Day Night Journal

The wind rattles round the garden

Leaves are turned inside out

Flipped upside down

As if searching

For drugs, or interlopers

Could I become

Completely nostalgic

Write everything

As if I was Jethro Tull’s

Living in the past

Yet how to get there

To transport oneself

Back in time

When right now there are

So so few flights to anywhere

The passing cyclists say hi

Or hiyah, or hiyah mate

Or they simply nod

Dependant upon how vigorously

They push their pedals

I have a love hole in my head

The love of the one who loves me

I have a similar smile, as I wake

To think of my day of thoughts

Laid out before me

Hands In The Stream

I too would send a postcard

I may even post one to myself

Simply to confirm

How I felt in that moment

But first to buy a pack of postcards

From an online store, preferably one

Without any credentials

To understand my understanding

And, to be honest

How could I hope to explain

Something which was imaginary

Alive only in my own imagination

Yet, as I look out of the window

How might I know

Of how the breeze feels to the leaf

Or the raindrop to the window pane

I have, or so it seems to me

A need; both for the writing

As well as for the fantasy

They both keep my life on the go

Such that one day I will look back

On this quiet Friday morning

When my thoughts sprang

From a place I once had known

Journal

The Medicine Wheel precedes us

Yet also

The Medicine Wheel received us

The silent space breathes

As we, together, or apart

Breathe for each other

Shelters and baskets

Well, they began much earlier

Than our shelters or baskets

Shelter being a basic need

Although love, love runs it close

Especially in my own world wilderness

As if in Connemara

Where to go is actually no foundation

For seeing Connemara

I was in Los Angeles

A couple of years before

Then in London, but that was later

Lewes will always mean

A place for meeting

Adrift of the Siberian winds

But now I am confused

The Shadow Stuff is dated

After the gallery visitation

Fortunately, Basket for Crows

Fits our timeline, precisely

Almost calling it as a time to revisit.

My pasts are buried in my poems

Sometimes, as home-grown new

potatoes, in the raised beds

shallow and easy to lift

Sometimes, as in my childhood

planted deep by the farmer

for his tractor driven machine to turn over

Sometimes, as with my mother’s parents

my grandparents, set rich in the earth

looking down the valley, from their coffins

Although not all my pasts are buried, not yet

Sometimes I write about them

in a tense which may suggest

That they no longer inhabit my life

Sometimes I am more celebratory

Even wishing that they could be here

To share in with the good times

Sometimes the black dog catches up with me

Then I don’t think well of owt at all

However alluring my pasts deem themselves to be

Not all my pasts will be buried, no, not ever

Tough on Trust

I was asked to choose someone

Who I could trust completely

I don’t know anyone

Who I could trust totally

I don’t trust myself that far

I’m pretty sure, experientially

Who do I hurt

With my lack of trust

Other than myself

And those with doubts about my trust

Am I trustworthy

Or is that a different question

That I tell you

Of my lack of trust

Does that help you

To now trust me

That is, any more or any less

Trust is what trust is, isn’t it