Words

 

that linger like a perfume,

Old songs on repeat,

What's that on the flip-side -

Are the lyrics bittersweet ?

Is Not

 

Writing's not a comfy chair

Alan Bennett said 

And I thought 

A person's not a house

Character's not clothes

Love is not a bunch of roses

A cloud really is a cloud

When is it not

And rain is just the rain until

The future forms

A flooded land

Whereupon we'll wade

Or swim while waiting

for a miracle 

to come 

Salvation on arrival is

Strong arms pulling me

from the wreckage pile,

A hero's heart who put to sea

in raging storms to rescue 

those in peril running scared,

Gentle hands who guided 

and is not 

immune to fear 

but more attuned to care

The writer's brain has blocked

Old pain, unspoken things,

The writer’s chair is hard 

and without wings,

 

No soft upholstered air borne 

shipping crate with covered up 

supportive springs.

I'm scared to go there

and sit, cat-like, looking 

askance at the crate. 

I can't fear what I don't know

Schrödinger's ghost rocks the plane

and I am shivering again.  

 

We learn to point it's strange

Baby thinks the toy is gone

But it's just behind a book,

Take the other from under your hat

See the joy in baby's look

What does she think of that ?

If you take the book away,

Baby now can see there's two,

What will baby learn to say ?

Is that the world or is that you ?

It's just a game, 

That's fun to play,

Does it somehow shape a brain ?

Or will babies always have 

Their own individual way

Of thinking 

About Time

Time

A song

Which or whom came first in all the every 

things like eggs and chicks and stuff and dust and 

When did people start to feel so empty 

sensing life is running away like sand

A notion in a dream once showed it’s self 

And asked what if the stuff of life could be 

undone like all the letters on a shelf 

Just swept away and we like birds were free 

to fly with songs upon our newborn wings  

and carry twigs like words away to make

Some other worldly home where sadness brings

Its bags upon its weary back to break 

the cycle of destruction so to bring

A steady state of joy where birds can sing.

Dichotomy2

                                                    Dicho                                                tomy

                                              two parts                                                       cutting

                                                                      The beautiful mystery

                                                                       that leads to growth.

                                                                      A division of parts;


                               branching                                   and                                            branching.



                               The one that cannot be                                                                  the other,

                                                                            or part of it.

                              The essential nature                                                                           of life.


                              Not Yin Yang,                                                                   more the moon in

                              its first quarter,                                                              then its third quarter.


                             The one that                         complements                                       the other.

                             The dance of a couple                                                  where neither touches.

                             The one place here                                                     and the other one there.

                             The never the twain                                                                shall ever meet.

                               Unless the universe reveals its other laws to us and growth takes on

                                          an                                                                               other



                                                                                 p
                             a                                                  t                                                                   t
e                                                                               r                                                                               n

Snapshot

 

In the veggie cafe,

He sits  infront of her,

Telling her like it all is,

Like she doesn't  know.

He thinks she looks revolutionary,

Kindred spirit, with 

Newly cropped hair,

Big Doc Marten boots, but

She's just getting ready to jump.

A dice with death let's say.

What do you want she asks

Smash the government, he replies

fist demonstrates his depth of feeling.

They both need healing,

Something to change. 

Next week sees him running round

Knocking on doors and shouting

For someone to join him,

Help him

She's in the back of a landrover

on the way to an airfield

where she'll see the sunset,

Four thousand miles up. 

*

Be Here Now

Being Here

It’s ghia here in Kelter

There’s nothing to filter  

It’s clear that here

is wild and pure 

And Nobody owns her

No need to protect her 

We all learn to love her 

You’ll find your kilter 

When you come to Kelter

You won't ever leave her 

cos she'll always be with you 

Unpolished

 

The Ocean

Throws up a stone,

Flattish, nearly round,

Found by a child,

Who feels it,

The rasping nick,

It's nearly a heart.

Salt water laps at their feet,

Hungry for the stone back,

It's incomplete

The child skims the stone,

It bounces along 

Waves trying to catch it

Hearing their name called,

Child, 

Looks back to the land,

Each wave draws the stones back,

The sand slows our child's progress

towards the sound,

Loving each step,

The depth of the course, grey sand

pulls down like quicksand,

A lovely sinking feeling

Lulling

The little sojourner performs a strange

slow dance

when laughter from the voice

beckons

Come on you,

It's time,

Race you back 

Wishes - a thought experiment on grief

You must be specific with wishes. 

A genie has already spent one hour paying close attention to the details of a special teddy bear whose fur must be a certain shade of pink, whose smell be a specific kind of sweet and whose voice be an absolute replica of a deeply loved one. 

The child, though only six years old, knows not to ask for the loved one to be returned in full, having fully understood the concept of death because of experiencing it first hand. 

People cannot be wished back to life. That's something fully understood by the child who has prayed and wished for this over and over again and been held in her despair by others who dearly love her but not, perhaps as dearly as the one the child has wished for. 

The child who knows what happens in life when a dearly loved one dies, loses hope but gains experience and understanding which goes very deep into their soul. 

When the genie has granted the child's three wishes, the colour, the smell, the voice, the teddy bear itself is the gift from the genie, encompassing the three wishes, after which, the genie has little time or patience to listen to the wishy washy vaguely articulated wonts of the ones who come begging after. 

It'll wear off, or at least fade no doubt. Genies have a job to do. Genie will return to work and pay more attention, but perhaps with a little diminished enthusiasm. Which is totally understandable. 

                                                          **