Welcome from Simon ! 👋

The young man stands a-poised To show so little through slatted blades The masking window a-lighting half a day Is toning down his little voice. Calm, his palm is clutching home - Circled eyes see trickled time. Digression, memory, both are crime - Death's still action shared alone. A voice, another links him here; Confirming love, and then goodbye. As steel and glass and flesh will fly; Turns, the anglepoise lamp is near. Simon Huggins, 14th September 2001

"Drink anyone?" piped up my voice To a sea of "Coffee"s and "Tea"s Instant shite gives instant choice Just like the lavatory. Without a care I dished 'em out To a sea of "grunt" and "thanks" Then back from minor runabout To computer, and going blank. Many a time then I was asked If a drink would ease my yawning "Yes" I said, oh what an arse But light would soon be dawning. I vaguely heard a comment made - "He takes but doesn't give; Three drinks he's made in this decade - He doesn't deserve to live!" I briefly thought it was a joke But turned to angry faces "And when he does" as I awoke - "The cups go in the wrong places." "And he serves decaff without milk - You're guilty, I'm afraid." And then one smiled, as smooth as silk; Brought forth a gleaming blade. Judgment falls on those that do not pull their weight with the drinks run. Summary death by peers for you - Look sharp; to the drinks machine - RUN! Simon Huggins, 21st August 2001

My mother she accursed be - borne of false economy of love, though my father gave so *much* - she had to leave. He gave her what he had to give - Enough to suggest a will to live; A person-denying way to behave - One has a wife to be seen with. So quickly times change - in time you lost your ability to separate love from cost - You could not envisage the problem to save your marriage - sun set, night and frost. You blamed for years, and believed one day that problems had all been ignored away. A little lost boy who's trying out brave? Your wife, it dawned, would no longer play. You finally moved on, though still slightly dazed; and found an other, look vaguely amazed. In her you may burrow to find what you crave; A woman who sees you, remaining unfazed! She is the one who with presence once gave you pardon for how you once would behave and gave you your chance to personally save yourself, and build strength to let you be brave; A new you you crave. Simon Huggins, 20th August 2001

Two slips of pink paper Serrated, joined, and gone - They proved i'd paid the paper bill. From my pocket, hmmm, job done. Then pause, and a tentative how! A small-scale thing becomes so large - The carelessness; the lassitude; It's worthless, so disregard. How small does worthlessness get? How large can it become? Can a small pink slip of paper Transpose to a casual bomb? A snap of the neck, a random shot, Or a maiming martial art? A small side-order of Genocide; Atomic blast or fart? How casualness can casually be - A casual death of paper, or me? Simon Huggins, 17th August 2001

Photographs give moments; Snapshots of time to flash and blind and gag the real feelings, that kindly evoke a time that's momentarily over - And wind the camera on... A method of resurrection; Capturing the image outside the mind's eye: Perhaps the truth hides when perusers try to light the cold embers to perfection - Don't point it at the sun... Ruefully share the squares; The glossy slides that slip aside; The pain of having tried to lie around this deceiving lens that stares - And Click! to catch our *fun*. Simon Huggins, 14th August 2001

So many animals alive with brightly painted spots - to mark which sheep will die? in one field. It's so hot it makes the mind play tricks, lying draped over the kerb. I say: a sheep or sandbag? Make sure in my mind - the heat plays tricks, or is it that in the end, field or street; sandbag or sheep - can be switched? One alive, One dead chronologically, it may change. One bolt to the sheep's head; ultimately, it's all the same. Simon Huggins, 30th July 2001

On the cusp of order and chaos Catch the edge of nature's stand That powerful place, in no-man's land 'Til entropy breaks - to stay us - A balancing victory with man. - Simon Huggins, 25th July 2001

Arthur may not have resided here But gull-cries still drift on the wind. The village may be one large souvenir But the legend's still roaming within. The ladies may once have ready poetry here - So here, some small verse carries on. The shuffling samples of countries pass near - Did Guinevere share verse in the sun? The silence o'er Castle Tintagel Belongs now to insects and wort - Shared with man in slim fragments Of History, nature gives briefly her thoughts. My home town, Northampton - A reminder How small it's become - see Londinium In History's vast map you may find us With Cromwell's defeat - no longer belong. We sit back-to-back in Tintagel On a slate-wall, facing over the shore. Briefly, and quietly, we're thankful - For our own punished history's no more. Simon Huggins, 23rd July 2001

You're so big it make's me laugh Northern outlook makes you right Do I argue, will you fight? Integer thinking; excluding halfs. Digital people, thinking too - Opinions make your thinking starve. Intensify your wonderless path - Solid, avoiding wonderings new. We tell you, but you still seem blank - looks like we're the foreign few A change of outlook - overdue; For bigger seas, if slightly damp. But stay, retain your culture - Future generations may thank And bigger trees than you once sank Societies that had no future. Refinement comes - Finds a suitor, History neuters - Culture's done. Simon Huggins, 13th July 2001

*'I think they're not aware that dad is Dead - The note you sent was before he died.'* And lying there, her eyes closed in her head, Lying, lying, neatly resting on her side - Disseminated notes gave snippets of events As somewhat bland and edited asides. Disillusioned weeks before his soul was sent By care-spent doctors, did he wave goodbye? A space - revealed by simple language - Death - A Spark of inspiration, ' Dad has died. His Birthday - next week, ' she coolly said. She said, closed eyes, she coolly lied. The bench, memorial of a man, her dad. Shared tangibly, sits empty - waits whilst we stand. Simon Huggins, 12th July 2001