Storms pass.
Tides turn.
Everything is eventually thrown towards home and reaches the shore
Unless it’s so heavy it sinks to the bottom
So, best beloved, wait for the time of turning or passing
Be light, and like kelp drift on the surface.
Or stand on the shore and watch.
Be granite. Try to endure.
But I think it’s better to float
How do you measure love?
And why would you ever want to?
What do you think you could prove?
Do you think I would be distressed
To discover you love me less than I love you.
Isn’t it more important what you give than what you get?
Love is strong and elastic.
It stretches and it bends.
It bounces back and forth.
Look into your lover’s eyes.
You’ll see a light that shines
The birds have slowly disappeared.
I never hear an owl in town and seldom see a hawk.
The blackbird and the thrush still do their best to sing the dawn
But now confused by lights from streets the birds no longer sleep.
The starlings are not heard above the London rush hour traffic.
It was a classic sound before.
The evening throng of choral song
Like the butterflies are gone.
I am glad that I recall the fields of sixty years ago
Before we lost the riches of the earth we knew before.
When we ceased to see the stars,
Obliterated by the lights of towns,
We ceased to see ourselves.
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 persistent pounding of the drum
Repeats and repeats it’s pattern on
The sound draws closer from the distance.
The drum beats on in my head.
Half in hope, half in dread
I await the dancing throng to come
And the man in old disguise
Wears the ancient painted mask.
He grabs me, spins me
Underneath his black hooped skirts.
In the dark he whirls me around
Through the streets of the town
To the beat of the drum, drum, drum.
He spins me round and round around,
Hurling me finally outward,
Out and out through the crowd.
Now I’m standing here alone, far outside
The drum beats, on and on
Until it’s faded, far, and gone.
My brain can’t handle strict instruction.
What is it you’re still wanting from me?
Meanings have many fluctuations.
I need pure words to liberate me,
inspire me and set me free.
The key to all this is a love of the sounds,
and when I use all the tricks of the trade
with substance poetic, and lyrical verse
and something to wrap my tongue around,
even if I only write nonsense
the meaning at last is often profound.
I don’t want to write a ghazal.
You wouldn’t either with a brain as messed up as mine.
I have forgotten how I wrote them before
And now I can’t fathom instructions.
I’ll tie Celtic knots with Italian spaghetti.
with no sign of Persian delights
or patterns of beauty and promise.
Love is all a repetition of form and illusion.
We fly or we fall as we scribble old thoughts on our walls.
The Dreaming Path 