The Back to Front Post

Hello, earlier today I said that I was going fruit picking but  I ended up helping out with a gardening project my family are currently undertaking. I enjoyed myself never the less and it means I get to go foraging tomorrow instead. It's a lovely place to work, Blewbury Downs, and I've always loved to work outside, I've actually done more of that than anything else over the years, planting things and watching them grow, little pleases me more. So, instead of the post I had planned to put out there for you to read after my day of all things wild food, I shall post whatever I can conjure up from memory, imagination and all the other places we delve when we write. I sincerely hope  you enjoy it.
Here goes, I'll go with what I know best, poetry. When I write poetry, various things pass my mind as quick as only thought can. I'll give you the explanation as the voice of my inner monologue or at least how it would sound if it was as simple as just words passing through my mind. I begin "How do you feel man?" to which I nearly always reply "Screwed up man, not just a bit, but real weird, my thoughts are crushing me!" "yeah tell me about it bro, I'm you", something outside of the world I'm always alone in distracts me, an apple falling from the gnarled old tree in the beer garden of my local pub where I often write, a cyclist passing, lycra clad brazen colours flash in and out of my half vision, the other half still lingering in day dreams as I ease my posture under the broad leafed oak I sometimes sit under on the bridleway running through the corn fields south of my home.  I drift back to the dream, "Are you going to write anything...or just dream" "there's to much in here for me to start, thoughts hurt, how the hell am supposed to get this all down?" "pick one and start". I accept my own advice and begin, looking around simultaneously not seeing anything in front of me. If the first line's good the rest will mostly come to me without thought...

Purgatory Soundtrack

This is the line that frees the mind, pressure release valve, boiling thought's engine burning,

seized machine, rusted by contrived speeches, it was the man on the radio, catalyst of confusion,

on rolling hills I stand, all true and free and pure, digital sound wave's  liar,

tainting the air with greed, how do national ears believe in poison, check your pulse's good,

not dead in hell, just a world bending over to receive a false wisdom.

I have faith in the people, we've heard it before, slavering tongue's of cowardly upstarts, 

rotting under the burden of their own cheap souls, worth more downstairs with weight of evil's,

money of the grave, bodily ownership of six by three plots, when you can no longer use it,

bone bagged buried cot.

Death tax instigators can use them, souls doomed to ground, the hollow void in between,

where no laughter sounds, your own voice lying on the radio, purgatory soundtrack, 

truth would have freed you, form all that's now black.

©D.N.Read2013

I speak to myself again, "How do you feel now?" "the pressure's gone, I can't believe I heard that earlier" "Well, you never know, your poem may touch someone, maybe make a difference" "I really do hope so". I close my book, and carry on with my day or shut up my laptop in this case and do the same, hope in heart.

Peace In All