Seventy Eight

One word a page
One word a day
Beginning with love
Going who knows which way

Silent meditation
In a silent hall
Silent meditation
Going wherever to call

Climbing hills
With morning footsteps
Climbing hills
Going to whatever’s next

A wandering person
Who wished me joy
A wandering person
Going on to become the boy

In mind, in body
Here on retreat
In mind, in body
Going on to the steadier seat

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Seventy Seven

A Quaker Hotel
On radio interview day
His accent so swell
Talking of play

His girlfriend asleep
On the back of the bike
Nude swimmers in deep
With his karma to strike

Thunder, lightning
Then missing the boat
The snow was whitening
His car sliding, as if afloat

Jack Simmons bowled him out
In no time at all
So he went ride-about
From the ferry, to Donegal

I tell of that night
Midnight on the M62
What a magnificent snow sight
My story, also told for you

Wagons, then cars
Opening the blockade
Policemen under the stars
Watch the free-thinkers on parade

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Seventy Six

Some things I know
Some things I don’t
Some things I’ll do
Some things I won’t

I breathe in
Into the present moment
I breathe out
All of my distractions

Some paths I’ll walk
Straight and true
Along the ridges
Where nothing’s new

I breathe myself in
Into the present moment
I breathe myself out
Out with all my distractions

Some words I hear
Clear, thin
Spreading the message
Drawing me in

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Seventy Five

He lies beneath the tree
His crutches leant against
His mobility scooter
He has told me his story
Or a small part of it
Which resonates

His knees are raised
Perhaps this is a more
Comfortable position
He is in the shade
Which maybe also helps

Does he contemplate
On death
Does he meditate
On life
Is his despair
A thing I have never known

He is a musician
That is
I know he plays guitar
He smiles, he laughs
He makes me
Smile, and laugh

He has a spirit
Which is infectious
He has a story
Which he dared to tell

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Seventy Four

There is geometry
In the trellis
There is repetition
Along the front of the house

Roses, a robin
I have nothing to offer
I have no gifts to give
Repetition is at the front of my mind

Old branches; bent, disfigured
I am no gardener
I am no tree surgeon
Repetition is all I know

Hot coffee, without sugar
I did not train as a Barista
I did not warm the cup before
Repetition, oh how I need to find you

White flower, slowly opens
I am not always so so observant
I am not always so so well seeing
Repetition may you be with me, may you

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