Woken (Without Painkillers)

It is 05:24 when the bells begin to call us for Vigils
I have not had the best of night's sleep
I dreamt, many times, of being confused
In the rearrangement of my poetry

And I do, quite literally, mean, seeing the text
On the page; trying to move it
From one place to another place
Mostly to no avail, because more often than not
The words decided that they did not wish to be moved

I woke early, at just after 04:30 British Summer Time
I spent quite some time massaging my arm
Feeling for the aching parts, stretching out the muscles
Manipulating the tissue
As if somehow to aid the circulation

I do hope that my elbow is going to get better
At least I do have the feeling; I am able to massage
And to write about my visit to the Abbey at Buckfast
Or at Buckfastleigh, as many of the words deign to say

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Love Is (Without Fabrication)

These bells are not
The bells of Plum Village
Not that I have yet heard
Those bells toll for myself

Sometimes
We have to be on our own

Sometimes
We have to be alone

To hear the human voices
To bathe in the imminence
In the silence, in the light
Of the compounds of love

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Damage Litigation (Without Resolve)

There was a darkness
A sadness
An emptiness
To your absence
And not one word
Was spoken of you
By either of us
How could we
All three
Be damaged so
Or is it only I
I that am
So so super-sensitive
Is it only me
That senses
The aroma of decay
When
At this stage
Of our life
All ought to be joy
Or at least
A few certain splashes
Of that confidence
Which just might
In a certain light
Be passed off as joy
Why then
The darkness
The sadness
The absence
Gifted thus
By the emptiness

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Variable Frequencies (Without Discharge)

I feel a smile
Which radiates
Even with my eyes closed

As the voices sing the songs
Those, muse-filled, suggestions and responses
Of the Benedictine Monks

Which vibrate, yes they do physically bounce
And resonate exponentially
Throughout my entire body

I am also able
To sense the blood flow
As it scours and courses through my veins

Tingling on its journey
In its life-enhancing attempt
To repair my damaged physicality

I am being made ready to conduct freely
As if a battery, being re-charged
Thus able to visibly, with differential force, smile

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Seat (Without Escape)

I can hear the water, cascading
I can hear the birds, invading
Such is
The stillness of autumn

I can see that settled surety
In the rusted trees
In the well-trimmed hedge
In the solid oak seat, which I sit upon

I see the singular gull
Gliding, and swooping, and landing
I see the crimson-red, star-shaped leaves
Set against the grey-blue sky

I count twenty-five vertical dark windows
In the, near-distant conference centre
There is not a soul about
But of course there are insects, and flies

Midges, maybe even mosquitoes
Which quickly puts me on edge
As did the vertigo
On the clifftops earlier today

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