Tobacco Road

Thirteen years ago
I smoked a pack of Camel Light
Almost every day; they were
My defence mechanism

Nowadays I write poems
With about the same frequency
And, or so I begin to believe
For much the same purpose

They prevent intrusion
They facilitate introduction
Could have been the death of me
Could be the death of me

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Deep South

The father, after a little persuasion
Bought his son, the waiter
A latte coffee to drink outside

Meanwhile the American guy
Buys another shot of expresso
And sits down beside me

We talk of money
Doctors, and lawyers, o yes
And we talk about boxers

All of these types you see
Have to have a ruthless streak
They are not always to be trusted

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Time Out

Today I walk the same path
I see flowers in the verges
I see sheep’s wool on the fences
I walk faster than yesterday
For now I know where I am going

Because of my increased pace
I have longer to pause; to look
At the butterflies more closely
Such as the one of plain colour

A mousy-brown, yes perhaps
A field mouse, without any
Of those crazy orange patterns

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Chiaroscuro

A clear blue sky
A still still tree
Light lilac flowers
Whose name I do not know
Though I do know someone
Who very well might

I do know sunlight
I do know shadow
I do know the sound of birds
And the aeroplane above

To say that this is a pleasure
Would be an understatement
Yet still I will say it

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Plain Gift

I thought I might pick a leaf
A great big leaf
From the great big tree

I thought I might place that leaf
On the Sangha table
With photographs and donations

Then I found this seat
In this gentle space
With sunlight and flowers

I read your message
I too wish to be at home
Yet there is beauty here

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