Preparation

I walk into the garden

Sit at the table

With my lemonade

Not a cloud in the sky

Blue, as far

As blue can ever be seen

Light is as light

As light ever can be

The notebook

Is not ideal

What with lines

Straight and horizontal

And so the verse

Takes on a dictatorial feel

Nietzsche himself

Could have taken over

Except that the sunlight

Would have been

Too much for him

In his condition

I myself though

Am in way better shape

Even finding a balance

In the geometric

Dexterous

When I am cycling

I know that I am cycling

When I am writing

I know that I am writing

When I cycle

I can think about writing

When I write

I can think about cycling

Two things, together

Simultaneously, by me

Simultaneously, for you

Two things, together

When I cycle I could

Think about writing, about

You taking off, or putting on

Your silk underwear

Of course

I may lose my balance

Which would draw this note

To an untidy end

Better then, when cycling

To know that I am cycling

Also to know, with some certainty

That when I am writing, actually I am writing

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.