I find a sheltered place
Here among the sand dunes
Behind me, the muted roar of the waves
In front of me, directly, remnants of hawthorn
Turned, black, and grey, and spiky
By the days of midday sun
Today my lunch is, a mindfully eaten
Prawn and mayonnaise sandwich
On wholemeal bread
Rather less mindfully
I guzzle the zero sugar Sprite
A sort of poor man’s lemonade
That I write this is exactly
As how I thought a shelter ought to be
Exactly how I imagined
That a writer might find his place
For the words not to be worried
But thoughtful, at one with the world
If it was ten degrees warmer
If the sea could be clear and blue
If the creepy crawlies
Did not creep all over my page
If all of that were true my friend
This would not still be such a quiet place
Of course I do not
Have to take an aeroplane
Or climb aboard
A luxurious small yacht
Which would take me
Down the Adriatic coast
From Split to Dubrovnik
All the while with eighteen other couples
Whom I may or may not care for
Although, in any event, I am quite sure
A very different sort of shelter
Would be formed
Friday, 31 January 2020
Thursday, 30 January 2020
In today’s meditation
In today’s meditation
I ended up back in the Bow room
It was not as intended
I meant to go somewhere altogether different
That a previous incarnation of meditation
Was stronger
Than the recently viewed images
May say something about my mind
About the flexibility, or the lack of
For the fixations previously fixated
Or perhaps of being nearer to a truth
Than the truth I choose not to let go of
Yet, as Maslow says
I can be both engineer and poet
Which in this instance I take to mean
I can be both meditator and voyeur
That I choose to light up my life
Or I could say, that I choose to take shelter
In that which can no longer be reached
Also may say something about my mind
About its complications or its simplicity
About its divergence or its convergence
About its old habits or its new explorations
About its lack of, or its depth of memory
Back then to the Bow room
The feeling of welcome, of security
A still place, yet with huge windows
To watch the world pass by
As those womenfolk did
With their wheelbarrows
Transporting hardcore
With occasional breaks for a cigarette
As they construct
The pathway
To the old church or
The new contemplation shelter
I ended up back in the Bow room
It was not as intended
I meant to go somewhere altogether different
That a previous incarnation of meditation
Was stronger
Than the recently viewed images
May say something about my mind
About the flexibility, or the lack of
For the fixations previously fixated
Or perhaps of being nearer to a truth
Than the truth I choose not to let go of
Yet, as Maslow says
I can be both engineer and poet
Which in this instance I take to mean
I can be both meditator and voyeur
That I choose to light up my life
Or I could say, that I choose to take shelter
In that which can no longer be reached
Also may say something about my mind
About its complications or its simplicity
About its divergence or its convergence
About its old habits or its new explorations
About its lack of, or its depth of memory
Back then to the Bow room
The feeling of welcome, of security
A still place, yet with huge windows
To watch the world pass by
As those womenfolk did
With their wheelbarrows
Transporting hardcore
With occasional breaks for a cigarette
As they construct
The pathway
To the old church or
The new contemplation shelter
Wednesday, 29 January 2020
I may not be here always
I may not be here always
But I am here right now
I don’t step on diamond causeways
But do feel near myself somehow
It is true I was once in Vienna
For a little while
Soon I will go to Sienna
To savour the Italian style
Railway carriages will be my shelter
For mile on Tuscany mile we ride
A smile for this springtime delta
With the mother of the bride
Not that I could help her
For the daughter is in charge
And in that heat we may swelter
While the vino is served so so large
These are different days
Than what they might have been
Yes, these are convoluted ways
The like so so seldom seen
The path could have gone elsewhere
The shelter not so secure or calm
A passion still to find there
To walk out arm in arm
But with neither land nor money
The prospects were not so bright
Far from the milk and honey
It became hard to see the light
I may not have been here always
Though I am here right now
I didn’t see the diamond causeways
But did find myself somehow
But I am here right now
I don’t step on diamond causeways
But do feel near myself somehow
It is true I was once in Vienna
For a little while
Soon I will go to Sienna
To savour the Italian style
Railway carriages will be my shelter
For mile on Tuscany mile we ride
A smile for this springtime delta
