Fifty Four

This room is not so sad
As that of the previous verses
The light here is clearer
The time here holds more truth than love

What I seek is of creation
Yet not yet turned to words
What I seek out is regeneration
Yet not from the stasis of the broken man

That I am here now does say
That the moon, the stars, the sun
The love, the lust; they have all conspired
To play their part in my growth

These grounds, these buildings
Now carry way less melancholy
They offer hope, they exude a brightness
A sure sign that the love of life belongs here

What I sought here before
May have been based on recrimination
Of myself, for at least from one other
I thought I deserved a detailed explanation

That I was here, does show
That I was in need of help
The generous words, the actions, the people
They all played their incredibly supportive part

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Fifty Three

Is this the place
You made your own
Is this the only option
That you were offered

Are your words worth more
Or are they more needy
Do you require silk or velvet
To remember more cushioned times

For mostly what we read from you
Are of good times, better times
Sensual times, sexual times
Music in the musk of love times

We neither ask, nor seek apology
For we too are fond of skin on skin
Of bare, sun-tanned bellies
Of thighs wantonly straddling thighs

Why would you not recreate such worlds
If that were in any way possible
Or, as is surely more likely in your case
The only pathway that one is able to follow

Yet one ought to be aware, to be beware
That in the giddiness, in the richness, of this
Famously, fabulously, hot summer, the inviting
Open breasted blouse comes at quite a price

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Fifty Two

It wouldn’t do
To rewrite here the shorter poems
They will have a separate volume

Presently I sit on a chair
Sculpted
From a single piece of wood

Such satisfaction for the carver
The shaper, the sander
The smoother

Yet now, out in the long summer of sun
The wood is dry
Cracks are widening

Yes, there is a scent
Of eucalyptus, though
I fear the timber needs more than a whiff

I myself bask in the sunlight
Listen to the laughter
In the nearby tearoom

Where once, so I fancifully presume
The artisan craftsman
Took his well-deserved breaks

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Fifty One

I arrived early
Time to sit
Time to write
Time to wait
For the doctor’s telephone call

I have taken a photograph
Of the pond
With Lotus leaf

I have made a video
Of the waterfall splashing

There is another notebook
I bought it in Royal Tunbridge Wells
It is a smaller affair
Which encourages me
To write shorter poems

Yet this book carries with it
An authenticity
For with this book there was planning
Now there will be execution

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Fifty

Cloud of blue
Cloud of grey
Watching the bus passengers
Go on their way

Cases of brown
Cases of black
Watching the luggage
Beginning to stack

Eyes of azure
Eyes of magenta
Watching the students
Follow their mentor

Bench of wood
Bench of stone
Watching the raindrops
Casually turn to storm

Roof of tile
Roof of slate
Watching serfdom
Become with estate

Field of brown
Field of green
Watching the ploughman
Go where he’s never been

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