In my teens I tried to write
But other voices squeezed my ear
In bed at night I oft times heard
The whisperings of sensuous Keats.
I thought that I should ‘modernise’
I sensed I should not be archaic,
Speaking from another time,
And so I read all the poets
Scrawling words on backroom presses,
The ones they published in black ink
That stained my stubby finger nails.
They shunned rhyme, rhythm, soundscapes
Often angry, sometimes clever.
Derivative, derivative
Was the cry that pinned me down.
So I put away all books
And went to listen, kept my silence,
As poets talked all night
Over wine and cigarettes.
I heard the need to find your voice,
The need to fall in love with words,
The need to see it as a puzzle,
Never driven by ideas.
Let sounds and music steer your way
And see the thoughts emerge
voice
I Look at Faces
I see open eyes and closed doors
as I see faces pass in the crowd,
all those secrets within,
all those wishes and dreams,
the dark sadness so often seen.
What would they say
if I asked them to stay
and give all their secrets away?
Would they lie or tell me the truth?
Do we sing from one page?
Unfulfilled?
Whatever their stage,
whatever their race,
whatever the date of their birth,
are their feelings so different from mine?
And where is god in all this?
Does god even exist?
In our breath, in water, in fire?
We all die, but are we divine?
What I hear is one voice and one choir.
Alone Time
The girl at the checkout counter
gives me a
side-long look.
She seems bemused
by my words.
Did I say too much
or too little?
How much is ever enough?
I always liked solitude,
it’s as vital to me as food.
But five days alone is my limit,
more is too heavy a weight.
One more ounce, and I’m crushed.
I speak out loud to the mirror,
checking I still have a voice.
Sometimes I answer myself.
I sound like a rusty old clock.
I seem to be losing my tick.
I brace myself for the day
I strap on a shell,
a brave carapace,
to keep the dark moments at bay.
I’m an expert at living this way.
But when friends come to stay
and then go away
I feel that my heart
has been opened and filled
and then,
quietly,
clinically,
stripped.
Be Kind
I look at this world. It brings me to tears.
No changes, no choices, no power, no voice.
Our fears come true instead of our dreams.
Our words echo, reverberate, into a void.
I have a dream, just like that man,
the one they killed for speaking the truth.
I have a dream just like the one
that lead to a man being hung on a cross.
I wish the world was more like our dreams.
People could base all their actions on love.
I wish we could be all that we want.
I wish I could be all that I need.
I have nothing to offer, words don’t cast a spell.
Be kind to each other, remember this well.
In the Forest
In the centre of a forest
I find myself alone.
I am truly lost.
I look behind the way I came;
Broken branches, sodden leaves.
I crashed through there in dreams.
Night begins to fall,
no sky in view above.
I stand transfixed,
the ground beneath my feet,
unstable now,
green leaves
above a pit.
I cannot move.
No footprints lay ahead,
no markers left behind.
I can only wait,
deserved and destined fate.
I call for help.
I hear no answer,
just the echoes of my voice.
I will stand here
in the night and wait
until an answer comes.
No choice for me in that.
Darkness gathers round.
In the morning light will come
perhaps I’ll find
a clearer, open path
The Dreaming Path 