Mergers

I am grateful for what I gift
I am grateful for what I am gifted

In these contemplator’s moments
There are many images
Colours, faces, textures, places
Where history traces has best it can

And with the magical re-enacting
Of the opening of the Russian dolls
My mind is able to catwalk, and strut
Let go, with the speed of a lava stream

And it means something, to have
The bird feeder, beside the swirling chimes
To have the yellow wheelbarrow
Hold down the straying of the purple tent

And now with time for reflection
To produce a record for the archives
Such that in twenty years time
I will be able re-enact this moment

I am grateful for what I gift
I am grateful for what I have gifted

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Writing As A Pick Me Up Cure

This morning, even with the
Sunlight, and Tumblr’s fabulous
Pictures, I could become morose

It is what I do, with or
Without you, with or without
That great poet Pablo Neruda

This morning I am aching, it
Is a pain I carry, after the
Terrible falling

It is what I do, with or
Without you, with or without
That great painter Mark Rothko

This morning I am dishevelled
In an untidy room, that is painfully
Slow on the road to progress

It is what I do, with or
Without you, with or without
Those great meditation teachers

This morning I hear the birdsong
And pick up my fountain pen
At least then, as when with you, I am happy

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Imperfect Perceptions

The bedroom was shorter
Your buttons
Were closer together
I never said
How I wanted the treasure
To go on forever

The blossom was pinker
Your thoughts
Richer and untethered
I never said
How I hoped with endeavour
We might go on

The night-time was darker
Your dreams
All of stormy weather
I never said
How I could measure
Up; given the chance

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Chiaroscuro

Through the open door
Shadows of another door
Through the inhaled breath
Sounds of a ticking clock

After two weeks of storms
Slightly longer in pain
Waiting now for spring
The branches are still

Through the vacant mind
That only hears cars passing
There is no thought to time
To breathe is the blessing

What is the thing you leave
After close caressing
Will one always grieve
Before to begin undressing

All those hopes forlorn
Tickets stamped on, and torn
Thin edges gradually worn
Past promises once sworn

With today’s new shadows
Accompanied by slow breaths
We have the desire to go on living
Our light is free from living deaths

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A Light Touch Of OCD

In a short while I will
Become active
Rearrange the furniture
Tidy up the hi-fi, and computer
Listen, and look out for
Whatever disturbs me
Afterwards I might
Try to settle for peace
Or move
In the direction
Of perpetual reflection
Corrections to whats gone before
More of the stain
That my mind calls the plain
Where I go walking
Talking to myself
With these words
Writing to myself
With this pen

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Salon Night

Slow down
Watch out for the hi-hats
Skat’s off and he’s playing
The crowd’s hot and they're swaying
Slow down
Watch out for the night cats
Skat’s off and he’s playing
The crowd’s hot and they're swaying

Blue beat
And it’s raining
Skimming the life
The pianist is straying

Picker of steel
Working on the reel to reel
Laying it down
And feeling the feel

Slow down
Watch out for the hi-hats
Skat’s off and he’s playing
The crowds are loud
And the musicians are swaying
The musicians are hot
And tonight, o boy, we aren't half all swaying

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Painters & Poets

A clear glass vase, holding blue flowers
With bright sunlight catching
The cut free stems in the water

Six square-panes make up
This wood framed window with
Shadows and smears of rain

That looks out to the old
English oaks in Capability
Brown's middle and far distance

I might imagine, that right now
You Simena, are sat beside
Michael Gorban’s painting

Hanging in the cottage parlour
I might be more presumptuous
And think that the stains

Are from your tears, as
You write your farewell letter
That these thoughts still cross

My mind, and that young people
Still learn to recite war poetry
That, in any way

One’s imagination alone
Would be able to raise and dwell
On such a thing, is wondrous enough

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Finnish Film

Sometimes all that technical information
Distracts me from concentrating on the picture

But these notes were from Finland, and
I know a photographer from that country
(I should say I know his Uncle Peter better)

It is of grass, and stars, taken at night
He uses a long exposure
To simulate the strength of daylight

It is in October, nearby the lakeside chalet
Where they ventured
Each year, for a short vacation

His website talks of beginning again
With a larger, clearer view
Larger, and clearer, than what you may ask

I could tell you of the make and model
Of camera, the name and speed of film
The methodology employed for development

I could tell you all of this
For that information he easily releases
But thats not what we want to know now, or is it?

