Hanging On, Turning Back

I have no desire
To lose my line of love for you
Yet I know that you no longer
Desire that line of love for me

I have other schemes and schemata
I even read of writing with zest and gusto
But how does one do that
Without past knowings coming in to play

Will the meditations
Make me question doubt
Will my common words
Help me forge a path more almighty

More almighty
Than I might achieve simply by walking
On these deserted winter beaches
Beside these magnificent wild rolling waves

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Review Of A Previous Poem

Then how are the selections of moments made
O yes, yes that is such a good question
How to identify a unique event
Which had the strength of a Cuban cigar
Or the vigour, of a good old gin and tonic

There are of course no hard and fast rules
With chance such a major player
Yet not all must be left to happenstance
For surely, yes surely, some rigour is required
A route map to accompany the flaneur’s path

For myself, and who else might I speak for
For myself it is about an emotional intensity
Which I feel again, in the here and the now
Unforgettable moments, of there and then
If I feel it, I hold it; I hope that you do so too

There are of course some foolish things
Daydreams of the more than irresponsible
Projections of that never-ever promised land
Of lust filled love, and love filled lust
With reality, neither invited, nor expected

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Tides Turn, And The Rest

Sunlight, on white cotton
Sunlight, on blue denim
Sunlight, on fine auburn hair

Walks, on the side of the quays
Walks, on the edge of the cliffs
Walks, right there beside the seas

All of a life, condensed
Into such a short time
All of a time, condensed
Into such a short life

Raindrops, at the late-night bus stop
Raindrops, on the cafe window panes
Raindrops, on the moorland heather

Thoughts, there in the moment
Thoughts, there in the past
Thoughts, there alive to the future

All of a time, condensed
Into such a short life
All of a life, condensed
Into such a short time

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Shelter, And Then Some

A room of one's own
Or was it
A room with a view

Actually my first room of one’s own
Had nothing of a view
Indeed the Venetian blinds ensured that

Yet, o yes yet, a place of love
A place of creativity
A place, yes a place of one's own

I might tell you
Of Lyle Lovett on the stereo
Of Rothko prints on the wall

I may tell you
Of hours and hours
Of peaceful pastel sketching

I will tell you
I am there right now
In that space, of nigh on thirty years ago

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Month

And now the February sunlight
Falls on the fabricated flagstones
And climbs up the dried clematis

A small patch of grass flickers
In what you presume to be
A fairly, chill to the core, breeze

Soon there will be a birthday
Just as, not so so long ago
It was for you, yes your birthday

Thus there will be more words exchanged
From one side of the world
To the other side of the sunlight

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