look at the roses
there is the vase
a symbol of passion
expensive perfection
force-grown under glass
and this is your gesture
of undying love?
a weed from the ditches
plucked
as you thought of me
out on your walk
would show me far more
weeds persist
weeds push through
when the growing gets tough
your love without loyalty
isn’t
enough
In the Paris Cafe
on Rue Des Barres
I see you are hungry.
You need a cold drink.
Your thirst isn’t quenched.
You flirt with the waiter,
who looks like Chagall
with his curved archer smile.
Nothing is wrong.
He responds to your mirth.
Your hands
the wings
of a trapped butterfly
flutter and flap.
You are trying to grip.
Your twinkling eyes and deep-seated desires
have more rising steam than the dish he presents.
You’re on fire.
It’s a sign of your burgeoning age.
But it’s not as late as you fear.
I take a sip of clear water
That’s all I now need.
I don’t want fancy wine anymore.
I am fine.
Lean back in your chair.
Relax at my side.
I have told you before
How deeply I care.
The future is certain, open and wide.
If a chap in a chivalric or mythic tale announces that his honour has been damaged in some way, you know there’s going to be a duel or other violence. His honour may have been damaged because he didn’t get the right cut of meat at the feast, or someone suggested his wife is not the prettiest woman in the history of the world. The speed of his horse may have been questioned, or some more obscure personal pride thing that no sensible person could have seen coming. And then, so that honour can be satisfied, pain must be inflicted, maybe even death. It’s a way of thinking about honour that has never made much sense to me.
For women, honour is usually framed in such stories as being all about not having sex, or only having sex with the man you are married to. The woman who has sex…
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words are not enough
i could draw a line of dots
expanding into O’s
each one larger, broader, wider than the last
until they spread and shifted shape
into one gigantic throbbing heart
to embrace us in its grasp
The black mirror you stare at so long and so hard
Has attached itself to the palm of your hand
To show you the breeding of chaos worldwide
And all that doesn’t belong to you
And all the things you want to own
And all the things you never will
As the moments pass by
The black screens flicker
Thousands of words and images fly
Bewitching your eyes
Numbing your brain
With half truths and lies
And glimpses of thoughts you’re too busy to grasp
As you peddle on cycles inside the gym
No sun, no rain, no air, no wind
You’ve forgotten where the real roads begin
You never look in anyone’s eyes
First be lost
And know that you are
Know nothing at all
Except what is wrong
Strip down to the bone
Let delusions be dead
With vanities and falsehoods
Flung to the floor.
Be a blank canvas,
Innocence restored.
A clean page
refreshed and renewed
after troubles, by age
With vigilant care
be sure where you tread
A clear path runs
Directly ahead
You have to be no-one
To see who you are
Children believe they can vanish
As long as they can’t see the world
I go to the window curtain
I don’t look out on the world
The curtain flows to the floor
I wrap it around me and softly I sing
A new song of wandering words
My voice feels held in the curtain
It’s warm and it’s so secure
No doubt there’s a child shaped mass,
Wrapped in the velvet drape,
And my feet poke out on the floor.
I have no awareness of that,
Only the warmth in darkness
And the song of the wandering words.
I don’t exist anymore.
To use a trite phrase,
Everything’s coming up roses
This isn’t a brief, illusory phase
Everything’s flooded with light
It’s new life, everlasting and bright
The coffee is stronger
And certainly sweeter
Out here on an Oxford street.
The man on the corner is looking at angels,
I can tell by the smile on his face
And nothing seems out of place.
My own heart is beating, gently repeating,
Taking wing to the clear skies above.
Your message is beeping again on my phone
Reading your words, and answering you,
I smile at the angels too.
I observe the flight of a dove,
Stone wall to old tower,
Tower to tree top, swaying above.
The branches burst into flower.
This is the morning of love.
This is the magic hour.
When politics sucks
Principles fly out the door,
Those values enshrined in our myths,
Those things the old heroes fought for,
Honour, valour, trust,
When the knights always stood up
In aid of the downtrodden poor.
When we created these stories
We already knew, we were sure.
Virtue was not often practiced
But it was enshrined in old lore.
When did we change the story?
When did we tip the scales?
When did our idea of justice
Fundamentally change?
When did the villains gain praise?
Isn’t life very strange.
The Dreaming Path 