bird song at the break of day
fails to end my sleeping journey
i resist the dawn to be with you
i saw you turning in a doorway
gesturing for me to stay
i feel you resting here beside me
in this other realm, we touch
my curtains shut away the sun
but time makes slaves of us all
i must face this day begun
each morning i must leave my dream
you whisper as i fade away
Fame is a bee, brown and gold,
It buzzes round the nectar.
Bees suck and work away all day,
Turning all to honey.
I would rather have fame
Than any amount of money
Fame has a song,
long and lasting,
A ballad played on silver strings
Mortality surpassing.
Death is so distressing!
I would rather have fame
Than any other blessing.
Fame has a sting, like any bee.
We are bound to our own fatality.
Poems may live on.
Ah that just one might last
Rising away from gravity
On the outstretched wings of fame.
Immortality.
Such precious wings!
Death defying.
~*~*~*~
inspired by ~
Fame is a bee. (1788)
by Emily Dickinson
Fame is a bee.
It has a song—
It has a sting—
Ah, too, it has a wing.
You don’t restrict me and clip my wings.
When I am moody you don’t walk out.
You don’t shout and scream at me.
You are not sarcastic, well not a lot.
Only when pushed to an outer limit.
You don’t ask me where I’ve been
When I stayed out late or went away.
You don’t demand more than I’ve got.
You don’t wake me from my dreams.
You don’t manipulate me or betray.
You’re not spiteful, never deceitful,
Not controlling, not conceited.
No passive aggression here.
You never said I can’t be free.
You’re not short of wit or integrity
Or a well-honed phrase that hits straight home.
You’re not without courage or honesty.
You never called me stupid, not once.
You’re not critical of me
But you’re not daft either.
You question me, yes, it makes me think.
I like to think. My thoughts become clearer.
I like your silences and your words
and the growth that peaceful calm can bring.
It’s all that you’re not that makes you dear.
It’s what you are not that draws me nearer.
no need for butterflies and roses
no valentines, no pretty hearts
no cupids here, with flying arrows
no dear, I will never sing
a praise song to your beauty
no romance in tender words
i have nothing much to offer
i wont buy you gifts and things
don’t expect a honeymoon
i won’t give you wedding rings
nothing here is wrapped in ribbons
i make no eternal vow
respect i offer, honesty,
an ear that listens, this i bring
if you want this, hold it, keep it
it’s for you, take it now
the china doll stands on a shelf in the corner
kept behind glass, protected from dust
her painted face stares out with blank eyes
her fine silks faded by sunlight and years
she was bought to this house by a sailor
a gift from a far away port, long ago
picked up when he thought of his woman
waiting for him with patience back home
the china doll was a token a love
kept for years in a kit bag in war
she is a survivor of many sea battles
with never a mark on her beautiful face
but he went away and never came back
the china doll is all that is left
she has been easy enough to preserve
his life was as fragile as the china doll looks
the china doll stands on a shelf in the corner
while all around her life comes and goes
she is changed now from token to heirloom
her origins forgotten, no longer known
so much is shared through migrations
like birds dropping seeds in the garden
some will flourish, some wont
flowers, fruits and weeds
looking back on history
and the incessant weave of the world
i see patterns intertwined, growing
interchange of arts and design
leaves that bud from one tree
the branching of language and speech
a map of where we’ve all been
it says nothing of where we are going
in this we know less than the birds
I leaned by a wall in the hallway
dressed in a hat and a coat
with a place to go I cared nothing for
when after his death we moved out
the thought of the way an empty house echoes
after the packing cases are gone
never fails to move me or bring tears
it reminds me only of death
a hollow sound and an empty heart
if we had settled down after that
I might have gained more trust in the world
where only death is sure
it was after that I started to sleep walk
I have been sleep walking around that house
for years, in a world where I always move on
until death and the final box
the starfish lay on the beach
as the tide swept in and out
it was left behind, abandoned,
small star in the vastness of sand
the pebbles spread out around
older than starfish or I
I cupped my hand in tenderness
and released a star to the sea
when the sun sank down I wandered
followed a winding trail
higher and higher I climbed
away from the rolling waves
until I felt above it all
with life spread out below
a giant on a solid rock
where nothing disturbed my peace
I rest on my back on granite
cold and hard against my spine
gazing up to the endless night sky
and a lattice of gleaming stars
where patterns move, intertwined
a fragment of infinity, greater, vaster by far
a tiny edge of the Universe
where all our short lives are
beneath me, i feel the earth turn
the silvered stars flash and shine
already dead, extinguished, aeons long ago
their twinkling lingers in time
i spread my hand to define them
measured against my palm
i am so small and they so vast
perspective loses its grip
strapped by gravities fragile belt
held fast to the slow turning earth
I feel myself begin to fly
inward and plunging out
there is no up and no down any more
no beginning, no end, only light
we’re an infinite variations of one
across the dream of night
amongst the rocks and the sand
all our conversations
are becoming like this.
what are you thinking?
nothing of importance
what are you doing?
nothing right now
what were you doing last night?
nothing much
is anything wrong?
Nothing at all
i can’t fathom your tone
nothing is not an empty void
it fills the room
it’s so real I can’t breathe
then you say if you knew me
you wouldn’t be asking questions.
i thought you knew me completely
you don’t say what you have on your mind
you tell me nothing serious is happening
you say so much amidst your questions
you ask if I should have been an actor?
what the hell do you mean by that?
you ask can I find what I’m looking for here
and suggest I am lost in my dreams
not all can get lost in fantasy, you say
like its a blessing, and i get an award
you think I can’t see.
i see the nuance.
you insinuate
as you circle
herding me in
with maybe it’s this
and maybe it’s that
i am becoming impatient
this is becoming ridiculous
i say in exasperation
maybe i should have run off with a clown
maybe i should have been lead singer
when i played in a band back then
i start to feel sarcastic
and I don’t like the way i sound
maybe i am not looking for anything
did you think of that?
i followed a path that lead me here
if wishes were horses I’d be riding
but I’m not wishing
I am trying to write a poem
sitting by a river
it can help sometimes
and that’s what I do
yes, sure i get sad, who doesn’t
but it’s never that nature no longer delights me
I don’t forget the glory, even when it’s hidden
behind a day in the grey, with no shine
the trees against the clouds still have grace
i am thinking of what i am seeing
the wind that blows blow all away
that’s where I am,
that’s what I am doing
that’s who I am
Nothing at all
I guess it’s too late to be a poet
practice makes perfect
perfect takes time
I can measure a beat
use slant rhyme in plenty
I’m rich in experience, that’s for sure
but I seem to have lost
that belief in myself
the enthusiastic leap of confident youth
too old to go out and brave a stage
too old to expound and rant and rage
i try to capture a quieter truth
my words sit and whisper beside the river
seeing pictures when words are flowing
where it starts and where it goes
I have no way of ever knowing
they come to my heart, pour straight out
in happiness, sorrow, joy and pain
I never mastered the careful edit
or got any credit from publishers
all i do is write and wish
if wishes were transformed into poems
they’d shimmer and shine on every page
and i could write away my age
i wasted time
life got in the way
no point blaming yesterday
I will try until I die
chasing the deadline to the dust
milk is spilt, but I can try
The Dreaming Path 