it was valentines last Sunday
and then again on Monday
it happened several times
in the cold December snow
and many other times and dates
i don’t remember or regret
romance comes and goes
it’s never early, never late
it isn’t hidden in the roses
it wears no jewels or diamond rings
it doesn’t come in velvet boxes
or petals scattered on the bed
it’s a feeling and a flow
it’s an opening of hearts
and the moments that we know
that we’ve received a special gift
a passing moment, filled with love
Poetry
Valentines
sixty years of Valentines
since they had their first sweet kiss
through years of war and separation
and all their married bliss
the floral card was always sent
inscribed with love all through his life
”with love to you my darling wife.”
now he’s dead she places flowers
on the piano by his photograph
i hear her say, in tender words
”here’s to you, my old love.”
Measure for Measure
In love
I used to give,
and ask for nothing
in return.
It was a selfless gift I shared
expecting no rewards.
Now I need a different love.
I’m tired of purity.
Now I stand and ask
for love,
the love that I can give.
Penelope Pritchard
Penelope Prichard planned a grand party
she pondered upon who best to invite
‘only the best of the gentry delight me’
she thought to herself as she pottered about
and there must be pies of impressive proportions
plumped up with partridge, pheasants and phish
(spelled p-h- plus ish)
(Penelope never learned to spell anything totally right!)
she wanted to make an impact in her own social class,
and make it quite fast,
whilst denying the fact she was lonely
plenty of party food must be procured
there must be beer, and wine,
champagne and cider
something to suit every visitors taste
apples and artichokes, custards and cakes
delicious delicacies
edibable sculptures of jelly and ice
fancies and folderols,
grapes and …. oh,
to avoid a whole alphabet,
or a preponderance of p’s,
lets just say, everything nice !
so she collected her purse
and wore her best hat
bustled about
said farewell to her cat
and without further ado
trotted off to the shops
on her way she passed Peter
who lived by the docks
i have to admit
he wasn’t well dressed
his hair was a mess
he played a good flute
but to own a good suit
was beyond his reach
to tell you quite frankly
he resembled a person
who sleeps in a ditch
suffice it to say
Peter, quite simply,
had never been rich
he had a liking for Penny
he thought she might be
the sort of woman
he hoped she might be
the sort of woman
he probably needed,
one he could love,
but their eyes never met
he knew she was older
there was nothing from her
he expected to get
but he liked her walk
he liked her hair
he just wanted to know her
to meet her and talk
to get to know how she thought
she wasn’t playing hard to get
to her he didn’t exist at all
he was zero, nada, nothing, nought
he wasn’t a man who could pass her inspection
he wasn’t the type to invite to her house
she’d think his manners were sure to be bad
she never one glanced in his direction
this made Peter feel sad
her disregard made him feel small
he thought he had nothing to offer
nothing she’d want, nothing at all
but on her way back from the shops
Penelope suffered a terrible fall
she tripped on the curb
her shopping was scattered
she couldn’t get up
everyone passing by just ignored her
one of two stared but walked straight by
peoples reaction left her shattered
she couldn’t believe that nobody cared
but Peter rushed forward
and held out his hand
pulled her up
helped her to stand
gathered her shopping
spoke to her kindly
brushed her down
she looked in his eyes
he was smiling at her
he had held her hand
she couldn’t remember
the last time
she’d been touched
she found her self
not wanting to leave very much
she looked at him then
she didn’t look at his clothes
or his hair,
or his youth
she suddenly found
she didn’t care
he carried her shopping
back to her house
she canceled the party
she made him a meal
and now Miss Penelope
Miss Quiet as a Mouse
sings in the kitchen
and dances with him
and she’s learned how to feel
and less how to grieve
and Peters her lover
and he’s not going to leave
Dreaming Bob Dylan
I fell asleep and dreamed a dream.
I was with my old lover, we lay in bed.
The things in our room were re-arranged.
I said, ‘The bed side table should be here,
there is nowhere now i can rest my book
and the shelf is gone, and your memory jar.’
To get to this place we had travelled far.
I went outside and i saw where we were.
We were in a hotel by the Taj Mahal,
the shining white palace of love,
and a river flowed right past our door.
