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As pure as water from a stream,
as clear as a colour that stands out in a dream,
as resonant as a pin drop in a silent room,
as limitless as the stars that shine,
and sound like a vast orchestra playing in-tune.
As beautiful as a raindrop,
as light as a cloud,
as full of stories as a library or a book shop,
as numerous and varied as the faces of people in a crowd.
As peaceful as a gallery,
as blissful as a boat ride down a river,
as special as a single, beautiful, line of poetry,
as unpredictable as the weather.
As lightening as a joke,
as interesting as a mystery,
as surrounding as a blanket or a cloak,
as evolving and chaning as the life of a tree.
As complicated as a person,
as stimulating as a question,
as enrapturing as being in love and being loved by someone,
as revealing as an exhibition.
As perfect as a kiss,
as epic as a journey,
as precious as a wish,
as deep as a seed of self-discovery.
As strong as a parents bond,
as tender as a babies touch,
as diverse as the life that you may find in a pond,
as amazing as a gift given and one received
that will always mean so much.
As rich as the colours that can be seen under the sea,
as mystical as a sixth sense,
as heavenly as life on Earth can ever be.
As we live and experience things
that go beyond our limited understanding
we glimpse, even if it is for a fraction of a second
or within a brief flash of light,
life’s unparalleled, phenomenal, beautiful, perfect,
quintessence.
The man in the suit is always here,
and is always sitting on the same seat, at the same table-
I always see him typing on his laptop,
and is always quiet and smartly-dressed,
and is never disturbed, and I have never seen him ever
do anything to take notice or to make trouble.
The man in the suit is and has always been a mystery to me-
however, every time I come back here
I can always rely on him being here,
wearing his suit and tie, his shiny-shoes,
and his gold-coloured framed glasses,
and to always be where he is,
doing what he does, typing and engrossed in his computer screen,
and I am not sure if even he realises how long he himself
has been here, nor how many times he comes here,
nor what the time or the day is.
On the other hand, however, it is highly-possible,
and more likely, that the man in the suit
knows exactly what he is doing,
and he, like me, and like most people who come to Starbucks
all the time, he has a story to tell about himself
that I wouldn’t believe-
and I must admit I would give anything to ask the man in the suit
who he is and what he does,
but that is just because I love a question,
and I love a great story,
and I am in awe of someone with a secret
who keeps the rest of the world guessing-
like the best character or protagonist in any great
and compelling story does-
and in all honesty, no matter how much I would love
to know the man in the suit’s secret and who he is,
I would genuinely be happy to never know every thing,
even though knowing everything any way is impossible,
and I would remain happy just seeing him there
where he always sits in the corner by the window
doing his thing and keeping the mystery about him
that has always intrigued me alive and well.
I have only heard the man in the suit speak only once
in one conversation he was having on his red-covered mobile phone-
I remember him having an ‘educated-‘ ‘posh-‘ ‘intellectual-‘
sounding voice and accent, but unfortunately I do not recall
what his phone conversation was about-
but I think it had something to do with the sale of someone’s home.
There are places that I come back to regularly,
because I always feel at-ease here, and there,
inspired, at-peace, refreshed-
where I am even recognized as someone who genuinely loves
being where I am and coming back,
and to me that is the reward of any pursuit.
There are people who you see every day
who make you smile for many different reasons,
and I have to say that I always smile too
when I walk into Starbucks and I look around and I see
the man in the suit.
I asked a friend who I should write about next,
and they said that I should write about me-
and then I started to think about what people know about me,
what my friends know about me, what those who I have loved,
and who love and have loved me, know about me,
and what I know about myself,
that I haven’t told anyone else before
that still remains a mystery.
My family know the day I was born,
where I was born, and where I grew up;
my friends know where I went to school,
who my teachers were,
and who I was in my developing years;
my close friends know what I like, what I love;
my best friend knows what I am thinking about all the time,
and knows the road I walk every day,
and knows the direction I am going,
and knows what makes me smile, and what brings me to tears;
my muse, my love, the voice I hear all the time in my head,
the one I dream of every night, knows me better than anyone
and knows my heart’s desires, and is with me every second
of every day, and who wants everything to turn out for the best
for both of us, and is my inspiration, strength,
and my future, every step of the way.
