I had a lover
clung to me like a vine
her arms were a rope
she wanted to own me
but she wasn’t mine
(a word to the wise ~
loving whispers
are so often lies)
but you,
my sweet one,
are so close to silence,
so close to cold,
your occasional gesture,
infrequent words,
say more about love
as you stand by my side
you have nothing to hide
I don’t need to feel you
to know you are there
I’ve learned to listen
to your heart
in my head
I’ve learned to listen
to things unsaid
I pick my way through a battered box,
Full of old ideas and notebooks.
Finding none of the spiders I feared
But two ladybirds, dusty and dead,
Were buried beneath the old books.
They didn’t fly away home.
Amongst all the papers are poignant pages
I made for a lover long years ago.
I had borrowed it back.
It was never returned,
It wasn’t requested or missed.
It was full of small painting
Done with great care
But the poems I’d written weren’t there.
The last thing I found
Was two stained serviettes
I’d scribbled my thoughts on one day in a pub
As my friend slumped asleep in a chair
Escaping his life through an emptying glass.
It made no difference whatever I said.
He was drinking his life away.
Soon he’ll be dead, I am sure.
There are worn travel journals,
India, Morocco and Poland all carefully stored,
Some interesting stuff, full of days I forgot
And pictures, quite beautiful,
Carefully hand drawn in Wales.
It shocks me, as always,
When I find my statement
Made to police, one traumatic day.
I wish I could throw it away.
The terrors described are wiped from my head
Like words from a novel I’m unable to write.
It’s humid now.
I feel stifled for air.
Sick of dusty old boxes
I look out of the window.
The leaves outside flutter and tremble
As they always do, before a big storm.
They aren’t sure which way the wind blows.
Neither am I, today.
My mother said,
“Bow three times, low,
if you see the new moon
through glass.
And be sure to turn
your purse over.”
We rarely went on holiday.
We had no money.
Not far from the sea ,
an Italianate village
overhangs a Welsh river,
with statues
preserved from the past,
stone mermaids,
washed ashore.
We stroll in a dream,
eating ice-cream.
Sunshine comes and goes,
overcast by scurrying clouds.
We hope the weather will hold.
On the pavement I found
a pebble,
a ring
and a discarded wrapper
that caught the sun.
It twinkled.
Scrawled on a scrap of paper,
”The end of the world is nigh,
don’t look now but we’re watching’’
There were roses and apples
piled in a basket.
I wondered who left then there.
The bell rings in the tower.
We went back to a cheap hotel.
It was over.
My lover is away.
My lover is often away
but it makes no distance.
I dreamed of my father last night,
we wandered room to room
as he shared his wisdom.
“How can we believe what they tell us now
when we know they have lied before.
Its all manipulation,
since 1984 and before.
Think about Aldous Huxley.
He knew.
That man had vision.”
When I was a child I dreamed of flying,
flying above the blue curve of a bay,
probably flying homeward.
Outside my window
is a wall, overgrown,
with moss and ivy.
Goodnight room,
goodnight window,
goodnight moon.
Hello Cupid and Psyche.
Our lives are full of disposable objects;
things we are given, things we buy.
From our birth to our death
we are magpies hording trinkets.
When we die they’ll be scattered
Others will decide
which ones mattered
to their own memories
or settle for intrinsic worth.
Some objects hold nothing,
others are full of feelings, stories,
warmth that leaves a long imprint
to be felt by some perceptive stranger
in a junk shop pile of the forgotten
the lost, the unwanted, undefined
the bowl with the flying swans,
their necks wrapped around each other,
was a gift from a lover
the stick with the broken handle
that once held a whistle
all that’s left of a father now
the stone from a beach. the gift of a child.
whose legs were still unsteady
faded petals and feathers in a box
the teddy with a skin worn thin by cuddles
the decorative key that fits no locks
a golden ring, an angel fish,
bracelets, baubles of no value,
a locket with a folded wish,
old and faded, hid behind a photograph
where no-one now will ever find it
or understand it if they did
a tarot pack, with one card missing,
because the Fool is lost and gone
every traveller journeys on
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.’
The Dreaming Path 