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.
Poetry
Fools!
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
In Covent Garden
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 Dead
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
Walking on
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
Apples and Bees
I would lie beneath the trees
And dream the hours away, in heat
And listen to the hum of bees
The apples tumble at my feet
Full of warmth and summer sun
Dripping juice so ripe and sweet
How smooth this nectar on the tongue!
I steep my sense in joy, replete
And feel that I am ever young
The sun will sink, the evening comes
As the hourglass, tireless, runs
But I will stay here, in the night,
To look up to the endless stars,
Rotating glimmers fill my sight
2016
a child that wakes from a nightmare,
bewildered and shadowed by fears,
stumbles in hazy panic
to the warmth of his parents bed
and crawls to their welcoming arms
beneath the sheltering sheets
a child in the war torn city
alone, a stranger to hope,
wanders though shattered streets
his eyes wiped clear of all dreams,
his eyes empty of tears,
in a world too dreadful for weeping
his face is a silent grimace
he clutches dry earth in his fist
to feel that he still exists
in a world with no semblance of peace
in a world with no certain sanctuary
in a world consumed by evil
a child cowers down in a corner
to be laid on the plate for consumption
surrounded by knives, trapped on the tines,
of the meal being served at high tables,
the meal of heartless greed,
the meal where the heartless feed
the scales of justice are tilted
in favour of keeping us blind
our good words are strangled and taken
twisted in tortuous ways
in Orwellian double-speak
by leaders and politicians
aided by media giants
the beacon fires are forsaken
our noble desires serve their lies
this is no bed time nightmare
this is reality
there is no protective sheet
no arms wait to embrace them
no place for the victims to hide
the world is falling apart
bring me your huddled masses
will never be spoken again
that voice in the crack of the pavement
is silenced or never heard
refugees, with nowhere to shelter,
rot at the side of the road,
driven and slaughtered cattle
washed up on the incoming tides,
their quiet insistent whisper
swishes in blood and rain
all for the lack of honour
all for the lack of justice
all for the lack of love
The Fisherman
why would you go to sea, she said,
when there’s food to be had in the shops ~
to feel the strength of the swelling waves
and to know the threat of the rocks
and to hear the souls in the unfathomed deep
where the creatures of legend drift and roll
and dream of us in their sleep
and to hear the bell of the solemn buoy
and the voice of the fog horn blow
when it sings to us through the seething mists
in the storm as it bellows and grows
and the wild whipping wind
and the timbers’ groan
and to follow the stars in the dark
and to enter the harbour’s sanctuary
and rejoice to be home at last
where we sit to mend our broken nets
while you sit in your safe place at home
because
in the days
under the sun
it’s another story
When he was dead
when he was dead
i expressed,
inside my head,
all the words I’d left unsaid
thinking it too late to say
the things I wasn’t sure he knew
but there’s a time
for listening too
he never wanted me to feel
a darkened thought
with troubled heart
how could he go?
how could he rest?
my pain could only make him sad
until with love and happy smiles,
instead of guilt and bitter tears,
i blessed him with sweet memories
I knew what he would say to me
I knew his words would set me free
Three Chains
the iron chain is heavy
a burden on my neck
it binds me to an ancient path
made of blood and bones
the bondage of the tribe
it binds me to my roots
when the storms arise
the chain of jade is mystery
cool green glades
where water drips
into a silent lake
in quiet meditation
alone
i sit
i wait
until the sparkling silver chain
leads me through the dark
it captures midnight stars
with flashing moonlit sparkles
that illuminate my heart
and lead my feet away
along the magic path
The Dreaming Path 