a summer breeze blew in today
it swept me off my feet
all the world has turned about
my madness is complete
but this is not insanity
it’s sanity profound
magic cast a sudden spell
and I’m still on the ground
the earth is still beneath my feet
the sun is in the sky
this perfumed breeze is one i know
from very long ago
love returns with brighter stars
above, around, below
this gentle, soft, return of love
has melted all my snow
it was valentines last Sunday
and then again on Monday
it happened several times
in the cold December snow
and many other times and dates
i don’t remember or regret
romance comes and goes
it’s never early, never late
it isn’t hidden in the roses
it wears no jewels or diamond rings
it doesn’t come in velvet boxes
or petals scattered on the bed
it’s a feeling and a flow
it’s an opening of hearts
and the moments that we know
that we’ve received a special gift
a passing moment, filled with love
sixty years of Valentines
since they had their first sweet kiss
through years of war and separation
and all their married bliss
the floral card was always sent
inscribed with love all through his life
”with love to you my darling wife.”
now he’s dead she places flowers
on the piano by his photograph
i hear her say, in tender words
”here’s to you, my old love.”
In love
I used to give,
and ask for nothing
in return.
It was a selfless gift I shared
expecting no rewards.
Now I need a different love.
I’m tired of purity.
Now I stand and ask
for love,
the love that I can give.
Penelope Prichard planned a grand party
she pondered upon who best to invite
‘only the best of the gentry delight me’
she thought to herself as she pottered about
and there must be pies of impressive proportions
plumped up with partridge, pheasants and phish
(spelled p-h- plus ish)
(Penelope never learned to spell anything totally right!)
she wanted to make an impact in her own social class,
and make it quite fast,
whilst denying the fact she was lonely
plenty of party food must be procured
there must be beer, and wine,
champagne and cider
something to suit every visitors taste
apples and artichokes, custards and cakes
delicious delicacies
edibable sculptures of jelly and ice
fancies and folderols,
grapes and …. oh,
to avoid a whole alphabet,
or a preponderance of p’s,
lets just say, everything nice !
so she collected her purse
and wore her best hat
bustled about
said farewell to her cat
and without further ado
trotted off to the shops
on her way she passed Peter
who lived by the docks
i have to admit
he wasn’t well dressed
his hair was a mess
he played a good flute
but to own a good suit
was beyond his reach
to tell you quite frankly
he resembled a person
who sleeps in a ditch
suffice it to say
Peter, quite simply,
had never been rich
he had a liking for Penny
he thought she might be
the sort of woman
he hoped she might be
the sort of woman
he probably needed,
one he could love,
but their eyes never met
he knew she was older
there was nothing from her
he expected to get
but he liked her walk
he liked her hair
he just wanted to know her
to meet her and talk
to get to know how she thought
she wasn’t playing hard to get
to her he didn’t exist at all
he was zero, nada, nothing, nought
he wasn’t a man who could pass her inspection
he wasn’t the type to invite to her house
she’d think his manners were sure to be bad
she never one glanced in his direction
this made Peter feel sad
her disregard made him feel small
he thought he had nothing to offer
nothing she’d want, nothing at all
but on her way back from the shops
Penelope suffered a terrible fall
she tripped on the curb
her shopping was scattered
she couldn’t get up
everyone passing by just ignored her
one of two stared but walked straight by
peoples reaction left her shattered
she couldn’t believe that nobody cared
but Peter rushed forward
and held out his hand
pulled her up
helped her to stand
gathered her shopping
spoke to her kindly
brushed her down
she looked in his eyes
he was smiling at her
he had held her hand
she couldn’t remember
the last time
she’d been touched
she found her self
not wanting to leave very much
she looked at him then
she didn’t look at his clothes
or his hair,
or his youth
she suddenly found
she didn’t care
he carried her shopping
back to her house
she canceled the party
she made him a meal
and now Miss Penelope
Miss Quiet as a Mouse
sings in the kitchen
and dances with him
and she’s learned how to feel
and less how to grieve
and Peters her lover
and he’s not going to leave
I fell asleep and dreamed a dream.
I was with my old lover, we lay in bed.
The things in our room were re-arranged.
I said, ‘The bed side table should be here,
there is nowhere now i can rest my book
and the shelf is gone, and your memory jar.’
To get to this place we had travelled far.
I went outside and i saw where we were.
We were in a hotel by the Taj Mahal,
the shining white palace of love,
and a river flowed right past our door.
‘I have been for a walk’ i said to you
you answered me with a warning smile
‘You cant be too careful with children here,
you must hold their hands wherever you go.”
I said ‘yes, it’s true, but our children are grown,
they have their own lives, and their own homes,
they are taller than me, the nest is flown”
You told me you’d been out the night before
and met a man who got you drunk.
You showed me a head that was covered in gold
it was huge and heavy but the face was kind.
You tipped it up and the liquor flowed
out of its neck and onto the ground.
There were shallow waters all around.
I heard a guitar and I turned about.
I saw Bob Dylan was standing there.
His face in the free-wheelin’ time of life,
a time when he shone like a new born star.
I listened to his songs as the river flowed by.
I sat by the river and talked with him.
He didn’t say much. He looked resigned.
My lover said ‘There’s a wish fulfilled,
You can tick that one off the bucket list.’
I said ‘Wishes are useless in times like this.
I think Bob Dylan’s time has come.
There’s no place left for us to run.’
It makes me feel lost, he’s a friend,
a friend I maybe never had
but i played music so long with him
blending his guitar with my violin
and now it’s the end of Bob Dylan’s dream,
a beautiful dream. It’s makes me sad.’
The Dreaming Path 