Movements

I was warm
On that early summer afternoon
I had escaped to your presence
And I was happy

I was chilled
On that early morning in midsummer
I had escaped to the riverbank and bridge
And I was happy

I was dulled
By industrial life
I had escaped to a university
And I was happy

I am happy that I was happy
In your presence
By the riverbank and bridge
In the university

I had escaped to you
I am happy you were so kind

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Love Stream

If you love someone deeply
Their spirit enters your spirit
It is as if you suddenly become
Joined as spiritual blood-brothers

Just as if you had seared your skin
And pressed your bodies to one
Just as if you had consummated
With all the pleasure of your juices

And as if your minds had entered
This infinite orbit of luminous love
These are the bonds not to be broken
The rich jewels that lighten your path

There may be outwardly diversions
Even protracted distractions and eruptions
Fear not though for always in the ether
Your spirits will mingle for you to feel the joy

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Going...

We wont see, I bet
Our fading youth again
Not even that middle aged youth
Of when first we met

We might be blessed, unable to forget
The passing of time
Maybe then take our pleasure
Repeating the rhymes

It isn't forever
Whatever they say
Don’t ever consider
You may never decline

We fight, get stressed, trying
To find our love sublime
Leaving the well kept treasures
For those following on behind

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Duple

I could have lost her love
I might have lost it quite a while ago
I have not lost, at all
The places I was taken to

I am making maps
I lose myself in the making
I am finding myself
Through those ways I was taken

Even at Findhorn Foundation
Marriages are wrecked
Lives broken and torn apart
Souls safe havens are swept away

The rain arrives slowly
The rain arrives, quietly
I won’t ever forget
Never to forget

The wind is in the roof-space
The wind whistles at the windows
We were taken out on a boat
Speeding towards Bass Rock

The walls are bare
The walls, and windows are bare
There will be paintings
There will be warm conversations

My pains are ongoing
This morning; a difficult meditation
Even Jimi Hendrix and the curves
Of the Hebrides were vague

I have found her love
I found it quite a while ago
I have not found, at all
The lost times I was taken to

I am making maps
I find myself in the making
I am losing myself
Through those ways I take with her

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Coming Round To Being

I am that rattle-bag of old bones
A dull and decrepit mind
In a worn out body

I am feeling sorry for myself
And one of us doing that
It is one too many isn't it

I have forgotten a lot of people
Yet I am unable to forget everyone
Desire it seems always defeats me

Of those I do remember:
A few were at junior school
And a few more at grammar school

The black coffee
And granola bar are taking effect
As is the young woman two seats down

I am feeling better about myself
And one of us doing that
It is a beginning isn't it

I am that saddle-bag of new tomes
A full and encrypted mind
In a born to flout body

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Cogitate

I am coming back through to you

There may be even more souls invited

I am thinking of a thinker’s night

Twixt thoughts, of the body almighty

I rest myself writing to the blue of you

Among those other souls who delighted

I am sinking into a contemplative night

Unwrapping the roses of dear old Blighty

I have the time that I didn't have, for either

Of the previously untrue not yet sighted

I am winking teardrops at the pleasing night

Enlisting the hopes that abound so slightly

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Cobbled Up

I wake early
But already I
Hear Peter leaving

In someone else’s
House I tiptoe
Raise myself quietly

I boil the kettle
Find the refrigerator
Make a cup of tea

There is a light mist
But already daylight
On a beautiful day

The living room
Is dark, all curtains
Are closed, it is warm

I slowly draw back
The corner blackout
New-light streams in

I begin to read Jane’s
Book ‘Too busy
To live your life’
What with the birdsong
And the cockerels
I think that unlikely

This is the quiet
Of the countryside
A good day awakening

We drank their wine
Ate their chocolates
Listened to their music

And now I gaze, let
My eyes fall, onto the
Simple vase of freesias

This is a home, and
It is what we aim at:
Joy and bonhomie

Ash still cools, in
The open fire grate
We both say thank you

For your invitation
‘A good do’ we say
‘Pity it’s time to go’

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Suit Collection

It matters less if it works
Rather that someone tried to do it
It is in the trying
Where the real beauty is hidden

The photograph of moss
On the old outdoor doormat
The recollection of the dream
In the cool light of morning

It matters more that time is taken
Rather than to let it slip idly by
It is in the action of contemplation
Where the silence might bathe us

The fading daffodils
On the half-finished shelves
The clock that no longer turns
Over the shining Roman numerals

It matters the same for today
Rather like it will tomorrow
That the bright spring day
Brings warmth to the shoulder

That the busy market town
Is open, to and for all seasons

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Inspired

The nights journey
Reflected the days journey
The creative souls of the day
Came back to warm the night

