Negative Potential (Without Power)

To put myself out there, alone

With the environmental waveforms 

Circulating and vibrating, to the tune

Of the exponentially raw passion

Such that in the search for this apparent stillness

It is the search for the unseen which is seen

It is the search for the not felt which is felt

Felt mostly by oneself

It is the beat

Of the bouncing psycho-rhythms

Which cycle through my body

Then, as one ventures, into the lower reaches

Those deeper features

Of love, of loss, of leverage, and of latitude

Criss-cross, and zig-zag their way

Over, and beyond, and before the gratitude

Such that to find a balance, in the stillness

To find a calm, in the seen, and in the unseen

To find love, felt or not felt, is one job of a thing

One job of a thing, all unto itself

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Sat (Without Silence)

There is no bench to sit upon

To look directly at the back of the Abbey

Though I am able to tell you, that

By turning slightly, and looking over my shoulder

I can see the substantial, gold-leaf, clock fingers

Which, even from this distance, I can make out

Are saying that it is just after eleven-thirty

On this, fine, one might even say exquisite

Autumnal Saturday Morning

Of course there is noise, even the great Abbeys

Need the service of stand-by-generators

In the times of power cuts

Once it might have been a water-driven turbine

Situated on the surging River Dart, which flows

Alongside fairly briskly

But then, with such propensity 

Of trees and fallen leaves

One might have thought

That a champion of bio-diversity

Could have hatched a quieter form

Of extraction, extrapolation, and exploitation

Whatever, the birds still chirp and chatter

Enquiring children

Ask their parents all manner of questions

Some of which, the Monks

Who will also have sat here

Would no doubt have been able to answer

With their very own

One hopes, well thought out

And ever more dignified, soulful responses

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Nothing (Without Anything)

It is o so difficult

To remember you

When you offer nothing

Whatsoever in return

Though, as if coming here

To sit beside falling water

Would do anything, but add

To the sorrow of separation

I once was a complicated soul

Yet, right now, I don't believe

That I have ever did deny that

Although, yes, you might well say

That I have become

Even more deeply enamoured

With the effects of duplicity

In my attempts at creative writing

But, inside

I feel to be a somewhat gentler soul

You see, I am happy

To sit here beside the river

To know that, somewhere behind me

The star-shaped leaves

Are drifting, like angels, to the ground below

To let everyone know, that once

Our love touched

What o so many dreamers, today still dream of

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Gathering (Without Departing)

In that instant

Of hearing that sweet voice

Then I too

Wanted to sing

I too

Wanted to be able

To express

My joy with this life

A nun

With her iPad

She was the first person

Into Conventual Mass

I had watched her

Walk across the concourse

In the first light

Of the brand new day

The bells tolled

Close to the gathering time

And I remembered

My last time of leaving this place

I had heard then their welcoming sound

Though at quite some distance

For I loaded my car

And o, so so ignominiously departed

I did not know then that I might return

But I have, and I may do so again, and again

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Two More (Without Two To Follow)

It is just approaching five-forty in the morning

There are two Monks here already

As a short peel of bells sound

Two new visitors enter, they sit on the front row

One to either side of the walkway

Two young men; one white, one coloured

Together we waited, in stuttered silence

For the first act of the day to begin

Two latecomers joined the congregation

We were six men now

But only I, had entered from the inner quarters

Vigils proceeded, with meticulous precision

Each Monk seemingly knowing their part

Of the week-worn routines

And the seamless stepped-out sequences

Of suggestion, and response

And of further suggestion, and response

And of readings

Even one from the Book of Wisdom

And one from where I know not, but which spoke

Of God having given love in his own image

And of having gifted us Jesus, to make up

For the disobedience of Adam, and his indiscreet apple biting

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