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Ses Touches

Sleep slips in
Its quiet movement
Brings the peace

And off I go; zip straight to
The Steppes, and The Tundra
Breeze by the neon-lights
Of good old Amsterdam

One more footstep
To the key locked door
Wherein lies
The bathroom with a view

Warmed so thoroughly through
In luxurious bubbles
Laying back
To take it all in

As the sleep
Who, with her quiet movements
Slips in

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Navigators

Search for the light of love
Not for the need to fight
Ease into the sight of love
As if the flying of the kite

That we should reach
For the right of love
With gentleness to teach
That calm insight of love
Such we need not preach

Include the mirth of love
There right from the birth
Leaning our earth into love
As if for all we are worth

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Lead In

By that Tree
Before this rain
Courtesy of
Dappled with shadow*

On that hilltop
Before this rain
Looking down on
A water reservoir

Under that sky
Before this rain
Hold of love
To the ripples

Far away from
Before this rain
The western shore
And sunsets light



Tree by Eva Roemer (1889-1977)
* on Tumblr

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Il Senti

For a moment
Defenceless
More though
Wishing for
No defence

Entirely, and surely
Vulnerable
Yet entirely
And surely
Overjoyed

Mutually
Beneficial
A soft kiss
On a soft neck
A warm hand wanders
Wherever it wants

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Dispersion

I can feel the pain begin to be suppressed
Offshoots set off down new tributaries
Which ought to be, as it ought to be
When love was split, and torn, that
The intensity at the core would
In turn undoubtedly diminish
But we know from the planet
That this is not, and never so
With each departing fragment
The sun centre becomes ever more
Ready to burn, ever more molten desire
I didn’t choose to talk of pain, and love together
Yet they are such suitable bedfellows, that I begin to
Spread outwards, follow on, mapping their direction

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The One And The Many

There are many flowers
And only one flower
There are many hands
And only one hand

Between the many
And the only one

There are hands
That hold flowers
There are flowers
That rest in hands

To rest and hold
Onto the only one
And the many, many hands
And flowers

Rest onto only one
Hold onto the many

The only one flower
Rests with you
Loves with you
The many hands
Hold on to you
Loves with you

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Among The Vegetation

Fields of cabbage, fields of sugar-beet
Fields of English potatoes
Fields where frozen minds might meet

Over hedgerows, and horizons the sunrise sweeps
Three miles of motorway distractions
Bring a cold chill to my heartache, also to my feet

Hard frost, low mist, blue sky, strong sun:
The shining morning armour is in truth silver foil
Yesterday’s perfumed garden becomes barren soil

A derelict farmhouse, set off by the single tree
Clouds and castles, in the land of country houses
Follow the wicked weekend, undoing cotton blouses

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Upside

Defeated man
Broken man
Angry man

Man
With coffee in his hands
And cake on the table

Disheartened man
Saddened man
Action man

Man
With pen in hand
About to write the fabula

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Streams and Vapours

There is poison in this life, I myself have written out a few prescriptions; there is also love in this life, and I myself have cashed in a few inclusive inscriptions

And for all that poisonous beauty, of spoilt love, there is ever more of the call of lust for all to fall back upon

I head down into the implicitly pink morning mist of the valley below

There is a warm certainty about letting oneself become lost, in the vagueness of what I take to be the last rites, of loves poisonous raptures

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Redirection

After my meditation:

I contemplate how to prevent the rain entering through my poorly thatched roof

For I was uncertain about the essential
And the inessential thoughts

Should we make love
Is it too late already
Is that really a word
That inessential

For certain I was unsure, quite unsure
About giving up, on the passions

Your thoughtful disturbances
Being one such immersion
I had no desire whatsoever
To ever emerge from

Afterwards I ponder:

You gave me the key of your heart, my love; then why do you make me knock?

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Cross To Bear

Over that hilltop
Big open sky
Church spire
Wind turbines
In the distance

Around that corner
On higher ground
Television mast
Wind turbines
Close behind

Higher ground and open skies
Resonant frequencies of love

Over that
Higher ground
Around that
Big open sky

Church spire, and television mast
Wind turbines; near and far

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Driven Discussions

A singular failure, at persuasion
My own intransigence easily boarded out
By those yet more intransigent

Our joint and culpable lack of flexibility
Observed by onlookers, with knowing smiles

The records will show no records were taken
No dissent shown
No attribution made to one-direction thinking

Twice in one week I will move on
Disappointed

I have had disappointments before
They will of course arise again
Que sera sera, my love