With the mother of the bride
Not that I could help her
For the daughter is in charge
And in that heat we may swelter
While the vino is served so so large
These are different days
Than what they might have been
Yes, these are convoluted ways
The like so so seldom seen
The path could have gone elsewhere
The shelter not so secure or calm
A passion still to find there
To walk out arm in arm
But with neither land nor money
The prospects were not so bright
Far from the milk and honey
It became hard to see the light
I may not have been here always
Though I am here right now
I didn’t see the diamond causeways
But did find myself somehow
Tuesday, 28 January 2020
I write this
I write this
While just sitting, just listening
To Adyashanti’s discourse
On just sitting
He asks
What does it mean
To do nothing at all; of course
I don’t do nothing, I write
And what do I write of
What do I question for myself
It is: can I find shelter in nothing at all
Can the nothing at all embrace me
I had felt, or rather I had seen
That almost nothing, that almost nowhere
I was driving on recovered land
I was on marshes and fens
It was a quiet time
Nothing was being asked of me
Shelter was my pencil and paper
My shelter was what I might think of
It was a gentle, generous place
Though my mind took me off elsewhere
I would, through time, use my memory
To distil what might or might not be
I cast myself into the openness
Into Adyashanti’s waking-dream
Where no outside activity
Would care to, or try to interfere
I was being, the rain was pouring
I was taken by the ease
Of which it was suggested
That I make a telephone call to the old shelter
While just sitting, just listening
To Adyashanti’s discourse
On just sitting
He asks
What does it mean
To do nothing at all; of course
I don’t do nothing, I write
And what do I write of
What do I question for myself
It is: can I find shelter in nothing at all
Can the nothing at all embrace me
I had felt, or rather I had seen
That almost nothing, that almost nowhere
I was driving on recovered land
I was on marshes and fens
It was a quiet time
Nothing was being asked of me
Shelter was my pencil and paper
My shelter was what I might think of
It was a gentle, generous place
Though my mind took me off elsewhere
I would, through time, use my memory
To distil what might or might not be
I cast myself into the openness
Into Adyashanti’s waking-dream
Where no outside activity
Would care to, or try to interfere
I was being, the rain was pouring
I was taken by the ease
Of which it was suggested
That I make a telephone call to the old shelter
Monday, 27 January 2020
I am on an Easter break
I am on an Easter break
From my Home-Made PhD
The sky is blue
The breeze is cool
There is still much work to be done
The pampas grass stands tall and voluminous
The blossom tree more spindly
There is a tall hedge behind me
Where there are rattles caused by humans
Which echo the birdsong
This is the half-clear mind
Which sees, which records
Which almost settles itself
Yet which always seems to know
There is still much work to be done
That is, to find shelter
In the shelter of I
That is, to find shelter
In the shelter of my own mind
In the shelter of mine own body
Yes, I can observe
I can enter the awareness
I can tell you that the breeze
Tries to become a wind
Yes, it tries to become something other
And so it is
So it has been for so so many years
Time spent in thought of something other
With heart and soul outstretched, knowing that
There is still much work to be done
From my Home-Made PhD
The sky is blue
The breeze is cool
There is still much work to be done
The pampas grass stands tall and voluminous
The blossom tree more spindly
There is a tall hedge behind me
Where there are rattles caused by humans
Which echo the birdsong
This is the half-clear mind
Which sees, which records
Which almost settles itself
Yet which always seems to know
There is still much work to be done
That is, to find shelter
In the shelter of I
That is, to find shelter
In the shelter of my own mind
In the shelter of mine own body
Yes, I can observe
I can enter the awareness
I can tell you that the breeze
Tries to become a wind
Yes, it tries to become something other
And so it is
So it has been for so so many years
Time spent in thought of something other
With heart and soul outstretched, knowing that
There is still much work to be done
Sunday, 26 January 2020
Bath Abbey
Bath Abbey
On that rainy day many years ago
That space also then a shelter
A hideaway from the design education courses
Where we played games, and made mischief
Where we were adults being teenagers
Computing was the new space
Itself to become one hell of a shelter
After those helter-skelter times
With socials and a midnight discotheque