I was born on the 21st of April, 1981,
on the maternity ward of a village called ‘Marston Green’.
I grew up and still live in a village called ‘Meriden’
in the Centre of England, and surrounded by the most beautiful
and inspiring scenery, fields, and forrests, I have ever seen.
I went to high school at ‘Heart of England’ school
in ‘Balsall Common’, where I first fell in love with English
and literature, and where I had my first crush
on a girl called ‘Helen’.
When I left school, like most of my friends
and like anyone of the age of 16, braving the undiscovered
and new horizons of an unknown and scary bi wide world,
I didn’t know what I wanted to do, nor who I wanted to be-
I had no definitive direction to go in but forward,
but where that would take me I did not know,
but I knew that only one person would be the only one
to give me what I needed and who would be the key-
and that person was me.
I could never have predicted what would happen in my life.
No one could ever have told me what I would see,
what I would feel, what I would write.
I could never have wished, or ever have guessed,
that I would have been truly blessed every day
by something, or someone, that was both my day
and my night light.
So, is there more to say about me?
Is there a secret that has yet to be uncovered
and admitted to the world?
Why of course there is!
But what that is, both you and I will have to wait and see.
This is the last page of the last chapter
of this edition of my book, before I begin a brand new chapter
of a brand new book, and on the first page I will begin
the first poem of the next chapter of my life
and my journey-
I already know that it will be filled with so much
of what and who is in my life now, and always will be;
but I also know that my new book will be full, infused,
inspired, interlaced, with new muses, and new musings,
new dreams, new experiences, that could only have been possible
because of everything that has always been and is constant,
and will never change-
but I know with complete certainty that what is to come
and what I am going to write about
will be about things beyond my imagining,
and, unlike this poem, wont be all about me.
A red pencil left on a counter.
A takeaway coffee cup with my name written on it
and written in red ink.
Coincidence? I think not!
A much needed intake of inspiration
and a sign for me that could not be more blatant,
nor more louder.
A question to ponder;
a truth to muse about;
a rhyme to write while I am enjoying my favourite drink.
It always amazes me and invigorates me
when I see things of meaning and clues of a great mystery-
and believe me, when I do look, I see a lot.
Every day is different.
Even when you come back to the same place
you have been countless times before,
you and it are always different-
as if the experience, the sound, the smell,
the air, the feeling, the taste,
but what never changes and only feels even more amazing every time
is the return of energy that you get back
for all the time and the currency of thought
and meditation that you have spent.
A heart beats to be heard.
A mind thinks to be stretched.
A voice speaks to be the outward expression
of a vastly deeper reality of what we see around us
than can ever be said completely, concisely, and clearly,
with any combination or any length of words.
An imagination formulates, constructs,
and imagines infinite worlds of wonder
than life, as beautiful, surprising, and random,
sometimes as it is could ever match.
I am seeing red.
This ‘red effect’ happens to me from time to time.
I start seeing this strong and vibrant of all the colours
worn by almost everyone and I see it for the first time
in and on things I look at all the time,
but for some reason I missed the red before-
like when you hear something said by someone
and you say to yourself: ‘Did I hear correctly?
Is that really what they said?’
Colours have meaning.
Colours show mood.
Colours are revealing.
Colours are an important clue.
Colour is something to take notice of.
Colour is deliberate.
Colour is something that can tell you what you need to know-
whether you are looking at or reading the patterns of the stars
that are always there- even when there is blue sky,
or cloud in the sky above.
Colour is more than colour.
And seeing red, for me-
coincidence? I think not!
I am a man of many secrets.
I am someone who has done things, heard things, seen things;
I know things that can’t ever be shown, admitted to, or said.
I am a man unlike anyone you may have met.
I am someone who has memories of places and times that happened,
but didn’t happen- about things and people that I can’t tell anyone,
but which I remember and relive every night
when I dream, when I am laying in bed.
People never say everything.
People have so much to say sometimes they end up saying nothing.
