Like Someone Who Knows Me

If It Rains...

How To Be Alone

I was out walking on Boxing Day and the phrase 'meet me in the woods' popped into my head. So, I whipped out my phone and improvised a poem while walking. You can hear me struggling to come up with lines at times and also a bit out of breath walking up a hill. It was a fun thing to try and something I'll certainly try again. Recommended.


Meet me in the woods
where the stream flows
and the trees creak
against the rough bark
in your thick wooley jumper
gets caught and torn
the sound of footsteps
the crack of twigs
is someone coming
kiss me
kiss me against a tree
hold me
hold me any way you please

Meet me in the woods
make some excuse to leave the house
leave them with the TV
with the small screens they clutch
and let me clutch you

Meet me in the woods
it’s been too many days 
since I last felt love
it’s cold
you’ll need to wrap up warm
push your hands into your pockets
and wear a hat
most of the trees are naked
they don’t care
and I’ll be waiting there
for you to come
and let me warm you
the hat comes off
the hands come out of pockets
and I’ll warm you

Meet me in the woods
there’ll be no one else around
all stuck at home 
eating too much
drinking too much
all looking at other things
at trees dragged indoors
at tinsel
at flashing lights
the sounds of kettles bottling
childrens voices from the other room

Meet me in the woods
we’ll escape all of that
this year is ending
but in you
and in these moment
these illicit moments
these stolen moments
these precious moments
I feel a spark
I feel a spell
I feel a taste of a future
I feel there’s a hope
an excitement
to the year ahead

Meet me in the woods
slightly out of breath
when you reach the top of the hill
and the wind rips through
the wind rips through

Meet me in the woods
just you and me
we can be so free…

Meet Me In The Woods (Improv)

Holy Hell In An Airport Hotel

The Hidden Lake

A reading of the poem 'Revolving Door' by Kimberly Ray

https://coffee-shop-sessions.com/2022/07/12/revolving-door/

Revolving Door (by Kimberly Ray)

Moonlight

A poem about artists in Greece in the 60s.

The Delicates

High Tide, Low Life

Snow Day

Afternoon Café

Sewn To The Page

For Whom

On Henrietta Street

First Light

In the hammering rain of last night
I slept the best I have all week
I slept deeper, longer
than I have done for months

And would you guess who I should meet there
on the dream stools
at the dream bar
ordering her dream gin
sliding me a dream beer

Well, you come here often
I don’t have to ask
I’ve seen you here so many nights before
but it has been a while
(and I’ve missed you)

Back in real life; you live so freely
you’re pure inspiration to me
a scholar of your beauty
besotted by your confidence, your creativity

And when we went our separate ways
(did we ever really agree on one path anyway?)
after all those notebooks you drove me to fill
after the purest verses I fear I may ever spill

When we went our separate ways
you found yourself an artist
and now you’re all he paints
day drinking, or in the nude
the ways I still remember you
you... you were born to muse

Sitting on the dream couch
in the dream bar
your dream knees 
pushing against dream me

You... you were born to muse...

Born To Muse

They dwell in strange rooms
the murky recesses of affordability
barely buildings, bedrooms with sinks
chair pushed up against the door
flakes of lives flung everywhere
a curtain, a quilt - who can really say?

A bare bulb hangs in an open window
no shade inside from day or night
Still lives go on; the rudimentary, 
ramshackle, clutching at homeliness
the need for shelter unites us all
a hotel, a shed - who can really say?

In bleak electric heat, so many sing
it’s a different song
all sing a different song
Some higher, happier
some lower, more desperate than mine
flowing on through these days and nights
a verse, a chorus - who can really say?

The lawless, surging, movement of cars
the self-possessed trains below the buildings
so many pairs of eyes journeying on
the things they’ve seen, things they still see
those minds, all varied, wrapped in their own stories
a tragedy, a fairytale - who can really say?

Market stalls, street-sellers in threading gloves
the inside world spills out, a necessity
pavements become malls dressed in winter veils
motorbikes slip ghost-like in and out of sight
drunks stumble in high-spirits from bar to bar
a wall, a urinal - who can really say?

In tall towers, in basement bunkers
so many singing their different songs
some sing of the joy of things
some sing only of the difficulty
the tunes flow through this city’s veins
a love song, a death’s lament - who can really say?

But can you?
can you hear the people sing?
the miserable, the quietly ecstatic
can you hear the people sing?

Songs From Wood Lane

Can You Hear The People Sing?

The heat shifts between rooms
from the front of the house, to the back
on the bed, your curled form is laid
I watch the sky as it cries in the street
blowing my nose, counting the people
they carry bags of food to their cars
filled with treats and sweet deserts
As I move to the kitchen, you stir for a second
this day is turning dark in the light from the loft
shadows dance, from the candles you lit
by the stove, I pause to warm my hands
not sure what to do, I don’t want to wake you
I sit back at the window, take up my book
but there are no new words to read and I place it back
if only the story would change of it’s own accord
O, I think it’s time for some movement
a raising of the silence, let the music in
just some small tune to warm this room
and your sweet progression of chords kissing my ears
I lie down beside you, cup your face
whisper some sickly greeting as you focus up on me

Come on love, we should make a song
you are the music and I am the words
you are the music and I am the words
we should make a song, my love
we should make a song
you are the music and I am the words
you are the prettiest music
and I am the most grateful words…

The Prettiest Music

You paint yourself blue, always blue
this letter brings me down
perched upon a rusty trailer
paint peels over my shoulder

I've been drinking 
since the boats were rested
on the muddy estuary bed

It's high tide, low life
high tide, low life

I won't stop my reaching out
if there's any way to help, I'll find it
you're so slow to take my hand
scratching at your skin for answers

I don't have any good advice
I do what I can to just keep living right
I'll listen if you'll let me
you know; my love is not the enemy

It can't be this way forever
it won't always be like this

It's high tide, low life
high tide, low life

You say you only paint
when you get blue
and I suppose
that's just the way
the sea feels

You paint yourself blue
always blue
I guess
that's just the way
the sea feels...

I'm a writer. Here you can listen to me read the poems I've written. 

I'd love to collaborate with a musician or band to set the poems to music and turn them into spoken songs. Please drop me a line if this is something you'd be interested in.

Tom

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