The black mirror you stare at so long and so hard
Has attached itself to the palm of your hand
To show you the breeding of chaos worldwide
And all that doesn’t belong to you
And all the things you want to own
And all the things you never will
As the moments pass by
The black screens flicker
Thousands of words and images fly
Bewitching your eyes
Numbing your brain
With half truths and lies
And glimpses of thoughts you’re too busy to grasp
As you peddle on cycles inside the gym
No sun, no rain, no air, no wind
You’ve forgotten where the real roads begin
You never look in anyone’s eyes
words
Advice to a Very Young Poet
Forget the alphabet of facts.
Savour sensual sound,
roll it round and round,
feel it on your tongue,
let it be your guide.
Use the harshness of the axe,
use the gentle kiss,
whisper, sigh and shout.
Cast ideas out,
dream and quest,
forget yourself,
follow words where they lead,
open wide your mind
and let the image in.
Turn beauty upside down.
Make the ugly beautiful.
Make beauty out of darkness.
When summer comes, rejoice,
jump up and down and sing.
In savage waves be sure to drown,
lose your breath and meaning,
experience every feeling.
Ask what life’s about,
seek the truth,
accept no less,
make an honest, brief beginning.
Freedom
I was a painter.
I still am I suppose.
It’s the way I look at the world.
Light, form, colour and line
and all the spaces between.
But how do you paint
The scent of a rose?
Or the touch of your hand on my skin?
They both have some essence of pink, dusk, white?
For this I would rather have words
and the freedom to speak my own heart.
Sonnet for Juniper
I love you in the morning when you wake.
I love you when I wait to hear you speak.
I love you ev’ry time I glance at you.
I’ve loved you from the start. We lost our way.
All the things you felt, you didn’t say.
Through storms and floods I tried to find your hand.
Yes, loving you became a part of me.
It didn’t break. It wouldn’t go away.
When you walk in the room, I start to breathe.
I feel you all around me ev’rywhere.
My heart’s too full to speak. No need for words.
So when the day grows quiet beside the fire
I may say less then, than I said before,
but wrap you in my arms and love you more.
Sycamores
Under southern summer stars
she dreams at night
of northern winds
sighing in the sycamore,
whispering of kisses.
The rain on rooftops
hisses.
A shadow falls across her bed
and fills her head with tender words,
unheard again,
unspoken yet,
until the morning comes.
Unsaid
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
On Wires (ghazal)
there are always birds on the telegraph wires
today i saw thirteen on the wires
the number gave me pause for thought
our fortune hangs on silver wires
life seems to come from the choices we make
but we swing like puppets on wires
we call our friends to discuss and debate
endless words are buzzing through wires
to try and untangle the troubles we face
we struggle to loosen the binding wires
you think we’re all alone in this world
but we’re all connected by wires
the birds in the evening fly away
moonlight shines on the wires
Voices
What i miss most are the voices;
the sleepy mutter at breakfast,
the shouting,
from one end of the house to the other,
and the slamming of doors,
see you later.
Those serious talks while washing up,
the flood of sound as friends burst in
welcome but unexpected,
the laughter and tales over dinner,
the distant voices out on the beach,
as the sun sinks in purples and pinks,
their words just out of reach,
then the quiet,
when all grows tender and hushed,
bringing the whispers of nightfall.
Prim Victorian (Mary-Anne)
prim, Victorian, grim-lipped
in black cotton and lace
such a face
made of stone and ice
but her dark, lustrous eyes
burn with such heat
intense,
wandering feet
rebellious daughter
of a Methodist minister
preaching an older tradition
burnt in witch-fire
for generations
they line up behind her,
the warrior peasants,
exploited,
delighting in word play,
aware of their ancient glories
and treasuring stories
passed down the line,
tongue to ear
ear to tongue
repeating
returned from the snows of Alaska
frost-bitten, exhausted,
helped there,
by like-minded peoples,
she returned to a British hearth
to sit in the corner
just as she sits now,
very still,
rarely speaking,
captured and framed,
staring at me through a lens
Clearly he adores her
– he is the one at fault
remember that,
keep a note,
don’t be fooled by what follows,
– but remember he loves her
and wants her love in return
– be sure to get the full picture
he told her the truth
he needed time to think
she dragged words out of him
words he didn’t want to speak
not then, not there, maybe never
later, when the storm was over,
one romantic evening
when the stars were bright,
and music was playing sweetly,
he told her a story
one that reminded him so much of her
she analyzed it
explored his sub-conscious for clues
she only saw her own eyes looking back
she denied she was part of his vision
she twisted the tale out of all shape
leaving a big gaping hole
that only she could ever fill
– later she said she was sorry
he took her out dancing,
she probably never wanted to go,
she sat there is total silence
and when he asked what was wrong
she said she had bought the office files along
his pride, for a brief moment,
made him think he should stand up and leave
but he was fascinated by the file contents,
of course,
everything about her
and the life that they share
fascinates him
– it’s all part of their love anyway
he gave her a gift
she asked if he was trying to change her
why would he want to change her?
– it’s totally clear he adores her
if she was late would he wait for her?
yes he would, of course,
as long as she liked
– time doesn’t matter
when she returned, rather late,
she chose to remind him
(how could he ever forget it)
of her rules and his own folly
(if folly it truly was)
she had remembered the storm
and was still feeling angry
just sometimes
– just then
now he’s angry too
– angry he is sad
– sad he is angry
he can’t sleep
because
he has always
truly
loved her
– it’s so clear,
he
simply
adores
her
*************************************
for those with a short attention span
here is the abbreviated version
– he was the one at fault
– it’s all part of their love
– time doesn’t matter
– sad he is angry
– angry he is sad
– it’s totally clear he adores her
– the truth is she loves him too
The Dreaming Path 