Not Alone

You’re not alone.
You’re not alone in feeling this way.
You’re not alone in wanting to continue to feel this way.
You’re not alone in needing to find a way out of feeling this way.
You’re not alone in this world of many multiples of kind souls.
You’re not alone when you need help from someone.
You’re not alone at any time of the day or night.
You’re not alone when you need a lift.
You’re not alone at this time.
You’re not alone ever.
You’re not alone.
How can I help?

(inspired by Alyazya (sorry if i intrude))

Explaining 512

A few days ago I wrote a post called Ah Low Yew, and no-one understood it. Now, in an unprecedented move in the poetical prose world, I’m going to explain what it means. Yeah, I know – wild, yes?

First of all, I’ll re-post the piece here (in a slightly different form) so that i can unpack it for you:

  1. Seven sentences to say what I mean when one would do.
  2. Six places to place those pretty words.
  3. Five locations leaning towards verbosity.
  4. Four stacks of snacks that mean I’m eating my words out.
  5. Three syllables said so seldom but say so much.
  6. Two words leaves me one short.
  7. Only one left so let’s make it count (and rhyme) now: 512.

   Okay, so I’ve numbered the sentences one to seven just so that you can see that the first sentence is true (I would have numbered them seven to one, but WordPress doesn’t do that (yet)). So anyway, I tell you that I’m going to take seven sentences, but that I could have accomplished the task in one. So why didn’t I use one? Heck if I know! Perhaps I just wanted to be different. Perhaps I wanted to introduce some tension?

In sentence two I reveal to you that my message is a pretty one in that it uses words that people find attractive. So you know it’s a good message to hear. And I say that I have six places left in which to place my message. I had seven but I squandered one and now I’ve squandered another so I’m also saying that I’m a wastrel or a procrastinator. On another note, by prefixing (prefacing?) each sentence with a number I’m being… hmm, not quite poetic, but something like that. Actually it’s not poetry at all, it’s just structure, and (as you probably know) not all poems have that.

Third sentence and I introduce verbosity, which is a word that indicates the quality of gabbing and blabbing at length. In effect, I have just stated one of my intentions: I’m going to use an immoderate amount of words in the remaining five sentences. With me so far? I thought so. It occurs to me that you understood everything I’ve explained to you so far already and that it’s just the title and the last sentence that you don’t get. Well, patience, my friend – you don’t get cake without waiting for the oven to finish. Unless, of course, you go to the shops. But don’t do that – apparently there’s a plague out there – eek!

The fourth sentence is interesting because it introduces the phrase ‘eating my words out’. This is both a clue to the ultimate message of this piece and, cleverly, an assertion that I am using my words up (I’m eating them (up) and so they are lessening in quantity. The aforementioned clue is that ‘eating my words out’ is similar to the common phrase ‘eating your heart out’. A heart is not just a muscle that pumps blood but it is also said to be the home of emotion (and one emotion in particular). Getting my drift now? Oh, and the four stacks of snacks are the four collections of words (commonly called sentences) that remain for me to eat (including the current one).

The three syllables that I refer to in the fifth sentence are a futher clue to the ultimate message I’m conveying here. This message has three syllables and it is, in my opinion, not expressed as often as it should be. And yet it can say and mean so much to the person it is expressed to, not to mention the person who says it! Put this together with the oblique reference to the muscular pump in the last sentence and surely you’ve got it, by Jove!

The penultimate sentence gives a further clue to the message. Not just three syllables but three (two leaves me one short? (2+1=3?)) words. Three (little (they each have one syllable) words. C’mon!

The last sentence says (well, duh!) that I only have one sentence left to say my piece (so I’d best make it count (and for counting you need what? Well I’ll come to that in a bit)). Even though I don’t have much time (or words) left I’m not going to give my message (or heart) away so easily. So I give you one last puzzle. And it’s (as I said a moment ago) a number puzzle. And, to give you yet another clue, it rhymes! So, the number rhymes (almost (it’s the closest I couldn’t get)) with the message! The numbers are 512 and they rhyme with (and have the same cadence as (and the same sentence structure as) three little words relating to the heart. And if that wasn’t enough for you (clue-w]se) then look at the title of this piece: Ah Low Yew. Say it slowly. Slur it a little. Take liberties with it. Play with it as if you were drunk whilst saying it (as many people often are) and you get there. But if you still need yet another clue, look in the tags for the original post (you’ll have to click on the link at the top of this piece). It’s spelled out there clearly and distinctly.

