exercise powers of memory drawn
from all the years of pallid places,
buried fears and nameless faces,
faceless names, embarrassments,
mistaken blames and harrassments.

Sleeping awake and sinking diwn
in some deep lake where reasons drown,
a mental soup of random scraps
whose every scoop some morsel traps
which, thought they differ, taste the same -
the too familiar flavour: shame.

The satisfaction of the day
in dream reaction leaks away;
what seemed so clever now looks wrong
and weakness ever downs the strong;
now watchers jeer my consternation
and constant fear: humiliation.

The day's events and people met,
the varied scents from soap to sweat,
the scenes imprinted, God knows why,
albeit tinted, past the eye
are disassembled, pulled apart.
and then re-modelled into art -

a work of gaffes and slights and snubs,
of hooting caffs and hostile pubs,
deceits uncovered, lies revealed,
old blunders suffered still unhealed,
incompetence idealised,
inadequacies realised.

Youthful confusion re-appears,
doubt and delusion, sexual fears,
exam room panic, her rebuff
although loved manically enough -
then at a stroke, the morning chime
turns all to smoke - until next time.

I hereby appoint you as my judge
and charge you weigh me in the balance.
The reason is you must not bear a grudge
against me for my foolish dalliance.
You could not call me thief or fraud -
I've stolen nothing, only wanted to;
deception I have kept for other folk
and nothing that I've told you is untrue.
One crime however I confess I meant
but that is only loitering with intent.

Another overland trip

Shipwrecked from normal life, afraid to sink, we float
a surging sea of foreign-ness in a lifeboat
of overlanding truck provisioned with alcohol,
protected from the press of people critical.
Embarking alone shows courage past mere posturing;
adventurous self-image now needs bolstering
by tales of previous travels, funny anecdotes,
with all in harmony and no discordant notes.
'Don't rock the boat' becomes the order of the day
when saying something matters more than what we say:
as long as you don't disagree or question things,
we can enjoy the comfort group acceptance brings.
Now every comment ends with prompting laughter
and jokes echo around the group for minutes after;
each adds another verbal pebble to the pile
then basks in mutual admiration with a smile.
For some it's an extension of the mating game
not played too well at home perhaps but all the same
upgraded to an international event -
results unknown but definitely overspent.
For many it's adventurous to leave their work
so even necessary chores are cool to shirk.
For most the famous tourist sites are only seen
through eyes obscured by cataracts of what has been
absorbed through years of travel documentaries
and writers' hype about romance and mysteries
of foreign travel. So we cannot separate
the sights we see from our expectancy and rate
'fantastic' what we think we see, quite unaware
it's just excitement at the fact of being there.

Menial chores are necessary
to satiate our time
and also temporarily
anaesthetise our minds,

a way of occupying hands
while letting our brains rest
from mulling over everyday plans
and so become de-stressed.

Alternatively, when we're bored
with nothing much to do,
it's better to be slightly  chored
than just boil up a brew.

There is some satisfaction in
completing little tasks
and it also lets us answer something
when somebody asks

"So what have you done today then?"
But there is a problem lurking:
clearly we do things the best we can
to minimise our working

although there may be better yet
which we just haven't found.
Repetition creates habit
and we can end up bound

to do things in the same old way
that we think is the best,
regardless of alternatives
that others might suggest.

Habits can turn into rituals,
demanding strict observance,
where we cease being masters of them
and just become their servants,

angered if we're asked to alter
the way we run our lives,
unable to effect a change in
our fixed emotional drives.

We live in a world of changing ideas
where new technology reigns
and we need to be able to throw away
outdated mental chains.

We need to remain adaptable
since dogmatism's rife,
remaining open to innovation
in all aspects of life.

Persepolis

Among the scrub of hills enstoned with Persian script
the slender elegant poplars stand
with sapling spruce like fine paintbrushes taper tipped
in re-afforestation land.

The scoured background mountains chiselled in bas-relief
anticipate Persepolis
as lines behind each proud though subjugated chief
engraved within the edifice.

Where lions savage horses distant emperors
and local kings queued patiently
to give their tribute to the greatest conquerors
thus far in ancient history.

The murals catalogue the diverse styles of dress,
the beards in curls and ringlet hair,
Persian pyjamas giving trousers to the West,
Asian variety to spare.

But past the stark simplicity of Cyrus' tomb,
in outlook though not miles or years,
inheritance of power and riches presaged doom
when decadence met foreign spears.

The rock-built platform of Achaemenian fame
weighed down with monumental pride
was shaken when the upstart European came
and made the East and West collide.

Yet Alexander and Darius thought the same
in many ways: men could be gods
until a later militant religion came
with anti-immorality squads.

Now a reminder of a freer grander age,
the palace where those legends strode
stands an anathema to Islam's soldier-sage;
yet golden eagles scan the road.

The Philosophy of Identity

Somehow I used the word 'person'
which he seemed not to understand
so I tried to explain with examples
but it didn't go quite as planned.

We both agreed that his mummy
was a person and daddy too
but certainly not his sister's dummy,
his train or his toy kangaroo.

And as for himself, was he one?
He didn't seem any too sure.
Well, what could he do that his toys just couldn't?
He sat and pondered some more.

Eat? Walk? Talk? might he have brooded?
Then - Eureka!  finally .
He pursed his lips and his tongue protruded -
a person can blow a raspberry.