One thousand buddhas
Before I reach
My buddha self
One thousand consciousnesses
On my way
To the universal consciousness
One thousand blue skies
Up above
My blue sky mind
One thousand trees
In the woods
Of my walking
One thousand kisses
On the lips
Of my lover
One thousand bishops
To our cabin
At Bishop Wilton
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That newly permed hair
Dry on a dry afternoon
That newly permed hair
Nothing ventured happens too soon
Old brick wall
With broken exposure
Supports a tree
Where cement ought to be
That newly permed hair
Dry on a dry afternoon
That newly permed hair
Nothing lost by speaking to the moon
Old thoughts flow
With fractured disconnections
Nowhere thus to grow
V neck
Deep cut
Home for the season
Where weary travellers
With friends last seen at sea
Dwell as the breeze blows
This is the catwalk
A house of fashion
Where leopard skin shorts
Ride up high on thighs
As the conversation
Kicks on a pace
Waiting
Without a time
Or a presence
Yet what is
Is what has to be
Cigarette smoke
And walking boots
An unlikely combination
Yet the deep-throated cough
And splutter
Suggest it is well set in
Your brother, my brother
Needed an heart attack
To end his addiction
Your son, my son
Hasn’t got there yet
But he might
I gave up
Several times over
Yet the aroma…
Oh yes
That drift, that waft
Of nicotine grabs hold
Temptation
All of life
Looking out to sea
Or tidal estuary
I have to end my angst
Or, as my mother
Might have said
Christopher lad
It will be the death of you
And how will that leave me
So, sat outside the Ropewalk
Which, for now, does not open
On Mondays or Tuesdays
I will have to ask for a leaflet
Or, as my mother
Might have said
Nay lad
You’d better buck your ideas up
If you want to engage in love’s prosperity