Before the significant police presence
Brought the evening to a close
Dance then was our shelter
Dance, inebriation, and music
Was, for the moment, the food of love
The shelter of lust
This might not have been exactly
As I remember, but it was neat
We did find shelter, we were alive
Inside, and outside
And way beyond our regular shelters
On that rainy day many years ago
That space also then a shelter
A hideaway from the design education courses
Where we played games, and made mischief
Where we were adults being teenagers
Computing was the new space
Itself to become one hell of a shelter
After those helter-skelter times
With socials and a midnight discotheque
Before the significant police presence
Brought the evening to a close
Dance then was our shelter
Dance, inebriation, and music
Was, for the moment, the food of love
The shelter of lust
This might not have been exactly
As I remember, but it was neat
We did find shelter, we were alive
Inside, and outside
And way beyond our regular shelters
Saturday, 25 January 2020
With the sound of the bell
With the sound of the bell
It is as if
I am in the monastery at Plum Village
Although, as yet
It is not a place where I have ever been
But it is somewhere
Where I feel I would be welcomed
The vibrations
And the slowly decaying hum
Act as a shelter
They are that covered archway
Into the refuge, into the shelter of meditation
It is as if
I am in the monastery at Plum Village
Although, as yet
It is not a place where I have ever been
But it is somewhere
Where I feel I would be welcomed
The vibrations
And the slowly decaying hum
Act as a shelter
They are that covered archway
Into the refuge, into the shelter of meditation
Friday, 24 January 2020
The door-well
The door-well
To the north transept of Bath Abbey
Or looking out
From the rooftops of Durham Cathedral
With a view of Her Majesty’s Prison
A police raid at Sunday night’s discotheque
Was it Van Mildert’s portrait
Which looked down on me
Or was it someone more revered
On the wall in the dining hall
A photograph, of a painting, in a catalogue
I sat on that bench, wearing earphones
A series of plaques
Make the piece named Monument
This was my escape to art as shelter
Another photographer, this one makes a film
To explore yoga, meditation, healing
I tell a friend, also a photographer
About this mindful body of works
To share in the shelter of these images
Another message; about rejection
Or is it about perseverance
Then the grateful words on non-avoidance
If I do not take a risk
Will I find the wonderment of shelter
May Day
Lying on the headland grass
I do have a photograph
When I wore a green and silver shirt
As an emblem for a lover seeking shelter
Who, earlier in the day
If truth be told
Had already
Found his accommodation
Though that photograph is not at hand
To the north transept of Bath Abbey
Or looking out
From the rooftops of Durham Cathedral
With a view of Her Majesty’s Prison
A police raid at Sunday night’s discotheque
Was it Van Mildert’s portrait
Which looked down on me
Or was it someone more revered
On the wall in the dining hall
A photograph, of a painting, in a catalogue
I sat on that bench, wearing earphones
A series of plaques
Make the piece named Monument
This was my escape to art as shelter
Another photographer, this one makes a film
To explore yoga, meditation, healing
I tell a friend, also a photographer
About this mindful body of works
To share in the shelter of these images
Another message; about rejection
Or is it about perseverance
Then the grateful words on non-avoidance
If I do not take a risk
Will I find the wonderment of shelter
May Day
Lying on the headland grass
I do have a photograph
When I wore a green and silver shirt
As an emblem for a lover seeking shelter
Who, earlier in the day
If truth be told
Had already
Found his accommodation
Though that photograph is not at hand
Thursday, 23 January 2020
I had been allocated a study bedroom
I had been allocated a study bedroom
Advised that I could use the refectory
And the library, for my study week
Alone at Warwick University
I don’t recollect if I had a choice of where to go
Or of what I, or they, hoped I would achieve
In this time, mostly of solitude
These moments of being the outlier
I cannot remember the halls of residence
Or if there was a Thursday night party
Which there usually is
At Open University Summer Schools
This was my Technology Project year
Almost the conclusion to my BA Honours
Yet it might have been the final straw
To break me away from engineering How often I have found my shelter
In those study-like bedrooms
With bed, desk, window
And next to nothing else
How often have I entered
Through utilitarian doors
To settle myself, to ground myself
In the strangely familiar surroundings