People find it hard to admit an unfiltered truth.
People will do anything to keep a secret
that could change the way people see them-
so much so that they will go to great lengths
to not make their secrets obvious,
and they try to not leave any questions behind them,
nor any sort of clues.
Many of the secrets that we keep are to protect something,
or someone that needs to be surrounded and enclosed,
because if knowledge of it became well-known
there may be ramifications and ripple-effects
that could follow you afterwards everywhere you go.
Everyone carries a secret with them every second of every day;
everyone has to live with a shadow hanging over them
that they only see when they look in the mirror,
and they feel the pressure of keeping their tongue at bay.
Most secrets are not Earth-shattering,
but they are reality and identity fracturing.
Most secrets are a thousand secrets in one,
but they become something you fit in the palm of your hand
when you are on the run.
People say that want to know every detail about something,
but that in itself is a secret,
because secretly, perhaps even to them,
it is the not knowing that keeps something interesting-
the more you know is not always the best.
Honesty may be a policy, but as a way of life complete honesty
can be hurtful, destructive, the worst thing for so many reasons.
It is only when we are told that we were being told what we wanted
do we wish we were still being lied to,
but most of the time we wish that what was said and heard
was the truth- but that is a gift that is like nature,
because nature doesn’t lie-
it is complicated, hard to fanthom at times,
and cannot ever be tamed, but you know where you stand with
and in nature, and it tells you and shows you
so many of its secrets every day of every season.
Secrets are like mysteries,
and a world without mystery
no one would choose to live in.
Secrets are a question and an answer,
and they keep life continuously interesting.
Secrets are what compel everyone to meet,
and to talk to someone they don’t know and have never met.
Secrets are important,
but choosing to not say all that you know
and what is on your mind can sometimes be hard,
even for a man of many hidden secrets.
Life is full of so many people
who want to tell you to do this, or do that;
life is full of stereotypes that strive to make you believe
that you should be one way, or another-
but those people only have the power
to influence you on the surface,
deep-down you don’t believe what they are saying
nor see what their mind tells them they are looking at.
The art of living is to never conform wholly
to how people want you to be-
leave a part of you as a mystery to be discovered,
wrap it tightly with your thoughts,
and only unveil it to your intended other.
There is a man who lives in a house on the hill,
there is a man who looks over on the village of his birth,
who comes down from his home from time to time
to be among other people, to buy a news paper,
and sometimes just to pay a bill.
People say that the man is a mystery,
people say that the man is a ghost,
people say that he lives on his own
because he is suffering from a broken heart that never mended,
people say that he doesn’t have an address-
no house name, no house number, no street name-
so you can’t contact him by post.
The man on the hill doesn’t have a name,
at least not one that is widely known,
the man on the hill can’t remember the last time
someone actually called him by his birth name-
he never says a word to anyone anymore,
no one even realizes that he is there.
People stopped ringing him years ago-
one day he decided that he had no need to be in contact with anyone,
so he disconnected his phone.
The man on the hill can be seen in the flesh,
if you are ever in the centre of England,
if you are ever in a park in Coventry
and you see a man sitting alone on a bench reading a book-
if you take the time to approach the man, to introduce yourself,
and to tell him that you’ve heard all about him,
he might raise his head, he might smile back at you,
but in his eyes you will see a very sad look.
The man on the hill walks everywhere.
The man on the hill goes out in the morning
and comes home at night,
full of new thoughts, old memories-
always seen in the same clothes, with the same haircut,
as if he has nothing else to wear.
The man on the hill used to know everyone,
and everyone used to know him-
beyond the legend that surrounds him,
beyond the shadow that he carries along with him.
The man on the hill’s story is a long, tragic, and sad tale-
a journey that came to a grinding halt one summer afternoon, long ago,
but where the man on the hill came from,
and how ended up becoming the man on the hill,
is complicated to explain, and even he would find it hard
knowing where to begin.
There is a man who lives on a hill
who once made a difference;
there is a man who lives on a hill
who thought he had the entire universe figured out,
until something happened to him that changed him forever-
and now the universe, to him, just doesn’t make any sense.
