Psychodography

Category: Poems

  • Trails of Tiny Bones

    A small tin coffin rests in my pocket
    as I drag a frail cart of baggage to the car
    we don't have much time remaining here
    in this curious copse of growth and grind

    Shall I do it like in The Shawshank Redemption
    surreptitious sprinkling of dust with each step
    but an amount equivalent to only one foot
    or an ear perhaps, or maybe half a tail

    Should I promptly plop it into the soggy fire pit
    how long do I have to cradle it in my palm first
    without this ritual being disturbed, interrupted,
    and what on earth is the right way to do this anyway

    I could ask the weary wood pigeons
    who awoke so early, helplessly moaning, 
    or I might just empty the tin into a badger set
    endless options, like the duties of parenthood

    How is it that the choices and tasks, which follow
    our pivotal 'big bang' events of life and death
    can become quite so separating and hollow
    these chores, chiseling away at our castle walls

    I try to grab gravity by the hand and it recoils
    thus, if I slowly dip my parted fingers 
    into the fluvial flow and flux of existence 
    would that nourish the watery portals within

    Travelling inward can sometimes get us lost in the Universe
    without the creatures and roots and relics to guide us
    this might be a winding path to nowhere, except
    to return to the echoing cave where we started 

    We are no longer at an end, or in a new beginning
    instead we find ourselves amidst a meandering middle
    so why not walk awhile, with the fond memories of those
    black-white-speckled paws, pattering along the forest floor

    Earlier I glimpsed, in the fleeting sunshine
    the shadowy shapes of hooded tweenagers
    heavily laden with the adults' requests for 'help'
    oblivious to the rainbow arching over their heads 

    and I heard the voices of the medium children
    whimsically wittering to the trees behind the cabin
    where, I know, a sloth-like pyjama'd boy remains under
    a blanket, consuming yesterday's leftover burnt sausages

    All there is left to do now then
    and for no particular known reason 
    is to take out the tiny tin travel case
    pause to carefully open the lid...

    start to pinch the grey gravel pieces
    bit by bit, releasing them from their 
    bed of ash, and onto the carpeted trails
    which wander and weave around the pines

    A ten minute interval from the trials of the day
    the dreary dramas of family life and strife
    at the end of a wet, windy weekend away
    in the middle of the Easter holidays

    © 2026 Psychodography Blog

  • ‘Throw Your Phones in the Sea!’ (said Mr G.)

    'Throw your phones in the sea!'
    said Mr G.
    Look up, at the sky
    But why? Because its here!

    Look out, across the ocean
    Search along the horizon
    Gaze in any direction
    Because, it can heal

    'Throw your phones in the sea!'
    said Mr G.
    Look at me, into my eyes
    Lets eat pies together

    No more low bowed heads
    Hunched shoulders in bed
    Nor 'text neck' creaking 
    Lets grow wise together

    No more glances averted
    Time passing, bodies hurting
    There goes another weekend
    Another year

    I want to see your face
    Ask what you're thinking
    Sit with you, see what you do
    Not swiping, but blinking at me
    Not liking, but smiling with me

    'Throw your phones in the sea!'
    said Mr G. 
    Stare at all the stars
    Smell flowers, talk to plants
    Watch a dog sleeping, trust me!

    Lean on a tree
    Are you hearing me?
    It is not going anywhere
    It's there for you, here for free.

    The posting, the comparing
    The judging or the trolling
    The waiting...... in a void 
    that resembles rejection

    Throw it ALL in the sea!
    Why not take a stroll with me?

    Let's wrap up in a blanket, go outside with a candle
    Listen to creatures hum, as the traffic rumbles, 
    Watch colours merge and shadows meander 
    Ponder the day and the bygone era

    Are you sure, Mr G? In the sea?
    Won't that hurt the fish?

    No, because it's a fantasy

    Come, shall we walk towards the sunset, hand in hand?
    Take a break on warm sand, have a rest on a cliff edge 
    All the phones bobbing around in the waves below us
    Catching licks of light as the sun rises again
    It's a new day, with no phones
    Thanks Mr G.





    © 2025 Psychodography Blog

  • Love International

    Birds, tea 
    Horses, and the sea
    You liked cars, we saw stars
    These are the things I remember

    You travelled, to unravel
    She was walking alone
    We never got very far
    Talking about home

    But most of the time
    We got on just fine
    Wittering under 
    the willow tree

    What's in the wheelbarrow?

    You sailed away...
    The 'wrong' way around the world 
    What's the right way to unfurl
    like a fern?

    We waited for you
    Back at the farm
    Watching The Simpsons 
    The glimpses of family

    Walls of water in your way
    Dreaming machines everyday
    Followed by a whale
    Around Cape Horn

    You gave me a stone frog
    And my first sip of cider 
    You got lost in Rotorua
    I met a penguin and a koala

    Finally, severed by the Atlantic,
    and by that fateful night.
    While you searched for me,
    it was already too late.

    Then we fell off the mountain.

