In this morning’s Meditation

In this morning’s Meditation
I thought of the waiter
In the outdoor bar in Florence

How did he get to that place
Why did he leave his home
Where did he live in Croatia

Whose national football team he loved
Whose people he was so proud of
Whose needs he could not yet satisfy

Where does he go to in Firenze
When his day shift is completed
Or does he work late into the night

Surely his shelter
Is not in a Medici palace
Or even a four-star five-star hotel

His spirit comes alive with conversation
He is sharp with a swift humorous retort
Which makes the four of us smile

Yet he doesn’t quite share
In the shelter of our covered table
From which soon we will get up and leave

Is this his vacation workplace
Does he have family, children perhaps
I hope he finds a shelter which suits him

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I Heard Yesterday

I heard yesterday
That a friend of mine is seriously ill
He has been referred to a charitable hospice

I donated a small amount
A very small amount I’m afraid
But now I know more of his condition

Will he find his place of shelter
Should I visit him in his shelter
If so for what; surely not to write poetry

I have been transitory in his life
He has closer friends
He has a loving caring and devoted family

I did read his poetry this morning
I wrote to him to say how I remembered
His rehearsal for his spoken words

We were no more than a dozen
In an upstairs room
Belonging to the Victoria Inn in Lincoln

We read words, we wrote words
We shared a camaraderie
Which continues there to this day

I have not been for several years
But follow the group on social media
A physical shelter has become a cyber shelter

I do have friends who are religious
Though my friend of today was not that
Instead he found shelter in doing

He found shelter in being
Being playful, being mischievous,
Being adventurous

I hope that his new shelter
Serves some of these purposes
And prolongs his perspicacity

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That I thought of these places

That I thought of these places

In this morning’s 

Flower Fresh Meditation

Says something to me

About all of those spaces

Where previously I have found shelter

For the first pair of descriptive phrases:

As I breathe in I see myself as a flower

As I breathe out I feel fresh

I was most definitely on the road

Outside Madhyamaka

Looking happily across the fields

Towards the orange light in the tree

For the following pair of phrases

As I breathe in I see myself as a mountain

As I breathe out I feel solid

I was equally certain about being in Grasmere

Walking mindfully back down

From seeing Sour Milk Gill

As I admired the matchstick men

On the mountain tops

For the next pair of phrases which went

As I breathe in I see myself as still water

As I breathe out I reflect on all that is

I was more uncertain

First I saw a sea, then a river 

Finally I settled on a pond

Or did I see anything at all

For the final pair of phrases, which said

As I breathe in I see myself as space

As I breathe out I feel free

I was everywhere which cries out open air

Although eventually, and more particularly

I was on the salt-marshes beyond Saltfleetby

Of course other open spaces came to mind

Hadn’t we recently visited

Yorkshire Sculpture Park

And how could the pond at Emerson

With its lotus leaves

Ever be forgotten

Also the clay contained water at Sissinghurst

How could that not

Be brought into the equation

And once on that trail of memories

What about Chagall’s

Stain glass windows at Tudeley

Or the speedboat ride back to the airport

From the wonderful weekend in Venice

Where the hemmed in shelter of grandeur

Enabled everyone to feel at ease

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Should we build a raised bed

Should we build a raised bed
I will ask the question
Should we be so easily led
Is nowhere such nigh on perfection
Should the lawn have formal stripes
So so evenly spread
Or is decoration
A simpleton’s mindful deception
Are the tulips such a so so stunning red
Did love ever need such timely correction
In this shelter then we are to be fed
Day by day, plus weekends without exception
To grow our own
As this one-time gardener said
With little or no fear
Of cross-pollinated infection
What then of the stock that the farmer bred
How do we counterbalance
Our own interjection
To hear the shouts of vegans
Or of vegetarians instead
Whose show is to be bound
By a most strongly biased rejection
For my shelter
Will not be caught by steed nor stead
Rather there will be a pointer
To the golden section
The reason is to be there
For all, by all to be read
In our search
For the pearls of perfection
The pieces will be sewn
With the finest of thread
To make blankets for future imperfection
The path will appear to be so so straight ahead
Towards the shelter
Without need for further direction
The sleepers will hold
The branches that we shred
To provide warmth, to give frost protection
Of course we will top off smartly
With lots of street cred
Before the competitive festival inspection
Should we build a two-way sled
For the winter of the snow’s reflection
One last chance to nod the seasonal head
Yes, yes we say
Let this be the complete collection

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I have to tell you

I have to tell you
Of the breeze on my legs
Of the ruffle of airstreams through my hair
It isn’t a Zephyr, from over the sea

Nor a Mistral, which could have travelled
Across mountain-streams
But it is the air that is with me
With me right now

I read a poem by Forough Farrokhzad
She was asking an invited guest
To bring a window
Also she may have asked

For the Brickfielder
At the end of the garden
Or the Etesian, which jostles with the bushes
As if to say: I am here, let me through

The gardens are in shadow
Also the fence
In front of my neighbours' blossom
Is partly darkened, yet more so it is in full sun

I have to tell you
Of the breeze on my legs
Of the ruffle of airstreams through my hair
It isn’t a Zephyr, from over the sea

Nor a Mistral, which could have travelled
Across mountain-streams
But it is the air that is with me
With me right now

I read a poem by Forough Farrokhzad
She was asking an invited guest
To bring a window
Also she may have asked

For the Brickfielder
At the end of the garden
Or the Etesian, which jostles with the bushes
As if to say: I am here, let me through

The gardens are in shadow
Also the fence
In front of my neighbours' blossom
Is partly darkened, yet more so it is in full sun

I am reading Memories of the Future
At the same time I think on
Of my future, of my past
How many dwellings

How many shelters
How much protection
From the elements
Or from the wandering subconscious

Am I the lucky one
Or is it the water
As it flows over the rocks, tumbles
And splashes into the pond

Not that this is my first shelter with a pond
There have been others
But way less successful
Let’s hope this one changes the mould

No more twisted ankles
No more failed relationships
No more dissatisfaction
With whatever are the outcomes

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