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.
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.
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.
The Dreaming Path 