The Philosophy Of Freedom

I cannot watch my thought

Rudolf Steiner says so

Yet I can watch the dust mote fall

Through the air as I write this

Yes I am able, to watch, and to write

At almost one and the same time

Yet, to view that thought just then about you

No, no that is no longer possible

I could go back further in time

Maybe find a photograph for reference

Yet however strong the concentration

That thought, in real time, would not be visible

Yes I could imagine walking, on firm rippled sands

Even to be running, towards the Machair, in the rain

Yet, as I think I thought these thoughts

I cannot see my own thought processes

I will myself, to make certain things happen

And already you may know where this is going

Yet it seems that I cannot help myself

No matter that I cannot see through to the thought

Yes, nostalgia may interrupt, or interject

Messages might arise from deeply buried memories

Yet no amount of persistence, or even shadow boxing

Will let the ether of me, see the fading thought of you

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Turner And The Whale

The air of past permissions

Rings quietly anew

No amount of indecisions

Can taint the favoured hue

O ship of ice

O sky of blue

O tumbling spice

O pray be true

The fair of cold collisions

Rings quietly anew

No count of derisions

Can paint the boarding crew

O ship of ice

O sky of blue

O tumbling spice

O pray be true

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Indelible

How easy it is

To change a word or phrase

Either to save face, or

To create an entire new meaning

How insincere the lead pencil

Which allows the eraser

To make disappear

What once was gifted

So, in the next book

A return to pen and ink

Once more to go down the tramlines

To a certain, if unreachable, destination

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Worthy In Wortley

Sat

With my arm on the warm radiator

Waiting

For my tea-time meal to be served

There you have it

In my 65th year

Not too too cold too too often

Not too too hungry, or anywhere near

So, a charmed life

Do I hear you say

Or an ordinary life

For those who know me better

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Tell, Tell Somebody

I ought to write

About the light fading

About the wind turbines

Slowing down

About the frost

Laying deep, and crisp, and even

I ought to tell you

That this is the top

Of the Pennines, near to

My forefather’s roots

That nearby are still

Some of my family

I could tell you

That as I sat, in those 

Spare few moments

And after

A calm conversation

With my eldest son

I had an empathy

For everyone who

Feels themselves

To be alone

Or feels themselves

To be lonely

I know that the emerging

Darkness, and the loss

Of the horizon

Will do little

Or nothing at all

To relieve their pain

I have all but completed

My Christmas shopping

Cards, and gifts

For family and friends

Who, through my sixty-five years

Have mostly spared me

From the emptiness of loneliness

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