A corridor waits outside
To a kitchen, or a common room
Maybe to a set of stairs
Or directly to the out of doors
I have written there
In longhand, and on computer
I have made, and also received
Telephone calls from lovers
Advised that I could use the refectory
And the library, for my study week
Alone at Warwick University
I don’t recollect if I had a choice of where to go
Or of what I, or they, hoped I would achieve
In this time, mostly of solitude
These moments of being the outlier
I cannot remember the halls of residence
Or if there was a Thursday night party
Which there usually is
At Open University Summer Schools
This was my Technology Project year
Almost the conclusion to my BA Honours
Yet it might have been the final straw
To break me away from engineering How often I have found my shelter
In those study-like bedrooms
With bed, desk, window
And next to nothing else
How often have I entered
Through utilitarian doors
To settle myself, to ground myself
In the strangely familiar surroundings
A corridor waits outside
To a kitchen, or a common room
Maybe to a set of stairs
Or directly to the out of doors
I have written there
In longhand, and on computer
I have made, and also received
Telephone calls from lovers
Wednesday, 22 January 2020
Mark Chagall
Mark Chagall
Whose stained glass we saw
Last year, in Tudeley Chapel
He died in 1985
He was born in 1887
He was the oldest of the artists
Who died in 1985
You too would find longevity
If you take the time
To sit awhile
In the peace of Tudeley Chapel
As the sunbeams stream through
Moishe Zakharovich Chagall’s
Stained glass windows
You too should discuss humanity
If you arrive
Just after Sunday service
When the congregation
Are no longer congregated
But free to talk
To talk widely and deeply
You too could wait outside
Sit on a bench
In the graveyard
Or wander around this place of shelter
With your SLR camera
Taking photographs
Of this years July flowers
You too may also smile
Be thankful
Be happy
Be peaceful
Be thoughtful
Be at ease
Be here simply to be
Whose stained glass we saw
Last year, in Tudeley Chapel
He died in 1985
He was born in 1887
He was the oldest of the artists
Who died in 1985
You too would find longevity
If you take the time
To sit awhile
In the peace of Tudeley Chapel
As the sunbeams stream through
Moishe Zakharovich Chagall’s
Stained glass windows
You too should discuss humanity
If you arrive
Just after Sunday service
When the congregation
Are no longer congregated
But free to talk
To talk widely and deeply
You too could wait outside
Sit on a bench
In the graveyard
Or wander around this place of shelter
With your SLR camera
Taking photographs
Of this years July flowers
You too may also smile
Be thankful
Be happy
Be peaceful
Be thoughtful
Be at ease
Be here simply to be
Tuesday, 21 January 2020
1985 - Live Aid, Music as my Shelter
1985 - Live Aid, Music as my Shelter
George Michael - Careless Whisper
The Power of Love
Ten weeks at number one
Bruce Springsteen charted for the first time
Yes, I was Dancing in the dark
Imagining that I had been
Born in the USA
Katrina and the waves gifted us
Walking in Sunshine
While Billy Idol sang of
A White Wedding
And Talking Heads
Surely you remember Talking Heads
They got to number 6 with
Road to Nowhere
Was it really so so long ago
That the young and innocent
Fresh faced Aled Jones was
Walking in the Air
Fergal Sharkey, Phylis Nelson, Eurythmics
Pet Shop Boys, Paul Hardcastle, Bowie &Jagger
Whitney Houston, Madonna and Dead or Alive
All had number ones
Back to Jennifer Rush
The Power of Love
Sold over 1.28 Million copies
And was the highest for that year
Madonna had most weeks on the chart
By a long shot, twenty four more
Than Springsteen, and thirty six more than
Nick Kershaw with Wide Boy and Don Quixote
George Michael - Careless Whisper
The Power of Love
Ten weeks at number one
Bruce Springsteen charted for the first time
Yes, I was Dancing in the dark
Imagining that I had been
Born in the USA
Katrina and the waves gifted us
Walking in Sunshine
While Billy Idol sang of
A White Wedding
And Talking Heads
Surely you remember Talking Heads
They got to number 6 with
Road to Nowhere
Was it really so so long ago
That the young and innocent
Fresh faced Aled Jones was
Walking in the Air
Fergal Sharkey, Phylis Nelson, Eurythmics
Pet Shop Boys, Paul Hardcastle, Bowie &Jagger
Whitney Houston, Madonna and Dead or Alive
All had number ones
Back to Jennifer Rush
The Power of Love
Sold over 1.28 Million copies
And was the highest for that year
Madonna had most weeks on the chart
By a long shot, twenty four more
Than Springsteen, and thirty six more than
Nick Kershaw with Wide Boy and Don Quixote
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