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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