here are we
curled and contained
in this room
high above the breathable sea
bathed in a shaft of moonlight
drifting in dreams
holding on tight as the world turns
our breath swells and sinks with the waves
sea shells follow the tide line below
left behind at the turning
bleached and beached on the white sand
time wears the solid rock to small grains
energy moves from this place to that
nothing is ever the same
but remains
and repeats
and remains
eternal
curled and contained
What i miss most are the voices;
the sleepy mutter at breakfast,
the shouting,
from one end of the house to the other,
and the slamming of doors,
see you later.
Those serious talks while washing up,
the flood of sound as friends burst in
welcome but unexpected,
the laughter and tales over dinner,
the distant voices out on the beach,
as the sun sinks in purples and pinks,
their words just out of reach,
then the quiet,
when all grows tender and hushed,
bringing the whispers of nightfall.
No poem today – just this …………..
I just saw a news article saying that Amazon would like to deliver our parcels by drone. The advantage of this, to the customer, is to get packages faster – I don’t need them faster. Amazon Prime is fast enough and what’s so wrong with waiting?
I like to meet the delivery guy at the door. I don’t want to live in a fully automated world with a sky full of drones. The kids love the idea of course, but me? NO THANKS!
This set me to thinking.
I grew up in a world where the sky was for the sun, the moon, stars, stars you could see clearly at night, clouds, rain, birds and planes. It wasn’t full of satellites bringing us bad news faster or surveillance cameras protecting us from what the world has become.
I am so glad I grew up in the 1950’s and 1960’s. I grew up in both rural and urban locations and it was always safe to go out. True, I did meet a couple of pedophile predators but my instincts on that were strong enough not to be lured and that instinct works face to face. There were always more vulnerable children of course but it’s far more dangerous to be groomed on the Internet.
A friend of mine, who is a teacher, recently told me that she read one of my poems about rural peace to a class of Hispanic urban teenagers. The nature images in the poem were from my childhood and were things they had never experienced or seen. One girl had tears in her eyes by the end of the poem. She said she wished she could go to a place like that. I wish she could too.
I didn’t have a mobile phone or Internet until my late 40’s and I communicated just the amount I chose to communicate. I even chose at one time in my 20’s to have no phone at all. I survived! Imagine! Fancy that! I didn’t die in an emergency or get stranded. I knew people. I had nearby neighbours who talked to me. The people in the local shops knew me. I was not in any way ‘cut off’ despite the fact I lived on the moors then and had to walk to the village.
I pity the children now with all their gadgets and computer games and no real freedom. Wandering the outside world with your friends or alone and taking an occasional risk is part of growing up. I suppose they will be better suited to the world ahead than I am but at least I know how to live when the power goes off.
It was also so much healthier to be out in the fields building hedgerow dens. In the summer holidays I was out with my bike or playing in the fields and woods from 9am to 6pm when I came home because I wanted my dinner and my packed food supply had run out.
When I lived in town I was in no danger either. One stabbing in our town was a major sensation, totally unheard of at the time. So, OK, London had the Kray twins and their like but criminals basically fought each other for territory and would never have taken an interest in the likes of me or the general public. Look at the world right now. Look at the gun crimes. The Kray Twins pale in comparison.
I think we have to admit that the world has gone seriously wrong and we can be sure that every bit of bad news will bombard us very fast while we are told so little about good things. Stressful isn’t it.
I am very sorry for the kids, but I am selfishly glad I am getting old because it means I wont have to see so much of the future.
I say ”thank you so very much for my childhood” because I am one of the last of the paradise kids.
It’s too sunny,
not funny,
I’ve spent all my money
on fans
and cool drinks in cans.
We’ll all overdose on vitamin D.
This weather may please you
but it really doesn’t suit me.
Set me free of this humid horror
And bring back the rain fall t’morrer.
I’d climb in the freezer
to make my life easier,
I’m really a winter time geezer.
Away with the heatwave,
Come thunder, come storm,
drop the temperature back
to averagely warm
or deliciously cold
out of season
before I take leave of all reason.
I’m addicted to ice.
This horrible heat isn’t nice.
It’s too hot!!
this weather is not
what the average Briton is used to.
