Why would I,
poor mortal,
beg at your door?
when last time I stood there,
asking,
for one morsel more,
in the momentary pause
of one heart beat,
i was offered far less,
with the kindly suggestion
that this
was best
for my own peace and rest.
Now pride,
a thick lump in my throat
I can’t swallow,
and won’t,
leaves me with words
I cannot express.
I won’t even try.
I am not going to howl.
I would far rather die
than scuffle for scraps
or ask you again
for warmth at your fire.
I can find my own food.
I would share it with you.
You have no need to hide.
Keep your doors closed.
My wolf sleeps outside.
Accustomed to cold.
Author: A. Gouedard
In my favourite Cornish wood
The Rocky Beach
beneath the tide
the mussels sway
in ranks of black and antique grey
in time their shells
become fine grains
to mingle in the rolling sands
while ancient bones
that marched from Rome
fall into silence and decay
merged into land, clad in stone
all things swiftly pass away
whether bird or fish or man
Balance
I was with my tribe today.
They are often far away.
I know them by the smiles they wear
and the silver in their hair.
They don’t belong here,
nor do I,
but now and then we gather up.
We sing, we dance, we fill the cup,
then homeward I, alone, must go.
This is not sad. I like it so.
Outcast
i, the banished, outcast rook
in a crooked, twisted tree
from far away i see you there
you don’t look and don’t see me
i see your faces as you pass
i see your truths, i see your lies
your stories written in your eyes
all these things are clear to me
outside
always looking in
feathers ruffled by the wind
watching for a winter sun
the beauty of the world, begun,
hangs above the vaulted dark,
the certainties of fathomed night,
and there, see there….the flash, the spark
i see the twinkle of the star
the door still stands and swings ajar
an apology to my regular followers
I haven’t been posting as many of my own poems recently – though you have to agree there is no shortage of them on here – and I have posted a few things by other people instead (which is usually rare for me).
This is because the last ten months has been pretty tough going and, to be honest, I got tired of writing about my dying mother. I can’t think of more to say about it, or a need to say more. We all have loved ones who die. I guess the best thing is to enjoy them while we can and honour them when they are gone.
MAKING PERSONAL VOWS
On Monday I completed a Mindful Self-Compassion (MSC) course (1). It was not strictly Buddhist, but the teachers and all the participants were sufficiently Buddhist influenced to have had existing experience of both of mindfulness and loving-kindness practices. At the same time I believe that the overall approach can offer something for anyone concerned with the issues addressed.
One of these is making and living with vows. In this context, we make the vows to ourselves and there are two key criteria. The first is that the vow anchors an intention, rather than operating as a binding contract. The second is that vows flow out of our core values. Hence, we need to get clear about these values before making any vows.
The process for checking core values is a simple one. Bringing warm-hearted awareness to ourselves and our experience, we imagine being near the end of our lives and…
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Tissue Paper Frailty
nice poem
your tissue paper frailty
folded seven times
a simple origami of valleys
turned into mountains
tucked into your breast pocket
a shield over your heart
– tissue paper frailty
Knight at the Crossroads
Tired, he came to the crossroads,
to the place where his own dead were buried.
His horse halted without his command,
its head bowed down to the bone dry dust of the arid hostile earth.
Even the birds were silenced.
No water was here to be found.
His life had no purpose now they were gone
but still he must travel on,
seeking the grail as he always had,
for the grail was his last long hope.
Confessions
I am at a poetry retreat, and I have just realized I haven’t posted any new poetry in ages! Here is one that was prompted by discussion around the table last night.
Men are afraid that women will laugh at them.
Women are afraid that men will kill them
~ Margaret Atwood
Confession:
Inside
She is laughing
at his wizened, flapping sword
Ever appreciative
it is not slashing, slicing, dividing
head from heart.
Confession:
She desires his desire,
not his possession.
The Dreaming Path 