The Paper House

Within a month of your gift we had parted

Thirteen years on
Can I measure the loss
Can I measure the grief
Can I explain away the obsession

The feet and the inches of loss
Never again to be close enough to touch
The kilometres and the miles of loss
Never again to bridge the inevitable distance

The pounds and the ounces of grief
Always to be in fear of the tears
The kilograms and the tonnes of grief
Never again to weigh in with a lover’s words

The one thing on top of another of obsession
Maybe, yes always, one last sprig of hope
The last time before the next time of obsession
With otherness, yes, worthy to carry the doubt

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Discuss; If You Must

How does one make sense
Of a watercolour painting
Or a contemplative pastel sketch

I look across the room
At my own work
From thirty years ago

I could say to you
That there is lightness
That there is love

Yet, if I move in closer
I would talk of frustration
I would talk of dismay

But, and I smile as I write this
I must speak today of satisfaction
I should talk well, of my minor achievements

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Questions Of Ownership

Who but I
Yes, a good question
Or who but you
Yes, equally so

To sidestep
To foxtrot
To line dance
To hide away

Who but I
And where but here
O yes
Keep those questions coming

To intensify
To mystify
To be courageous
In the absence of love

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Denial Of Ownership

Is there always impatience lurking
Always another occupation to go to
Is their always a form of recrimination
Always some other blame to lay

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Self Ownership

This is what I hoped for
This is what I wished for
Outside of meditation
This is what I craved for
Or at least one of the things

I hoped this room would bring peace
I wished this room would bring joy
Outside of meditation
I craved for this room in which to crave
To be at least one, of those many things

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