‘I have been for a walk’ i said to you
you answered me with a warning smile
‘You cant be too careful with children here,
you must hold their hands wherever you go.”
I said ‘yes, it’s true, but our children are grown,
they have their own lives, and their own homes,
they are taller than me, the nest is flown”
You told me you’d been out the night before
and met a man who got you drunk.
You showed me a head that was covered in gold
it was huge and heavy but the face was kind.
You tipped it up and the liquor flowed
out of its neck and onto the ground.
There were shallow waters all around.
I heard a guitar and I turned about.
I saw Bob Dylan was standing there.
His face in the free-wheelin’ time of life,
a time when he shone like a new born star.
I listened to his songs as the river flowed by.
I sat by the river and talked with him.
He didn’t say much. He looked resigned.
My lover said ‘There’s a wish fulfilled,
You can tick that one off the bucket list.’
I said ‘Wishes are useless in times like this.
I think Bob Dylan’s time has come.
There’s no place left for us to run.’
It makes me feel lost, he’s a friend,
a friend I maybe never had
but i played music so long with him
blending his guitar with my violin
and now it’s the end of Bob Dylan’s dream,
a beautiful dream. It’s makes me sad.’
Portrait of my Mother
here she is, playing tennis
powerful serves slice the air
the leap across the court to save
the forceful twack of backhand grace
her skin aglow with summers sun
dancing on the well kept lawns
her dark eyes, dark hair, her pixie face
lit with pleasure in the moment,
of care or trouble, not a trace,
her family are around her, close,
the world’s too fast
now her face is lined with care
her family history written there
years have passed, flesh has failed
long lost father, mother, aunts and uncles
her lover was the last to go
they surround her now in dreams
they gather to her in the night
her only pleasure is a book
with writing big enough to read
back lit by the Kindle light
The Game
i don’t like fighting with angels
i wish they would get on my side
or if they are, as they sometimes seem
i wish they’d explain
the rules of this game
it’s far too complex for me.
i heard all the rules
plainly spelled out
but it’s never as simple as that
even good acts have consequences
you didn’t foresee or expect
and each time i learn the next step
they spin the tables around
what was right last time
is suddenly wrong
and what was wrong
is shown to be better
it’s never the same story twice
maybe they just want clowns
it must get boring up there
and who am i
in there great holy schemes?
good for a laugh perhaps
An Angel in New Jersey
I flew the far Atlantic
to a place unknown
I flew to see a stranger,
a mystery. to me.
The streets were full of cars,
humming as they passed.
I climbed an empty stair.
The steps were cold and bare.
The door was open wide,
I entered there
A crumpled body,
in the corner of a room.
I knew that he would die
If I had not been there.
I spoke to him
he did not reply.
I cradled him
I shook him
dialled 911
the paramedics didnt come
i left the building at a run
i became so lost out there
the city was so huge
i was in despair
in a square
above the town
an angel came to me
and took me to the river
i saw a spanning bridge
the angel told me wait
don’t cross, the time’s not now
i waited in a rocking boat
by the river shore
and there the man came to me
a woman by his side
i knew she was his bride
dead long years before
he spoke to me
he shook my hand
‘we are going now” he said
i knew that he was dead
they danced off down the street
their happiness complete
i asked the angel ”can i dance?”
”when the time is right” she said
”that dance is for the dead”
With Passion
frustration fills the air
our breath beats out our pace
no embrace is tight enough
to seal the bonds of love
glancing at your face
through tangled hair,
damp with sweat, urgent,
i look into your eyes
i hold you to my chest
i hear your moans express
a need for ever more
a need to leave this place
to fly
the planet is too small
the earth not great enough
to hold this burning love
the fervour is too strong
i hear the cosmos sigh
towards the urge of life
and children to be born
my heart is full of stars
i shower you with them all
my soul begins to fall
we call our angels in
to circle us above
suspended from their wings
Lone Wolves
when a wolf howls it’s answered
answered by many wolves
the voices of many wolves
repeating back from the hills
but you,
poor fool,
poor human
you can howl
and howl
no answer
echoing back to you
it’s you
and the empty hills
you and the moon
that’s all
The Dreaming Path 