Silent Echoes

Always I wait

I wait for the first line

Some days I make note of the date

But mostly I don’t, and, do you know, that’s fine

I have a vacuous shelter

Which I cannot enter, or hardly speak of

Therein lies the joy of the helter-skelter

Which once passed itself off as love

For all I know the emptiness is compounded

By the singular thought

That no thought is returned or rebounded

All I hear is naught

Naught of the nothingness of light

Naught of the depth of misunderstanding

All that is left is the fear of fight or flight

As if on that runway once more landing

This din is the end of the latest new beginning

Feint leads for fickle feelings

The dies are cast, the hair is thinning

The doubts stand out, up on through the ceilings

 

Starting Over

Already the leaf as fallen

Even as the pain pays its own reminder

One body, which makes its way

Working out where to place the music

It is obvious that I should crawl about the floor

Find the remote, plug in the CD, turn it on

But I don’t, no I don’t do that

The poetry must always come first

Instead to listen to the silence

Or the ambience of the muffled world outside

Where the leaf has already fallen

Where the pink sky has turned to grey

It is less obvious what I would listen to

Which playlist, what century

Yes I am unsure, and being unsure

The poetry always comes first

I sit in this new writer’s space 

Fashioning myself as such a vehicle

My eyes sway from leaf to leaf

Working out how to begin again

 

Meditation Shrine

Between the vast landscape

And the tiny flower

And further memorabilia

A flame flickers

That is

Between

The vast Hebridean landscape

With land, loch and mountain

As photographed in years gone by

And the tiny flower, captured

By camera

On the roadside beside the bog

There is a glass vase

With a votive candle

Also, between the large pebbles

There is a thin slice

Of fossilised ammonite

Which was

A gift for services rendered

In the furtherance of publication

Of that lady’s poetry collection

 

This, Or That

In this town, whose streets

I neither own nor roam

Unlike that village

Which really was my place

In this time, whose age

I both fear and crave

Unlike my youth

Lived out for all to chase

In this light, whose darkness

Checks all progress made

Unlike the dawn

More certain in its gaze

In this line, whose edge

In truth approaches plain

Unlike the poet

Who wanders in malaise

In this end, a stuttering fall

Which maybe came too too soon

Unlike the comet

Whose sparkles our spirits raise

 

Ninety-Degree Shift

These are warm-up exercises

In preparation for

Or as a means of delay

For the forthcoming grand entrance

When I will turn the book on its side

To write in landscape form

A set of poems to be printed

In limited, limited editions

That is how I started

Back in the day before self-publishing was rife

To return is not always nostalgia

Nor is one always to write in the portrait form

Such absence of technical manipulation

As might be found in serious study rooms

You know the kind of place, criticised

For enjambment, for not knowing where lines end

To fast forward is not always science fiction

Or modernist futurism by any other name

To loop the tape loop is still to loop

Repetitive writing is similar, if not exactly the same