There is a man who lives on a hill,
who is waiting for the right person to come back into his life;
there is a man who lives on a hill,
who wants to simply remember what it is like to be alive.
There is a man who lives in a house, by himself,
who if you knocked on his door he would shower you with goodwill;
there is a man who just wants to be remembered,
who wants to dies happy again-
that man is the man on the hill.
On a moonlit night, dressed all in black,
a man walks the streets of his town,
reflecting on the night that has passed
and also on the realization that he cannot give back.
To taxi drivers, and early-morning passers-by,
he is like a ghost in the street lights;
and as he takes a step closer towards home,
it occurs to him that no one really knows him-
people think they do, but he is not the person
that some people believe they are capturing in their sights.
We can never truly know how we are seen by others,
nor what our emanating first-impression is-
all that the man knows is that tonight
he got a glimpse into a mirror that showed him
how people perceive him,
and he wonders if it is a recurring after-image
that when he is described everyone sees.
Maybe it is because, these days,
his words speak for him without him even opening his mouth-
he has found that actions, especially his own,
have spoken silent volumes about who people are-
and that fact he too thinks long and hard about.
Perhaps he is a closed-book
that periodically and uncontrollably
sometimes has their cover opened
and their pages turned by the winds of the world,
and if it were not for a book-mark here and there
nothing about him would be known or unfurled.
We are all a mystery to one-another,
sometimes even to our friends, and our families;
sometimes we are even a mystery to ourselves-
just because we live our lives
does not mean that we know everything about our lives;
sometimes things lie out of reach on perceptions highest shelves.
Song-writers and story-tellers have been singing about and describing
men and women in black for some time now,
but until last night and this morning
this Man in Black never understood who they were talking about
and he never thought that a person like that
would be a person like me.
He wonders if he will always be a Man in Black;
however, that is not for him to know,
that is not for him to see.
At the heart of the Pacific Ocean,
on an island removed and isolated from the outside world
the Moai statues of Easter Island-
standing tall, un-moving, carved in stone,
and even today their significance, their truth,
and their history is still being excavated, and unfurled-
still remain to be seen by all and marveled at
on this sacred ground from where they were sculptured,
that have stood for hundreds of years- each unique from the other-
embody the importance of lineage and ancestry,
and a story that can still be heard.
As they gaze inland
towards the direction to which the clan that first erected them once resided,
the islanders of Isla de Pascua
still today look in the direction of the great stone memorialized deities
that still watch over their island-
and even though they may not see them directly,
they can always picture them in their head.
I have always been fascinated by the moai statues-
how some once stood, were then topped, and were then risen again
to their rightful place;
I could never get enough of reading or hearing about
what they once meant to their people-
a constant reminder of a culture and face
that you cannot easily erase.
Remembering the past and retracing where we have all come from
is very important, and in doing so can teach you about yourself-
learning and discovering something about an ancestor of yours,
who was born somewhere far-away,
whose thoughts, actions, and decisions,
still live-on hereditarily and genetically in each one of us,
is as important to know as our own health.
I one day hope to be able to go somewhere,
find a monument to someone great, and discover-
like the Moai of Easter Island-
that this monument was carved for me to find, to see,
and to reconnect with a broken ancestry
that I can reforge, and call my own;
I hope one day to be able to hear the echoes of the past,
and see the light and the shadow of those who have passed, loud and clear-
and be reminded that although everything changes,
some things are forever set in stone.
The voice came out of nowhere,
and with it one word: “hello”.
We all sat staring at each-other,
perplexed by what we had just heard-
seemingly the voice of a ghost in the answer machine-
and then we all burst into laughter: my Dad, my Mum, my Sister, and Me.
Where the voice had come from and why, neither of us knew;
but the fact that we were all present at that exact moment
that the voice spoke out, we all knew was significant.
I half expected the voice to say “goodbye”
when my sister left the living room,
however it did not. Not that I was surprised.
I was intrigued, though. I still am.
It was a familiar voice-
a voice I have heard a hundred times by now;
however what, or who, it was that said “hello” to us
remains a mystery.
The Life, the Light, the Tears, of the Poet of the Sphere 