Those hours of being inspired
Landed into a few dream moments
Distillations of the sensitive people
Instilled with a sense of self-wonder

You might look up Robert Plant
Or Bert Jansch, or Antony Gormley
If for just a few of their ideas, or for their
Words, and their experiences to touch you

You may of course have your own list
But please, choose it, from just one day
For somehow I think that to go to overload
Would be a detriment to our sensibilities

Best to aim for that level
Which we may be sensibly able
To physically, and psychologically
Handle our thoughts and our emotions

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Circuits

To the sensations of the left cheek
Where I visualised all the greens of the forest
And came peacefully to the recognition
That the ambiance of those times
Had created an openness within
Such that your words, your
Guided meditations moved me
To such an extent
That I had to tell everyone

Now, here alone in Derbyshire, England
Early in the morning, a light sky breaking
With the sensation in my upper left arm
Raising a visual accompaniment
Of snow in the fields, which fall
Gradually down to the farmhouse
In the slight misted valley below

And I am taken on many special journeys
With each new part of the body I survey
I arrive at a pleasant sensation, even
At the toes, which feel to be swaddled
In bandages, as if no longer entirely free
I will write, to ask of you
To mail your script for meditation, and
Thank you in advance, for the openness
With which I hope to redeem it

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Blues & White

Experiencing beauty
Makes you more beautiful
Experiencing creativity
Makes you more creative
Experiencing inspiration
Makes you more inspired
Experiencing confidence
Makes you more confident
Clean blue jeans
Clean white shirt
It must be Saturday morning
Experiencing repetition
Makes you more judicious

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Day

Nice to go home early
Time to be on my own
Time to think of you
In ways not possible
With the disturbance
Of external forces

The warmth, and the dizziness
The cold, and the calculating

Nice to go home early
To think of you
In the interests of my own
Pleasure and satisfaction
Down the garden path
Unlocking the glass door

The breeze, and the sunlight
The expectation, and the belief

Nice to go home early
To think of you

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What We Do

For a few moments
I have the silence
I ought not to waste it

Outside is a white-blue sky
And a good wind in the trees
I think of you, listening
To our disruptive words

It is hard to let go
It is easier to be angry

Or at least it seems so
Without the breath
Of meditation to calm me

Which itself becomes a force
For misplaced attention

The ears ring louder today; tube
Train experiences in circulation
So much activity in so little time
No wonder a shot of angst arose

Yesterday may well have been
The end of a gentle winter; in the park
Old men sat, reading their old newspapers

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Velvet And Vine

I cross-connect the cool spring breeze
With a smile and the pouch of musk
Where my heart wrestles on such
Wonderfully inauspicious moments

Your almost lack of absence brings
With it the calm of freedom from
Emotional distress as if stepping off
The life and love roller coaster

Although to have a woman to hold
Do you remember how I held you
Would you dear, allow me now
To remind myself once again

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Transferred

It is without connection
Pen freed from paper
Darkness freed from light
Lust freed from love
Mind freed from body
Hope freed from despair

The decline, differentiated
To the flatness of the earth
The deceleration, integrated
Beneath the snow capped peak

It is without transformation
Thoughts freed from deed
Taste freed from touch
Warmth freed from cold
Presence freed from absence
Joy freed from angst

Further decline, attenuated
To the seas hollow echoes
Further deceleration, exemplified
Beneath the moon filled sky

We are without transference
We are without connectivity

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Societies

Winter is over
The tea room is open
Tomorrow we go to London
Spring is in the air

The discussion is about Easter
When is it, why is it
That it fluctuates so
Apparently it’s a religion thing

The conversation moves on
To daffodils; all will be gone
By Easter, same for peonies
It seems, so I am led to understand

I thought I might find peace
But no, not here, not with gardeners
In such profusion, talking habitually
About The Habitat Society

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Once More

The pen top is taken off
Clicked onto the non-writing
Section - securely

You have not gone away
Even among these rather mundane
Words you waltz in the ether

The wind traverses
From the garden, through
The hallway to my shoulder

You might never go away
Even among inconsequential words
Your presence often dances

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Building Project

I am observing roof beams
And their agricultural attachments
Then, quite unexpectedly
I hear the birdsong

I could quite easily take a nap

With the sun warming me
Through my jet-black clothing

With my mind slowing down
To the pace of cake and coffee

I have to make a move, to re-engage

This space, or its equivalent
Could be formed from our old
Stables - yes it would work
And we ought to get on with it

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Stove

I see you at the first light
I see you as a buddha might
In his gold and contemplative robes

It is true I suffer from the short sight
Never knowing how to put things right
That is, as it seems, the way life goes

