Stepping Points

How many times

How many more times

Why

Do I disrupt my own self

Why

Do I ponder

On that which is not wonder

So then

How many times

How many more times

Once more

To look at the clock

Once more

To look at the clock

You can stay all night

If you want to

How many times

How many more times

Why not take hold

Take hold of the doubt

Which dismays you so

How many times

How many more times

So think on

Think on of the hopscotch

As you count from one to ten

Bring Into Being

Any more

Than it is possible to be

Than it is possible to feel

As I taste the satsuma orange

And crunch the Swedish roll

Which carries Port Salut cheese

Any more

Than freedoms may offer

Or doubts could take away

As I taste the strawberry jam

And crunch the Swedish roll

Which carries Port Salut cheese

Is this in the least bit obsessive

Do you think that it tells you

Anything at all

Of what I want, or need, to say

I came here

With a clear vision

Reminded to me

By the transcendental music

Playing on my stereo

But now

Well, by now

You might believe that I have forgotten

Or was that it, all along

Break, Snap, Curtail

I don’t know

I just don’t know

How to close out

How to shut down

How to forgive

How to forget

The waves at the seashore

The walks in the meadow

The gazing up at blue skies

The streams on the moors

The theatre on the highway

The songs in the stables

I don’t know

I just don’t know

How to renew

How to rewind

How to fast-forward

How to move on

The letter in the post

The card on the birthday

The flowers from Inter-flora

The poems read out loud

The easy big question

The altogether love of you

Discovering Discoveries

Open hearted

I save the broken heart

For days gone by

At least that’s how I started

When I played the part

Of one who sits down to cry

I figured out the day we parted

Was when you saw the rising of the lark

And said you had to do this before you die

Just to break things up

Days of bought and days of sold

Stepping under, stepping over

To witness the story told and told

Stepping over, stepping under

Stepping under, stepping over

See the seascape of a love now cold

Stepping over, stepping under

That the wind blows daring one to be so bold

Just to bring things to a close

Place To Page

Only the orange wilted

I myself was ok

And so too the crow

Only the moon waned

To gift a giant sun

With welcome winter warmth

Listen then to the stories

About this quiet phase of life

Going from place to page

Not knowing, nor being shown

Not owning, and not being owned

This season, nor next neither

The gull and the magpie

Are out walking, or should I say strutting

The lady with the stick, she strides on

I am here

I sure am no longer falling

As the walkers in the walking group walk on