With The Birth Of A Memory

Or the coming along of a thought

We might contemplate eternity

For the memories, and the thoughts

Will never ever shrivel or die

Touch the thought of a star

Climb over the mountain top

To look down into the endless

Valley of your memories

Let the shoreline waters bathe

Your toes in your thoughts

Paddle out into their names

Revitalise your memories

Walk in the meadow, wearing

Your Friday afternoon fragrance

Which fills your thoughts

With essences of your memories

Lay down beside the river

Or on the frosted grass

Bring to life hedonists thoughts

With a boatload of memories

Listen to the music of your life

With thoughts of how and why

Which masquerade as memories

Of approximately when and where

 

Rainbow, Wish

Grey is the colour

Of the first bare branches

Knotted, knurled, awkwardly distorted

Yet borne entirely of nature

Silver is the colour

Of the lining to the clouds

In the blue and windy sky

Which waves in the new day

Red is the colour

Of the bricks which built

Mine and my neighbours

House of love

Pink is the colour

Of my complexion

After returning, invigorated

By my morning bath

Blackish-brown is the colour

Of the tall four-trunk tree

Which wobbles slowly

Unsteadily, in the rising breeze

Empty is the colour

Of the stillness of the day

Yesterday’s wind and rain

Have moved on, elsewhere

 

Step Out, It Is The Future

The brightest of days

After the turning back

Of our abstract timepieces

The extra hour is not wasted

I have the time

To take time more slowly

I imagine the abbey

Inside and out

With beauty in both places

I turn towards the café

Thinking, pausing, thinking

About breakfast

Also, while I am there

I will connect to the internet

Say hello to my friends, and acquaintances

Following the sunlight’s

Strong reflections

I say good morning to the sangha

 

The Man Who

The man who irons

The lavender linen shirt

Looks out for the creases

Finds the perfect places

To press the lines

Of fabric together

The man who writes

Whatever it is that he writes

Can rarely find

The straight lines to follow

Instead, he feels

For the torn fabrics of his life

And so it was

By being distracted

That I arrived half an hour before

The allocated time

Which left me searching

For the lost lines of connection

 

Facts And Facts

Apparently I am a part
Of a non-exclusive group
So should I mention
My apricot tart

I drink my coffee
from a plain porcelain mug
Or a mug, once embellished
With expressionist paintings

Am I feeding the body
Or am I feeding the soul
Is the plain mug silence
While expressionism brings me joy

My mug tonight
Says Trevone Bay, on its inner wall
This is a place with history for me
A sharper resonance for my mind