Actions; As Spoken

The poem as I remember it

Is not the poem as he wrote it

Indeed it is a poem about a plant

Whereas I thought it was a poem about a person

I had it in mind that truth

That truth, with belief, were side by side

In those clear moments of experience

Also that love, with beauty, had played their part

I acknowledge, willingly

That this was not chant, nor response

These were not the sounds of a silent

Monastic order; or were they

Was the whole conversation 

Not a means of reaching

A point of common ground

A place for both to move on from

The relationship, as I remember it

Is not the one as she lived it

When it was extended periods of doubt

Whereas I thought it was nigh-on certain

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Ring Back

I would not have worried you

Had the telephone not rung

Liz on the line, from Lincolnshire Life

Actually what I say is not entirely true

For I had thought of you earlier

When writing of self-help books

Samuel Smiles Self Help in particular

Purchased in the Antiquarian Bookshop

One Saturday morning in St Helier

That I have ever been in need of self-help

Is self-evident from this morning’s writings

First in my Morning Words, now in my poetry

How my path then has followed paths of guidance

Even our first meeting, often thought to be happenstance

Was led to, by my thinking of my own self-help study

First to become a chartered engineer 

Which turned into a search for a self-actualised man

In turn to be fuelled, or felled, by psychology, by love

I answered the phone, thinking that it might be

In response to my scan results; perhaps a date

A date for consultation, a date for operation

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Repetition

Out of the blue

In the depths of meditation

No desire for clue

To love’s indebted accreditation

One breath in

One breath out

One verse read

Of the Night Prayer

In to the new

Sidestep the contemplation

No path or shoe

To love’s indebted accreditation

One bell sounds

One bell decays

One thought happens

You peaceful soothsayer

That new or blue

That breath of meditation

That surprise of truth

To love’s indebted accreditation

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Time-Still

Would it do

To spend all day

Writing poetry

What would it do for you

To learn that my day

Was for writing poetry

Would it do for you

That my day, all of my day

Was spent writing poetry for you

Shoo

Would you say

Be away with you

How dare you

Spend all day

Writing your poetry

Spend all day

With your mind on me

While you write your poetry

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Ascending Or Descending

I thought

To turn to mathematics

Or at least

To the order of things

I read that hatred

Was strongest

In those who used to love the most

Or words to that effect

Then what of avoidance

What must have been the previously

High powered pushing power

To make one ignore one

Or perhaps disconnected

That is, empty words uttered

Devoid  of all or any feeling

What makes that person tick

Also, what of sarcasm

That fully illuminated put-down

There for all the world to see

Why would one do that

Or what of:

Whatever you want next goes here

What of turning back the never ending tide

Of unrequited love, or affection

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