You were a mess,
but I loved you.
I left,
but I loved you still.
You went through denial,
anger and shock,
bereavement,
acceptance of blame.
I loved you still,
just the same.
In your pain, I saw
how hard you were trying
to work your way through your loss,
to know yourself with more depth.
I was impressed.
Now that I see how you love me,
how could I love you less
two magpies dancing
here in my path
excuse me for thinking
they’re laughing at me
i am grateful for mercy
small crumbs from the table
i hate the dark gods for the troubles they bring
facing black crows
on the bridge to remorse,
my soul has run off to hide in the trees
a pale aqua thread, blown on a breeze
my right eye is full of cold rage and deep anger
by left eye is empty, submissive and sad
fuck off vultures
go back where you came from
i feel like putting a gun down your throats
Now here before me I see
the uncrossable bridge,
a drawbridge raised beyond.
It’s made of ice.
On the other side,
holding on to imagined hurt,
clinging to thoughts,
counting,
saying nothing to me,
quivering in rage or sadness,
confused perhaps,
a victim to perception sits
in visions I cannot change.
I cannot know what she thinks.
She won’t allow me across.
I watch as I stand.
I can’t reach out,
hold
or help.
Locked out.
This is often the worst,
the worst of the worst of all.
Misunderstanding
breathes in the silence
between us,
in unspoken words
through closed doors,
no air.
This is injustice.
Heartless.
A vacuum.
A chasm.
A void.
Unwise.
Silence, a solid structure
of ancient deeply grained timbers,
sealed and barred,
a simple torture device
that stands on immovable stone.
Left with a hard decision to make,
for myself and how I feel,
the choice between anger
or sadness or nothing,
nothing at all.
I could ignore it again.
In nothingness
there’s no pain.
On days like this
I would willingly give up
on words
or thinking at all.
I can’t help myself either.
I am frozen,
emptily sad.
this beautiful instrument of carefully chosen wood
its resonant round back sits warmly under my rib
its aged neck nestled lightly in the palm of my hand
it travelled with me to Ireland, Morocco, Poland, India, Spain
giving pleasure to strangers in wayside and stations
helping me find friendships in far away lands
i walked with it slung on my back in a desert valley
pausing as a strange music haunted my ear
looking about for the source of mysterious sound
the strings vibrated in response to a greater musician
the lone song of my mandolin played by the wind
it had no need of my hands. my hands long for it now
safely home, hung again on my wall, a thing of beauty,
resting, its grace and my love of it inspired hatred
one who wished to hurt me, hurt it in anger, vicious spite
while i was locked out, unable to reach you,
gone, a place under my rib left empty
no light glints on silvered strings
the wind will no longer touch them, nor i
one hundred and fifty years, gone in one moment
full of tunes played and tunes not written
all that remains, a strap embroidered
with roses and ivy entwined
The Dreaming Path 