a cold empty box
wrapped in silver foiled paper
left outside in snow
Poetry
Christmas
what do I think of Christmas?
let me think
deep
I want to tell the truth
when I was a child
it was carols,cards and Christmas bells
a big family
the ones now mostly dead
tales they told
magic filled my head
and a wish for snow
grown
I made a new family
with children of my own
a hearth and home
the house was full of friends,
music, love, childrens’ voices,
laughter, power cuts
as the village crashed the grid
we didn’t care
the fire and lanterns lit
magic light
and a wish for snow
it stayed that way for years
the table set
the kitchen hot
the windows steamed
my parents came to stay
I see it all on adverts now
happy children
the crowded table
the lovers special gift
the pretty sparking snow
now I sit in a house
with my mother
she is very old
thinking this may be her last
we talk about the past
Christmases before
I wasn’t even born
I keep the winter chill
from my heart
I think it’s sure to snow
I think of those
outside alone
no place to go
remind myself I’m lucky
it could be me
out there in the snow
Star of Wonder
see the shining star atop the tree
a star in every house and street
a mirror of the celestial map
a tribute to the stars above
shining out where pavements glitter
sparkling in the frosted air
beaming out from lighted doors
greeting every passer by
a star in every window, every home
a light that gives a thanks complete
a light of joy and silvered wonder
welcoming families home with love
this bright star so high above
a glorious guiding light
not intended for one night
but held aloft a life time long
The Soul is King
As large as the universe,
as small as our individual hearts,
joined as one,
manifest in many parts,
the blood of every woman and man
rises in the trees sap
and on the birds wing,
held in the throne of water and air
we live and die,
the flames of a fire.
The Soul is King.
We in our tiny lives,
brush against each other in passing.
I know my brothers and sisters
by their smiles,
by the light that shines in their eyes
and their glances,
by the stories they pause to tell when we meet.
There is an older wisdom
that stir in our dreams,
unnameable,
unbreakable,
that which binds us,
passed as a torch,
hand to hand,
written in stars
and the shape of the land,
the land where the Soul is King.
Seeking the Nectar
the seed is small
curled up and tight
and now, given water,
it bursts through to light
the most beautiful of flowers
i inhale it’s gentle blossom
and worship its beauty for hours
each leaf, each petal, each pattern
the way the colour gradually changes
from the centre to the edge
every aspect as nature arranges
in intricate and elegant design
the unfolding petals curve outward
as it opens and captures the light
or closes again in shadow
a butterfly resting from flight
see how the stamen grows upward
from the nectar that stirs at the heart
i want to cup these petals so gently,
not crush them or thrust them apart,
taste the dew from the leaves
seeking the nectar and drinking
i want to dive into the pool,
to the source of the mystical scent
no thought in my head, not thinking
diving, swimming, sinking
breathing,
gasping,
drowning
The Hunter
This is the tale
of the hunter and hunted.
Night gathers and winter is here.
We find any fire to warm us.
We travel
seeking a home
a place away from the cold.
We settle, we live,
we move on, to return
We meet in eternal dance,
patterns change yet stay the same.
In time we meet again
As the stars appear
in the midnight sky
I see the light that shines
in your widening eyes
those well known eyes
I have seen before
When all journeys
are over and done
this beacon we lit
will guide us home
Celtic Knot
a tenuous thread blown on a breeze
woven into a net, it saves us
you pull on the thread, i feel it,
a bowline that twitches under my rib
sometimes that pull can hurt me
when i know that you are feeling some pain
wrapping the thread round my fingers
I hold it to bring you back closer again
the connection between us all can be frail
we can twist it, strain it and break it,
or twine it, thread it and weave it
into a beautiful knot that is strong
*****
The bowline is an ancient and simple knot used to form a fixed loop at the end of a rope. It has the virtues of being both easy to tie and untie and it is easy to untie after being subjected to a heavy load. But the bowline knots name has an earlier meaning, dating to the age of sail. On a square-rigged ship, a bowline is a rope that holds the edge of a square sail towards the bow of the ship and into the wind, preventing it from being taken aback. A ship is said to be on a “taut bowline” when these lines are made as taut as possible in order to sail close-hauled to the wind.
The Book
I used to think,
in some indulgent piteous way,
that to die could be quite sweet,
a shuffling off of all things wrong,
an end of pain and transient joy,
but now I think I’d rather stay
to face the burden of the day.
Whatever comes is worth the price
of one more moment in this life
where heaven rests inside a flower.
Such things can fill the saddest hour
if we will only turn and look.
I now delay to close the book.
Fool
Hours pass by with dragging feet,
the time runs slow, the hour glass damp
and all because I just don’t know
how and where you are today
and did I say a word that hurt?
Unwitting, blind, and stupid,
a fool will always maim himself.
The snow outside seems less white
the moon by clouds is hidden.
I search for light and find none.
I build a fire, a beacon,
and hope that, whatever I did,
I may be forgiven.
A fool will always blame himself.
What we will do for love ….
Asked to write a love poem and finally lost for words!
This love? that love? how many have there been?
and who of them was first? probably fair Psyche,
she who burned Eros’ wings, in the dark unseen
and put his feet to flight. There’s a lesson there.
It’s hardly likely, after that, I’d fall in love so quickly ,
but I did, with Guinevere, and she ran off with Lancelot!
ah how women do deceive! it made me feel quite sick!
After that I sat about and thought.
It all seemed like a shot in the dark.
Wendy was too soppy. Maid Marion seemed brave and kind
but she was always off with Robin shooting arrows in the wood.
I wanted one who was strong and good, the sort I couldn’t find,
one who liked what I did instead of what they thought I should.
Some one who understood! I was young and stupid.
So much for Cupid! Wild thoughts ran round my head.
A friend came by to see me, said “STOP READING BOOKS!”
”If you want to know what women are like drag one into bed”.
So I did. I chose one only for her looks. A big mistake.
It’s more than looks that make a girl. I soon found out.
I went back to the library and searched amongst the shelves.
I read history, not mythology. I was seeking hard, firm facts.
Not much mention of the woman I needed there.
Battling, defeated, Boudicca had some appeal,
Joan of Arc, a little mad, Cleopatra sounded bright.
All were doomed. Past age. All done and dusted, Dead.
And then I found the poets. Their voices burned the page.
Poems of love and loss and passion, sacrifice, desire
It set my heart afire. Visions of real love filled my throbbing head.
I saw that you must work at it, losing is better than never having.
Its torture, sad, tragic, maddening. It’s happiness, joy, and magic.
It’s worth fighting for and always trying. Real Love is never dead.
I sat in a noisy cafe, reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets,
glanced across the room. I saw her there composed.
She seemed complete.
She was reading Keats. I smiled.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art…”
Good start. Our glances became frequent.
I took up courage, walked across. “You like T.S. Eliot?’
”Oh yes! I love him! Dylan Thomas?”
I smile again, nodding, offering her coffee.
We smiled and talked and talked. I walked her home.
Spent all night writing poems on her doorstep.
Fortunately it was summer. I didn’t freeze to death.
My poems only purpose was to make her love me.
I wanted her to love me more than all the poets.
She inspired me. She desired me. She was the first –
my sonnet.
The Dreaming Path 