Continuum

All of our summers are long ago
All of the photographs
Serve as mere guides to nostalgia

The pristine, bright red, sun umbrella
Set against the vibrant blue sky
It is a memory, but only for you

The words say something
Which only words may say
All else being lost, scattered

The four winds
They have risen, they have fallen
Their breath is now of new life

All of our summers are ahead of us
All of the photographs
Have yet to be composed

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The Security Of Clothing

She is insecure
He is insecure
We are all insecure
Everybody is insecure
But I am most insecure of all

She wears bright clothes
He dresses as a country gent
We all wear our Sunday best
Everybody struts as a peacock
I try to look the part

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Winter’s Words

Snow falls
On talk of broken branches
Trees, which once stood tall
Are picked at, and picked at
As if to bring on the ravages of winter

Snowflakes swirl
In the bright light
Of the breezy morning
As if a thousand dancers
Prepare for the ballet

Between the footprints
And the lamplight
Are treads of doing
Treads of preparation
Treads of love

All the while
The pick pick picking
Conversation carries on
As if the sores
Are not already sore enough

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Half A Song Or Less

I did not
Woman
I do not
Understand

I wait for the heartbeat
I wait for the band
I wait for the night
The night of the damned

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The Letter Of Hope

I wanted to write to you; in the here, and in the now
As if I was about to send you an early morning letter

I would like to tell you
Of the big blue skies
Of Lincolnshire
And to let you know
How peaceful it is
Out at Gibraltar Point
To walk on the salt marshes
To watch the sun rise
To watch the sun set
In between
To partake of tea and coffee
In the new visitor centre

I would like you to know
The inner workings of my mind
You know the sort of thing
How memories come and go
How the past works its wonders
To lead us into the present
And onwards to the future
I am fond of meditation
Quietly, in contemplation

I read works about the soul
Also the collective unconscious
I hope that doesn’t make me
Sound too too esoteric
It is not that
I have any deep calling
Yet it does interest me
To explore my own self
What makes me happy
What gives me contentment

And what of you
If you read this
How might you reply
Would you tell me
Of the environment
And ambience
In your locale
Might you send me
Details of books
Which you have recently read
Or plays you have seen
At the theatre

And what of art
And those art galleries
Which you may have
The good fortune to visit
More especially though tell me
If you have walked on the sands
Or taken photographs
Of the wild roaring seas
And the majestic oceans

Yes, that kind of thing
Would appeal to me
It is important
Don’t you think
To feel to be alive
No matter how old
And grey we become

To be out in the elements
Brings me to life
To feel the wind and rain
To walk on fresh snow
To bask by the waves edge
In the heat of summer’s sun
To run down the sand dunes
Gasping for breath

I myself am reading memoirs at the moment
The Diaries of Anais Nin - Volume 5
Simone de Beauvoir’s All Said and Done
And Jonathan Stedall’s Where on Earth is Heaven
To name the most recent purchases of good fortune

Anais is evocative, sensual, speedy
No doubt she could lead me astray;
Simone is thoughtful, and thought-provoking
She would have encouraged me
To sign up to her causes
Jonathan leads me to the films
Which he directed for the BBC

The ones on Jung, and Rudolph Steiner
I would particularly recommend
Yet his portraits of John Betjeman
Are as charming as is the man himself
A fine romantic poet
You can find
Jonathan Stedall’s films on youtube
Just key his name into the browser

I was saddened very much
By a recent poem that I wrote
It is called Avoid And Abandon
I sincerely hope that it is not
A premeditated portent to the future
Better that the focus
As Thich Nhat Hanh says
Is mindful to reduce the suffering

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