Nothing (Without Anything)

It is oh so so difficult
To remember you
When you offer nothing whatsoever in return

Though, as if coming here
To sit beside falling water
Would do anything, but add
To the sorrow of separation

I once was a complicated soul
Yet, right now, I don't believe
That I ever did deny that
Although, yes, you might well say

That I have become
Even more deeply enamoured
With the after-effects of duplicity
In my attempts at creative writing

But, inside
I feel to be a somewhat gentler soul
You see, I am happy
To sit here beside the river

To know that somewhere behind me
The star-shaped leaves
Are drifting, like angels, to the ground below
To let everyone know

That once our love most definitely touched
What oh so so many modern dreamers
Today still dream of

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Gathering (Without Departing)

In that instant
Of hearing that sweet voice
Then I too
Wanted to sing

I too
Wanted to be able
To express
My joy with this life

A nun
With her iPad
She was the first person
Into Conventual Mass

I had watched her
Walk across the concourse
In the first light
Of the brand new day

The bells tolled
Close to the gathering time
And I remembered
My last time of leaving this place

I had heard then their welcoming sound
Though at quite some distance
For I loaded my car
And oh, I so so ignominiously departed

I did not know then that I might return
But I have
And I may do so again
And again

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Two More (Without Two To Follow)

It is approaching five-forty in the morning
There are two Monks here already
As a short peel of bells sound
Two new visitors enter, they sit on the front row
One to either side of the walkway
Two young men; one white, one coloured
Together we waited, in stuttered silence
For the first act of the day to begin

Two latecomers joined the congregation
We were six men now
But only I, had entered from the inner quarters
Vigils proceeded, with meticulous precision
Each Monk seemingly knowing their part
Of the week-worn routines
And the seamless stepped-out sequences
Of suggestion, and response

And of further suggestions, and more responses
And of readings
Even one from the Book of Wisdom
Then one from where I know not, but which spoke
Of God having given love in his own image
And of having gifted us Jesus
To make up for the disobedience of Adam
And his indiscreet apple biting

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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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