Who To Turn To

Where are you now my calm sea
Where is it that I will never be
How far to reach from the desert of now
How soon becalmed by the wondering of how

Nothing, or little else to say
No more prescriptions, or hopes to delay
The waves are stilled, from sand to horizon
The smiles, though feint, bring the surprise on

That all will be well some day
Pain will subside for memories to play
To sit in the armchair, listening
To Gregorian chant with thoughts whistling

Without time to stand still, hearing
The ringing, hearing the tunnel of bells
Thinking of that time, in the sauna, on Skye
With a phone call from a friend

Yes, a phone call from a friend
Moving on is what we do, and so
Began the morning poem, lend
Me your time, for I am moving on

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Collector’s Items

It is my old painful body
It is my tired forgetful soul
It is my mind
With recent short-fall of memory
Which sees the horizon
But misses the sea

Soothed, by a meditation mantra
Uninhibited by the flashing light
Which signifies no internet connection

I have pastels
I have pen and ink
I have the Atlantic at my window
I have an old birthday card
Which was never sent
For it also had deeper meaning

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Treadmill

And so here you are
And so there you are
And so we look at you right now

And so here we are
And so there we are
And so we look at you right now

And of those times I write no more
Of those times I write no more
No, no more to write of those times

And so I write no more
I write no more of those times
No, of those times I write no more

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Cusps

Yes, there did ought to be a porpoise
Perhaps also a dolphin, just emerging
Yes, there did ought to be shafts of sunlight
On those waves across the Atlantic
Yes, there did ought to be a mood created
As if one’s own dusk had not already begun

Yes, there did ought to have been love
Not unrequited
Not unreachable
Not held off
At some vast colossal distance

But there did ought to be true love
Right here
Right now
As if it was our own love
Yes, our love; yes, really; yes, actually

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Back Here; Same Place

Circle
Circle of stone
Circle of fire and water
Circle of Japanese ink brush

Circle
Circle with compass
Circle with string and paint
Circle of exceedingly well-planted crops

I write of circles only to confuse you
To hide the real story, to hide the true story
Of how the circles encircled me
How I was captured in circles of my own making

Circle
Circle of light
Circle of night before day
Circle of more than lover's happenstance

Circle
Circle with family
Circle with friends and acquaintances
Circle with people I don’t even really know

Yes I write of circles to defuse you
To bypass what I wish to hide
O how the circles circled around me
How I was within, yet also I was outside

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