Parked, On An Incline, By A Field

Between the grey, and the maroon
Sit the rolling Lincolnshire Wolds
On this mist filled February afternoon

Between the hedgerows, and the trees
The tarmac highway takes over
Towards a welcoming, melancholic tune

There goes the last of the coffee
And no longer any cigarettes
To go with that Cornish vacation fudge toffee

There go the coasting four by fours
Also the rampant, excitable speeding youths
All intently exploring; what this here life is for

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With Sight, And Sound

The music was called Reiki
Now John Christie
Talks of a patch of light

Earlier, yet only a few minutes earlier
I saw the orb of the sun
Half obscured by the afternoon mist

John talks of darkness
Darkness known as memory
Perhaps he is thinking of my dream

My repetitious dream
Repetitions, which unfortunately
I don’t now remember

Yet John seems to remember
All manner of people
Even those who talk of spiritual collaboration

The photographs, for you might not see them
Are of trees, and hedgerows
And fields, with crops and lakes

The artist’s date in this way
Comes to fruition
That is to say, it turns full circle

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Beyond Vision

It is an escape
Yet not a final passing
It is a small step of love
To be nearer to the light

Also closer to the dark nights
Of past passions and compassions
When those small steps of love
Opened up, for you, the light

And here, and now
With your ears ringing
With your pencil at hand
You can turn, turn as you wish

Also lift, lift yourself
To future elaborations
Where these small steps of love
Will walk with you, into the light

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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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