I cross the bridge of dear delight
So lucky to have caught that last flight
There is a purpose I presuppose

Sipping gin, and feeling tight
Floating high and flying kites
Every which way the wind blows

At the lake, close on up to midnight
Trailing paths and fleeing fright
It is the time when the love grows

Our fire of hope is burning bright
We have a fair and reasonably clear
Hold of the insight

Wait for the dreams
As dreamers only know
We are turning back to the first light

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Repeatedly

I lost my way
Easier to
Harder to
Nearer to
Far further away

I look on the day
Uncertain
Unsettled
Unusually
With momentum

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Repeat

I lost my way
It all came too easily
I lost my way
But today
Things are going to change

It is time to rearrange
Discard what’s no longer needed
Feed my mind and body
With all that’s good and better
Lift the hood and take a look

Undue what’s stuck
Run amok with the new
Become one of the few
To do just what you choose
It's as easy to win as to lose

I lost my way
I’ve done it so often
I lost my way
But today
Things are going to change

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Out Of Reach

Sulphurous dust parades along the fragmented lines of the faraway horizon
To the south a fire cloud is billowing, yet so faraway that the source remains unseen

The artist would make a better job of this than my words have ever conjured; my friend, the photographer, he would have captured both the essence of the scene, and the escarpments of my mood in its reflection

I am tempted to leave it at that - to know when one is beaten is no bad thing is it?

The problem though is that the artist and the photographer were not present, they never are, and they most likely never will be

I will persevere, recollecting my night overlooking Lyme Regis promenade when I innocently professed about the way the writer has more tools, at his elbow, than either the picture taker or the picture maker; right now I am a little unsure about my poem Now There Is No Horizon; for perhaps I have gone beyond

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Elements

Water flows over a stone
Love sails onto the ocean

From ocean to stone
From stone to ocean

Love is our soul’s commandment
Water is our self’s enchantment

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Church Plaque

John Henry Vessey
Was not slothful in business
And his soul is laid to rest
And his body waits for the sunrise

John Henry
John Henry
Soul laid to rest
Body waiting for the sunrise

And they sing their songs
And they tell their stories
And we fill their coffee cups
And we eat their chocolate biscuits

John Henry
John Henry
Soul laid to rest
Body waiting for the sunrise

John Henry Vessey
Was not slothful in business
And his soul is laid to rest
And his body waits for the sunrise

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C & C

A long way from
Cold comfort farm
It is too cold for comfort

Sat at a non wiped table
In a converted aluminium barn
I feel too old for comfort

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Twin-Heads

Only by leaving
Through a door
Down a path
Into a big wide world

Only by action
More than breathing
More than thinking
Yes, by actually doing

Only by stopping
Slowly, and so surely, observing

Only by waiting
For the light, and the shadow

Remembering midnight
Church moths in the headlights
Remembering afternoon poems
Butterflies in the garden

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Said

I left that place
Where I was alone
To move to a new place
Where I am alone

One place had loneliness
One place had peace

Still I search for both
When I am alone

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Instant

That this time
As the pen writes on the paper
Before the keyboard is tapped

That I might engage
In more than myself
To be with you for a few moments

Walking down the garden
I don’t want to say any more
Not just now

It is not the fear of flight
For I have often flown

It is not the fear of immersion
For I was often immersed

It is not the fear of crying
For I feel crying to be a brave gesture

But just for that moment
I had to stop
I was welling up, and felt quite hopeless

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Hemswell Cliff Antiques

I feel like a young man
But how old am I
They look like old people
But how young are they

Would it help
If we knew each others story
Would it make a difference
To make structural alterations
And provide surface decoration

I feel like an old man
But how young am I
They look like young people
But how old are they

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What We Make Of Life

I am missing my half-way cup of coffee
It would have been about this time
Instead I listen to the dishwasher
And the upstairs floors creaking

I might forget the days
This one is a Monday
I won’t forget the nights
Still, quiet, aloud in passion

I had the dreams
Of a man on vacation
Engaging, satisfying, no trouble
And a few of my favourite people

Now the domestic noise is gone
And I listen to the wind
(Always thinking of King Crimson)
I look out onto leafless trees

Tomorrow will be aTuesday
Already the dishwasher begins again
The doves and pigeons are fluttering
The distant factory is in full production

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More Or Less

The gloss is the gloss
The words have no more
Or no less meaning

The body is bathed in light
The same light today
As two thousand years ago

The reflections are the reflections
The thoughts have no less
Or no more meaning

The mind is bathed in silence
The same silence today
As two thousand years ago

The dreams are the dreams
The deeds have no more
Or no less meaning

The soul is bathed in love
The same love today
As two thousand years ago

The life is the life
The rewards have no less
And no more  meaning

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