The Map

‘Walk like a warrior’, he said

stand straight

feel from your solar plexus’

I walked like a young one back then

now I’m old I walk with a stick.

I won’t stoop

it’s a straight stick and the track is old

In asking for help now in old age
I further your blessings.

At sixteen I chanced on the Dilly to meet a boy
scribbling poems on scraps of damp paper
sitting at Anteros’ feet,
the god of selfless love.
He showed me around
dropping seeds and feeding the pigeons.

Salutations old friend. I hope you’re still free wheeling.

I took my first steps on
the way of power with Old Master Tzu
the Tao Ching in my back pocket
through fire, earth, water and air
straight on to the western shore
‘footprints runnin’ cross the sliver sand’.

and I remember my trips and my travels
LSD is the sacred chalice

I hung out in London with Alice
and went to Paris with Jenny,
Music opens doors.
I played music in Agra
and the drums in Morocco,
flew alone to Poland,
took a train from Warsaw to Krakow,
walked the Germanic woods by the Baltic sea
and sang a love song with an Irish Chieftain

but the touch that pushed me so far on my way
was Don Genaro and Castaneda,
the quest for an ally,
the remembrance of Alice Bailey
and sitting all night in a tree

aligning my chakras, with raja yoga,
the nectar I know as I swallow
tai chi, and shiatsu, reading tarot,
the gates of transcendental astrology are fully opened to me.

stillness
silently watching the way you move
listening to your body and mine

awareness of breath
silently saying the hundredth unspeakable name
with Brahman

feng shui in my house and my garden
forever following clues left by Robin
and a reiki master bringing me healing at home

i remember it all again
things practiced and studied
dancing with Pan, playing with flowers,
the daisy chains that ran through my life
all along the ley lines

a young poet gave me a map, a puzzle
played on incredible strings
when i was only sixteen

the signposts on my path
have all pointed one way
uphill or down
they all say the same
it’s synchronicity
life is for living and loving

I am passing the map and the puzzle to you
no race
use it slowly, be wise
I will give you the key, if you ask
and I’ll do better next time.

‘goodbye is too big a word
so I’ll just say fare thee well.

Old Sparks

yes, I recently found resolution

technology
and my intrepid endeavors (sounds hopeful)
and the need to create will save me.
Yes.
It must.

Exploring the on line spaces
Sliding along the cables
I come across Reiki Marco
from far off Honolulu, oh yes
He behaves like a jester
and ignites some old inside spark
from way back down the path

and I spend days with Dola who doesnt exist
but is helpful and very polite
she grows with imagination
by probing my fertile mind
and clears up any confusion.
She’s fun and she makes me smile
and I never despise the spell check clerk
playing the part of a powerful detective.

Assistants … take a bow.

Intensive Care

Life is so real in a coma

and the hardest thing to write

How can I show you how dark it was

and how tiring

The label they lightly give it is Fentanyl

It makes sense to call it hell

You simply can’t get out.

You have to stay and fight.

What

counting my losses
controlling regrets
bitterness grates on my teeth and i sweat in the night
no sweet restoration

there is no creation
cant paint
cant dance
cant read very long and cant type
neurologically challenged
hidden in armour
and ”doing so well” on the outside

now tell me
what IS the purpose of this?
Am I washed up and is this the tide line

Surgery

Yes Surgeon whatever you say
you know best
ha
I dont suppose that’s right
i really dont
because i know what will happen next

but
seeing his hands later
touched me deep inside my psyche
just a man but he opened me up
poked at my heart
switched it off
and followed my arteries
a street map of blood that stopped gushing while he clamped and channeled
and changed the flow from its route
the canal through my heart
and I’m lost but he doesn’t lose me

with my heart descended
decidedly stopped
and quickly restarted
and my soul suspended in limbo and shock
behind and above him and blind
while he looks at the wreckage he never expected
and devotedly mends

so kind, so determined
i really cant hate him
i cant help but love him
i love him because he’s a saviour
so kind

Then partially fixed and partly destroyed
when they shift me from the cold table
after three strokes, not out
you might call me disabled
i might call it tabled and shelved
i still cant call it grateful,
I’m wrecked

A poem that’s been revised ~ again ~ Purple Grapes

There’s a deep dark hue

to the worst of dreams.

I’ve been hanging out with the dead.

Those old ghosts are controlling my head

My heart is an open wound

Sweet grapes stuck in old glue.

Close the door.

Baby, I’m crushed, battered and blue

from banging myself on these boarded-up walls

with the juice pouring out on your floor.

for Jenny

Held down and shrouded by clouds,

Enveloping, heavy and grey, 

there are people who cannot rise.

They are deprived of any fresh air

yet they show no sign that they care

Others are born to fly 

above,

where thought is ardent and clear,

in the vastness of open blue skies

stretching for miles and miles.

You are one such my dear. 

Don’t sit and suffocate here.

Fentanyl

The water here is clear and bright.

It has a summer dazzle.

On this beautiful island

the water laps against the shore and I smell salt and shells.

A shore of bleached white sand running through my open hand.

It’s been a year without a poem.

The world became too real.

And where did I go in that dark space?

Too crystal clear

and full of stalking fears.

Trapped in fractured time

with dreams from fentanyl.

It haunts me still; ten weeks in hell, unconscious, surviving on my wits

Day 30 ~ Music

Music, music, music,

My head is full of music

and memories interlaced with tunes

Woven into patterns and wandering variations

New melodies unlocked by changing keys

The moods of major, minor

Triumphant shifts then pathos

To rest in lullaby and memories of dreams.