Penned in by my own pen
No current thought will flow
No note I strike will rhyme
and so,
I send to you a ring
A ring that does not chime
A band that plays no tune
And hope it finds you well
Though I no water draw
To moisten my dumb lips
I’ll think of something soon
Since I have lost my words
A sketch I’ll make of you
To gladden my own eye
Telling you the truth
Please know that I still lie
Here beneath a tree
Penned in by my own pen
I’m not going to bleed for you, darling.
I have sorrows enough of my own.
I wholeheartedly offered you home,
The one you rejected and left.
Now you must make your own.
I hope you find it within you soon.
My heart is a low-lit room,
I don’t forgive you yet.
Such an insensitive question.
Yes, there’s a ring on my finger,
A simple silver band,
Many long years on my hand.
I wear it for one simple reason,
To remind me I’m my own.
If my words trouble or hurt you,
I am very sorry for that.
I regret.
There’s only one place I escape to at night,
When I can’t get you out of my head.
I have to write.
If not, I would leave all my pages
Empty and woundedly white.
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
The Dreaming Path 