Always walk home slowly after work. Don’t be a jerk. Don’t rush like a fool. It just isn’t cool, like all the others, huffing and puffing and pulling strained faces. No time to take in the fact that you live in a city with so many beautiful faces, and don’t forget the races. Slowly brother, sister. Take your time. There will be another train with long drawn faces, less packed than the other, and don’t forget you are no longer at work.

This is your time. My time. We time. Not their time. A time to slow it right down. It can be fun walking slowly through the city, while the others are pushing past with their strained faces, desperate to return home from whence they came, while you breathe slowly from your center of gravity. Feel your feet on the ground. Feel the totality all around. That’s right. That’s it. Feel the rhythm. Feel the rhyme. One step in front of the other.

Don’t forget about your sister or brother. Maybe the loved one is back home waiting, but for now be in love with this great elation. The love will be greater when you arrive home relaxed, and if you’re alone, then practice this more, and allow the environment to be your friend. Make friends, not enemies, with the structures around you. Give them names. Not labels. Don’t allow this world to confound you. Walk slowly. Walk lightly. Walk like you are the mighty. Bigger than the rest but not arrogant like unelected bureaucrats, or stately Kings.

A compassionate King or maybe a Queen, walking through the cities, streets, breathing all serene. Go home on the train or even the bus, and of course, be quiet while you take a seat. Walk slowly, walk slowly, walk down every street. Walk with the rhythm, and the cities beat. Walk through the streets that others forget. The quiet hidden lanes where no-one has met. Then burst onto the buses and frighten the rest. Your calmness is an asset, the other’s will admire. Walk slowly, walk slowly, especially after work. Don’t be a fool. Don’t be a jerk. 

Here is an example of some of the poetry, but please purchase and help fund my creativity.

Junkie!

Hey you junkie!

Brown-eyed and bushy tailed.

Crying like a true artist.

Tears soaked all over your suit.

Thoughts written across your face.

Your brick-heavy head lies

Dead on my sofa while

You dream of methadone martyrdom

And fields made of needles

And wishes that betrayed you.

Loner

You see me here pondering.

Bedraggled old loner.

Unshaven hunter of dreams.

Writer of words not yet written.

Singer of songs not yet sung.

And the lover of loves

Not yet won.

God King

I am the God King of all the

Buddhas. My feet are firmly

Grounded on either side of the

Universe. My staff is centred.

Fabric of Existence

What if someone said to you,

‘Would you like to meet the fabric of existence?’

And you said, ‘Yes.’

What would it be like?

What colour would it be?

Would it be large and if so,

How large?

Could you touch it?

Or smell it?

Or even bring it back to show your parents

Fiery Tigers’ Tails

I chase fiery tigers’ tails.

Sometimes they burn my fingers.

I cool my fingers in turquoise waters

While the tranquil waters of the lake

Play with my reflection.