There’s a chair I will never sit in.
There are unread books by his bed.
There are things that I said
That I wish I said sooner,
Long before he was dead.
I am glad this house is falling down
It’s a fitting tribute
To the skill that kept it strong,
The skill of a father who’s gone.
Light spills through the cracks in the floorboards.
In the creaking timber I still hear his footsteps.
Let it fall, let it fall, let it fall.
The windows hang on frayed breaking ropes
Worn by the shifting years.
Now they won’t open at all.
The lighting rod, well earthed,
Serves its protective purpose.
The house is weathered by sunlight and storms,
Its wires inextricably tangled.
It’s hard to let go of memories.
It’s hard to let go of mortar and bricks.
It’s hard to let go of buildings.
It’s hard to let go of a father who’s dead
While his voice speaks clear in my head.
I pick my way through a battered box,
Full of old ideas and notebooks.
Finding none of the spiders I feared
But two ladybirds, dusty and dead,
Were buried beneath the old books.
They didn’t fly away home.
Amongst all the papers are poignant pages
I made for a lover long years ago.
I had borrowed it back.
It was never returned,
It wasn’t requested or missed.
It was full of small painting
Done with great care
But the poems I’d written weren’t there.
The last thing I found
Was two stained serviettes
I’d scribbled my thoughts on one day in a pub
As my friend slumped asleep in a chair
Escaping his life through an emptying glass.
It made no difference whatever I said.
He was drinking his life away.
Soon he’ll be dead, I am sure.
There are worn travel journals,
India, Morocco and Poland all carefully stored,
Some interesting stuff, full of days I forgot
And pictures, quite beautiful,
Carefully hand drawn in Wales.
It shocks me, as always,
When I find my statement
Made to police, one traumatic day.
I wish I could throw it away.
The terrors described are wiped from my head
Like words from a novel I’m unable to write.
It’s humid now.
I feel stifled for air.
Sick of dusty old boxes
I look out of the window.
The leaves outside flutter and tremble
As they always do, before a big storm.
They aren’t sure which way the wind blows.
Neither am I, today.
the subtle changes of seasons
repeat and repeat
as they always have done
the wind and the rain
the storm and the sun
returning again and again
i notice each flower that grows
each new sapling that quickens
each ancient tree that sickens
so much is happening,
so much that threatens
this turning circle of life
i don’t understand the reasons
treachery thickens
the world’s full of war
and while we’re distracted
by power and strife
nobody works together
to care for these most precious things
nothing is ever foreseen
by those who claim to be wise
they cover confusion with lies
they don’t look to the future
they don’t look behind
while they squabble
the world turns to havoc
and dies
if i looked down from above
if i looked down from the stars
if i looked with no love
I’d laugh
i saw them in Covent Garden
an old Chinese man
with a face like a moon
his skin stretched tight over his cheeks bones
a peaceful look in his eyes
he played an instrument I’d never seen
clear bell notes in sunlight shone
a reminder of snow on high peaks
the girl played a wooden flute
she swayed on the breeze
fragile, a tender flower
just beginning to bloom
her eyes held no secrets
i was swept away on the tune
honour the long loved dead
by being the person they’d want
don’t offer them dying flowers
don’t linger too long by the tomb
don’t keep the curtains closed
let in the light into the room
honour the dead in your life
honour their wishes for you
accept that thought as their gift
honour them
honour their virtues
that’s all we must do for our dead
we know all the words they would speak
listen to all they would say
we will always take them with us
to be our loving guide
as we follow the path ahead
into another day
yes – there was strong attraction
some instinctive pull caught our eyes
there was little value in that
when we couldn’t look into the future
hindsight is always wise
the first time i think i loved you
was under the trees near the river
when you asked why i never chose you
i wanted to wrap you and hold you
i answered politely instead
my words were gentle and kind
but i don’t recall what i said
and i had to walk away
later, much later,
after many days had passed
as the river flowed under the bridge
when i told you i loved you
i didn’t feel loved in return
so ironic
i left you
so much walking away
so many crossings of bridges
to reach the love that was there
under the trees that first day
now we are back where we started
but so much further on
now we are walking together
with a love that is deeper and strong
The Dreaming Path 