This Is It

If I might remember
Those moments of pure calm
Those times I think to call love
Love to see more, or love to see less
For it is almost nothing
This view, this thought
This time for contemplation
Which some may call Zen

On one day in November
Not continuously dry
Nor forever sunshine
But pleasant, yes pleasant
I took my camera
My notebook and my pencil
I walked through the round garden
Towards the white bridge

I stopped awhile, to write
Some pressing words
I stopped, to take
Some indicative photographs
I was alone
But I was not alone
I had love
I had my memories

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Ready

I rise, I shower, I dress
I am ready for Vigils
Ready to hear
The prayer, the song, the chant

In effect to be in the here and the now
Yet also to retreat, to escape
Into the land of beauty
Into the world I do not know

I will leave today
But hope to return in springtime
Yes, to see the gardens, and the river
As they return out of winter

Brief as my stay has been
I have found peace
I have wandered freely
I have been at one

I will take that with me
To recreate, in my own backyard
But, I am also certain, that whatever I take away
Will in no way deplete the stocks

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Plead

I don’t want to be
I don’t want to be
I don’t want to be
So lost for ideas

Especially
After reading from
Jonathan Steadall’s book
Where on Earth is Heaven

I should be preparing a letter
To send to the BBC
Asking them, with some determination
To take his films out of the vaults

Show them again why don’t you I ought to say
For nothing much has changed
Show them again why don’t you
For the searcher’s search still goes on

We are all, all looking for something
We are all, all a little bit lost of song
We are indeed all looking for our very own heavens
Or at least, for what it is that is right, or wrong

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Yelp

Never to be 01:20
Surely it’s later than that
What with the ears ringing
And the frozen shoulder saying
Don’t forget it is I where it is at
Where the pain is at
To be, ever to be more precise

I pour out a pot of tea
From the flask
It might be warm
It is warm, but nourishing
No, I doubt that

So I will go home tomorrow
Either that
Or I will go half mad
To carry on
With these lunatic’s ravings

Earlier
At night stop two
After one hours sleep
I had a line to write
For that part of this broken brightness
It was exactly where the pain was at
To be, ever to be, more precise

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Departures

Tonight may be my last night here this year
And thus my last Vespers
I am thinking of driving home tomorrow evening
I know it is a six hour drive
And I know that I won’t set off much before five
For tomorrow I am meeting up with my son
And I have no desire to curtail, or foreshorten
What little time we share together

As I write this it is becoming self-prophetic
What is the point of spending another night
Of broken sleep, here in the monastery
When I could be home with you
There you see, it seems almost settled
All I have to do is make the time to pack the car
Sometime between Vigils, and Lauds perhaps
Or maybe after Lauds would be less of a rush

Only eight in tonight’s Vespers congregation
And six of those, myself included
Are residents in the monastic quarters
We may feel that we have an obligation to fulfil
Of the remaining two, one came half way through
I won’t then stay for Friday night Vespers
But I rather hope they have a better congregation
What with it being the weekend and all that

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