There is a longing in me
Which resides
In the receptive clay
A clay which you moulded
Knowingly, also unknowingly
There is a longing in me
Which decides
Upon the plasticity of the clay
A clay which you passed, then pressed
One time after another
There is a longing in me
Which provides
A worktable for the clay
A clay which you turned; turned
To rediscover the inside
If the summer of love is with us
Why am I disappointed
Is my disappointment
That you were disappointed with the journey
Instead to reach out
To banish the miasma
If the season of vacation is with us
Why do we feed into the struggle
Is my abject poverty
That you were gifted my poverty along the way
Instead to find growth
To implore the connections
If the light of the homeland is with us
Why do we punish the pretenders
Is my black rose only flowered
That your flowers might bloom beside the path
Instead to find being
To identify the poetics of love
He looks at the sea
He looks at the sky
He looks at me
One wonders why
Does he read his little book
To find what he’s looking for
Where he sees the stars
I see a suntanned thigh
Where he greets the arc
I walk, long-legged, by
Does he need a calmer cook
To find what he’s looking for
Nothing is uncertain
In the life he leads
I draw the curtain
After planting seeds
Does he know how long it took
To find what he’s looking to impede
Might I find a Buddha nature
In the chaos is there calm
Might I grind a simple taster
In the noise perhaps to find a soothing balm
All the winds then to believe
Surging down through the trees
With the bending and the bowing
Is the truth of it a dangerous breed
That the bright light on the fence line
Is a totem from above
Gifted by the grey-going-to-black clouds
On what mirage is that word called love
It never went beyond the superficial
It did not cling to your deep inside
The purpose was the purpose only
To provide escape, to stage the stride
So, just as before or after midnight
With the light of half-offered hope
Step by step, both were taken
To the well, there to carefully elope
Where, why
Would I look for you
Why, where might
I search you out
How
On this night of meditation
Can I seek
To find the doubt
If I look into the books
If I read between the lines
All that love for the writer
Secretly to reveal the signs
That I can hear the seagulls
That I can see the cloud swirls
In the sky, in the sky, in the sky
It is me, I am me, all is fine
What I do is to go on looking
Every day, near or far
Listening out, for the whispers
With the doors so so slight ajar
