Solitary Man

Poem By James Mills

If I lived alone;
what of nightime -
the crinkling black
attacks of loneliness that
might creep upon me
feeding off what sleep might come?

I could succumb to daylight naps,
save night for stars and grunting
badgers snuffling through dank leaves,
or read those better books I promised
my sleepier self I would.

I’d say to myself that solitary
life suits.
Who's to care what time I keep
or if I speak aloud when a thought occurs?
I’d wear myself out thinking.

Callers would commend my inscrutable
while they drank my coffee,
then say “He’s lost the plot”
when they talk about me - and they would!

I’d buy my clothes from catalogues,
dark coloured corduroy and
paisley jumpers, wear cravats,
keep a cat and call it Francis.
What’s the chances

if I joined a lonely hearts club
I’d find a lady – gsoh,
likes staying up late.
But wait- I’m not alone and
I think I only dream when I sleep.

Comments about Solitary Man

Thanks Michael. Yes they are quite up-to-date nowadays but I'm at an age when all they seem to send are discount offers on incontinence apparatus and zippered slippers. Still, at least there is the friendly 'plop' of some correspondance hitting the mat. Jimmy
No man is an island - but the causeway sometimes needs repair! Nice thought, James - but some of the mail-order catalogues are quite trendy...
Thanks Steve. The corduroy I can live with but the paisley jumpers...mmmm? Nice of you to leave a comment. J
Very imaginative and well put together poem, Steve

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Other poems of MILLS

War Torn

Some remnant living in muscle memory
is pressed, dressed and polished each time
he marches, slowly now and with tired bones,
to the Legion for his Friday bingo.

Terminal Leave. France 1917

I spent last night in my valley.
Green and peaceful, it is.
Slow wagons of unburdened past
creak slow down berry-bright lanes.

Little Star

A zillion miles of night
caress the little star.
One amongst countless
it shines, knowing only itself,


Out of what has gone before
We hang by threads of destiny;
Too late to change or to restore?

A Few Degrees Of Heat

A slope of rising road
gains on the pair of us -
forcing silence.
Dusty birds and drunken bees

The Wish

Tethered to a stump of memory
a Wish lies bleaching in white isolation.
Dream winds worry its fading outline,
cracked lights shine on it - sometimes.