    'This ain't my first rodeo',
    you said, playing Roulette 
    at the cruise ship casino.
    I preferred you in the Rockies,
    being a real cowboy

    From Yorkshire to Boston
    (via Midlands & the ocean)
    From scrum-half to a golfer
    Cricket bats to baseball caps
    Barn owls to red cardinals

    From cigar smoke in
    the 'Gentleman's Lounge'
    To dressing in Drag
    at the P-Town carnival
    Always full of surprises

    Radiation, Cryoablation, Radicalisation

    World's End, Massachusetts
    You still couldn't bend 
    your titanium spine 
    A terminator, but mine

    You stopped climbing the stairs
    To your walk-in closet, while...
    the 'far right' were marching
    We turned left to Marylou's

    CNN blaring, 
    how could you bear it? 
    The morphine was caring.
    The dogs at your feet, lying still

    You looked like a ghost 
    at the kids' pool party,
    Relegated to the shadows
    My heart sobbing in the shallows

    Or was it the deep end?

    Now I can wear your coat
    And board a boat, only
    to visit you by the lighthouse
    But of course you are everywhere

    The dust of you settles 
    on the ocean floor,
    merging with earth, 
    and travelling to your tree.

    Cup o' tea?
    Come see yer Dad
    But where was the chat?
    (only in tea labels and board games)
    In between the flickers of the candle flame

    The flicker of a candle flame
    A candle flame
    And blow
    Now Go

    (Inspired by spring… finished for Father’s Day)

    © 2025 Psychodography Blog

  • “The end is where we start from”

    “The end is where we start from”

    (2)

    My Dad once wanted to conquer the waves. He was very strong, possibly the strongest person I’ve ever known. Perhaps this was his burden to carry… until he couldn’t any longer. He fought cancer for over 10 years. He’s not coming back to life this time. I’m sure that’s hard for us all (his family and friends) to accept, in many ways, even though we wouldn’t wish his pain to continue any longer. I hope he was finally ready to go, and I wonder if he was waiting for us to be ready to let him go, although how could we really be ready for that?

    At this point when I was jotting down these thoughts last week, a bird shat on my phone, from the tree I was standing under. And I swore at the bird… but then I thought, yeah, maybe you’re right and I am just talking shit! Anyhow. My Dad loved birds and I know that watching them on the bird feeders was one of his comforts during his long illness. My daughter made a hummingbird sun-catcher on St. Patrick’s Day, with her birthday craft set from her ‘Papi’. We’ll hang it in the window when we get home, for the sun to shine through and send colours around the room, reminding us of all the happy times we’ve shared together (with family), in Hull (Massachusetts), Hingham, Vermont, Colorado, Italy, Province-Town… and the multiple Thanksgiving-Christmasses with family and friends in the UK. And before that, my brother and I had many memorable and cherished times with our Dad in the Herefordshire countryside, at our childhood farm.

    So, he was a farmer before he was a businessman, sailor, cowboy, cactus enthusiast, cigar collector, wine connoisseur… (what am I forgetting?). The memory of him being a farmer is kind of hazy and mystical – I just about remember him in his wellies, taking me out to the barn, on a snowy Christmas morning, to see a new born calf. (My Mum was the farmer really though!). I heard that as a child, he wanted to be a vet, often finding injured animals to nurse back to health. He was a lot of things, wore a lot of different hats. What I loved most though, was when he was just being Dad – hanging out, sharing a meal, watching movies together. The only thing I’m grateful for about his long illness, is that we got to hang out and watch a lot of movies!

    Over the last few, more difficult years, my wonderful sister-in-law has been a huge support to me, and I know to my brother too. Thank you. And thank you (to my Stepmother) for being by his side, for so many years, so many long nights. I am so grateful too, for my father’s generosity, and his open, non-pressurising encouragement, of whatever I wanted to do. Both of which have opened many doors for me, literally and figuratively.

    But what I was getting at before, was, that I need to let him go now. I’ve missed him all my life, as he’s often been away… or there has been an ocean in the way. And although I want him to feel powerful and free again – on the open ocean, or galloping on a horse over the Rocky Mountains – I also like to imagine that he’s crossing the water to come and see us, one last time, to enjoy the British spring with us, before passing through to go off on some new, wild adventure.

    So I’ve chosen this short poem to finish, by Billy Collins (3);

    Walking Across the Atlantic
    I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
    before stepping onto the first wave.

    Soon I am walking across the Atlantic
    thinking about Spain,
    checking for whales, waterspouts.

    I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
    Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.

    But for now I try to imagine what
    this must look like to the fish below,
    the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.

    © 2024 Psychodography Blog

    REFERENCES

    1. Free Image: jacob-buller-eCBJTzipq5A-unsplash.jpg, taken from, https://unsplash.com/photos/body-of-water-during-golden-hour-eCBJTzipq5A
    2. T.S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” Four Quartets (Gardners Books; Main edition, April 30, 2001) Originally published 1943.
    3. Collins, B. (2002) ‘Walking Across the Atlantic’, from The Apple That Astonished Paris (1988), in Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems, Random House Trade Paperback, New York.