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Kelham Hall

I am sat alone, on the balcony in The Dome
The place of my older brothers second wedding

I have a recollection
Of a walk to a hotel
To see if we could find accommodation
For my younger brother

Another memory is of a bus;
My father, before he died, was a coach driver
And our family had a fondness for buses
But I can’t recall why there was a bus

Outside the ceremonial room
I remember a river, bottles of champagne
And one of my brothers friends
Spilling a drink all down his suit

I only called in because I saw a sign for coffee
Then all of this came tumbling by

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Into Season

The square table is set:

A clean, white, and heavy cotton cloth
With crossflow, geometric patterns
Sheffield stainless-steel, knives and forks
Laid in military rank, with precision

English oak chairs, with raffia seats
And open, upright slotted backs
We are in the bay, with a view
Across the promenade, to the sea

I have been out already; an early walk
To collect my thoughts, also to daydream
And I picked up a first edition of the paper
The daffodils are a nice touch; fresh life

Especially in springtime

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Aubade

These are the sounds
The moments of daybreak
Witnessed reverberations
Songs with silent pauses

Rattles that signify
The disappearance of love
Rumbles that sanctify
The reappearance of love

A time that I may plead
Just as when I lost you
A time that I may rejoice
Just as when I found you

A place where fallen stars
Rise again from the ashes
A place where springtime
Surges with your snowdrops

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Spread

Sometime today I will complete that book
Also I will take out time for meditation

Sat here in corduroy, and cardigan, I am content
There is a blue sky, and soft shadows on the paper

A quiet Sunday morning, in our small market town
Yesterdays birthday celebration was at the Italian

Today I rise to the warmth of well-set central heating
Earlier we made love, and wished each other well

I hope the photocopies turn out ok

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Son et Lumière

I feel the need to write
I have a desire to write
To write of the sunlit passions that consume me

Such light that falls on the bookshelves of poetry
Such a light which also casts a flowers shadow
Onto the magnolia wall

Light that reaches me, slumped in my armchair
Light that I know to be ever stronger
Creeps up behind me

Passion that caught me through yesterdays music
Passion that makes the heart beat
And then the brow sweat

Passion which says: what cannot be cannot be
Passion that consumes more than the sunlight
That you once deigned to fall upon me

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In Search of True

There really was no conversation!
Matisse, in the Museum of Modern Art
He caught the yellows, the fire of her sun
But otherwise...

The curve of the leather settee
Strewn with cushions and headphones
Tells something of a story
But otherwise...

That Fridays could become an entirely
New kind of day, where routines
Are now followed any other way
But otherwise...

It is no more, no more than a mindless
Distraction, mindful of the choice
To practice, yet again practice
Or otherwise...

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See-Saw

Crossing the bridge
Having just bought
The leeks and the sweet potatoes
Still thirty miles from home;
Warm feelings, calm feelings
Pleasant feelings
Feelings for you, feelings for me
Feelings for the two of us
Together

Scouring images
Having just logged on
To the laptop computer
Settling in, to a shared space;
Vague reminders, sharp reminders
Fanciful reminders
Reminders of you, reminders of me
Reminders of the two of us
Apart

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Reverberations

Sparkling waters I hear you in my dreams

Cool water, flowing down
Your clear mountain streams
O sparkling waters, I hear you in my dreams

Then I turn, turning round
I ask what does it mean
Sparkling waters that I hear you in my dreams

Do you wish to take me
From where my sadness seems
O sparkling waters, when I hear you in my dreams

You are as the song
I have heard soft and serene
Sparkling waters how I hear you in my dreams

O sparkling waters, o how I hear you in my dreams

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Relics

From the brutal
Concrete wall
To the softer face
Of the silver-sand beach

From the shallows
Where we strolled
To that loftier place
Where we stood to preach

Between the words
And the fabrics
Between the noise
And the cutter

All in all
It is the distance
From this pathway
To the stutter

All in all it is
In this instance
About the kernel
And the unpeeled nut…er

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Country Life

The bacon sizzles, into a crispy state
My nostrils are bathed in the aroma
Of frying fat, of frying pig

There are voices on the radio
Snippets of conversation from
The year just gone

Peter, whilst cooking
Talks about
The Venice Biennale

Then shows me his photographs
Of the local ‘shoot’
Such atmospheric beauty

Ploughed fields, long grasses
Wellington boots, long-guns, magazines
And the innocence of children

For them it is the first time
For me it is the latest time
For you it is the only time

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