napowrimo
Held down and shrouded by clouds,
Enveloping, heavy and grey,
there are people who cannot rise.
They are deprived of any fresh air
yet they show no sign that they care
Others are born to fly
above,
where thought is ardent and clear,
in the vastness of open blue skies
stretching for miles and miles.
You are one such my dear.
Don’t sit and suffocate here.
The water here is clear and bright.
It has a summer dazzle.
On this beautiful island
the water laps against the shore and I smell salt and shells.
A shore of bleached white sand running through my open hand.
It’s been a year without a poem.
The world became too real.
And where did I go in that dark space?
Too crystal clear
and full of stalking fears.
Trapped in fractured time
with dreams from fentanyl.
It haunts me still; ten weeks in hell, unconscious, surviving on my wits
Music, music, music,
My head is full of music
and memories interlaced with tunes
Woven into patterns and wandering variations
New melodies unlocked by changing keys
The moods of major, minor
Triumphant shifts then pathos
To rest in lullaby and memories of dreams.
It’s too hot to write.
Sweat is dripping in my eyes.
I turned my keyboard off tonight
To try to keep it cool is wise.
Music brought us all together
Sun or rain didn’t matter
We went dancing in the mud.
Student, hippy, drop-out, traveller, punk,
There was no real space between us.
Hendrix, Dylan, Floyd, The Clash, Sabbath and Santana
Floated us above the void.
Keith Richards punching rhythm bound us to the bouncing beat
and brought us prancing us to our feet
We had a vision; a world with no divisions,
Positive the world could change.
We were busy looking inward
So it’s not so strange
We didnt see ourselves surrounded
By the swiftly gathering chains.
He always knew I watched him.
I made no secret of it.
A child obsessed with ancient gods I chose him.
Did he choose me or I choose him?
I neither know nor care.
A bargain had been struck,
Just as his foot struck the earth
before he took to flight
and where he went, I followed
inspired by happiness or sorrow.
I don’t know why I write this now
It isn’t me who holds the pen.
Now my youth is gone
He compels me in the task
Of speaking truth to men.
I know how to write a sonnet.
I’ve written many before
But I’m not going write one now.
That’s not against the law.
I’d much rather write a ballad
Or a poem that’s free of all form.
I was writing pictorial poems
Even before I was born.
I hummed before I heard words.
I needed no metre or rhyme.
I was given a gift that’s divine.
Out on a limb
Hanging on a thread
A crystal swings and turns
Capturing lights reflected.
Like my life.
A brief flash of fire in the dark.
If music is the food of love
Turn it down, don’t sing along.
All those words of sweet romance
Lull us in a lovestruck trance.
Loves and doves and stars above
Disguise the fist in velvet glove.
The honeymoons that don’t last long
Soon grow cold, as does the song.
I’m grateful for all the small glances
and glimpses of futures to come,
Portents and patterns I see in the sky,
The formations of birds I see as they fly
Foretelling fortunes, they never deceive.
Rely on the written word of the birds.
They never lie.
They tell every morning their message of truth
By the colour of eggs, the shapes of their legs
And direction of flight.
My grandmother gave me the gift of these things.
I understand all that the dawn chorus brings.
The Dreaming Path 