What! You still don’t get it? The message is that I LOvE yoU, you idiot!!

The Same Difference

Is it worth bothering? I mean, loads of people are producing new and lovely combinations of words so why should I add to them. And if I do, do I go down the main stream or do I dig a new river? And yeah, I know that I’ll feel different about it all tomorrow so there’s little point in ‘deciding’ anything now.

I’m a ghoster, though.
That’s my problem.
I ghost.
I go.

Ah Low Yew

Seven sentences to say what I mean when one would do. Six places to place those pretty words. Five locations leaning towards verbosity. Four stacks of snacks that mean I’m eating my words out. Three syllables said so seldom but say so much. Two words leaves me one short. Only one left so let’s make it count (and rhyme) now: 512.

Yeah, no, I wouldn’t have gotten it neither.

Over Communication

Do you belong here?
Is there a space?
One you can call your own?
Where you can breathe,
And lay your things out,
Any way you want?

My heart wants.
My hands reach out.
My space,
My place.
But you’re there already.
So I let you be.

And yes,
It’s ridiculous
To feel like this.
To see my home from the outside.
Through the eyes of a stranger.
A stranger that’s me.

My slippers sit there,
On the cold boards,
Worn by my steps.
Indisputably mine?
Of course.

But then a voice echoes from a far gone year:
‘Take them if you’ll use them.
Leave them if you won’t.”

I took them.
And I use them.
But why?
For me?
Or because I was told to,
By that quibbling voice.
From back at the start.
Where they began.
And I began.
And you.

We need
To start

And again
One more time.

Then again again.

Until we get it right.


Just for Nothing

What did you take there?

Why’d you take that?

Just for nothing.

And they don’t like the smell.
They think that lower castes have a smell
And they don’t want them in their kitchens.
Terrible isn’t it.
Why are they like that?
Why do they do that?

Just for nothing.

And a silence develops that’s only punctuated by the tapping of digits on glass, because this is what we do for entertainment. This is where we are now. Millions of years of evolution or a fall from the golden age; it comes to the same thing: tap, tap, tapperty tap. And for what?
Just for nothing.


When you’re not connected
You have very few words
In which to make your

The sky goes on and on until you get to outer space.
The world is round and you can come up behind yourself.
The oceans are pretty big too.
But you are small.

We can connect.
We can join together.
The whole is much greater
Than one alone.

The internet
Is not the only way
To connect.

Except for us.

Even for us.

Balcony Scene

I cried for the death of those tiny things and the mask you wore over the pain you poured into their last flight.
Smashed on the stones beneath your window. Symbols of the love you wanted to give but didn’t know how to.
Your innocence teased from your grasp before you knew what you had held. Trust given and then stolen over and over until you had none left save this.
I still weep silently over the grave of those tiny things. Even though your hands did not find them honestly they flew towards me on the best blooded wings you could make.
I watched them fall. I let them die. They didn’t slip from my hands. There was no desperate grip. I just watched them flutter once. And die. And then I looked up into your heart. And mine died too.

But for Rainbows

On reflection, maybe it is too cold to venture out into the early morning light of a September morning in the north of England wearing nothing but t-shirt to cover my upper body. My rakhi will probably not protect me from the cold.

And the drips from above, dropping onto my goose-pimpled arms, are probably drops of rain; harbingers of the coming storm, rather than tears from the trees arching above me, whose wooden hearts will never ache for summer’s return.

And those apples may seem firm and juicy from this distance; ripe for my eyes, my hands, my teeth and my mind to to gather in. And they may fall to the grass. They may get bruised. They may lie there, untaken. They may never feel the touch of man. They may rot and dissolve into the ground, unloved.

The rain has come. The storm has broken. The trees surrender, in their naked majesty, to the sky. The apples are lying hidden in the long grass. Nature succumbs to itself. And this t-shirt is going to get really wet.

And just like that; as I accept it all; the rain stops. 🌈