Donald Shimoda

Just along the A5

Past Weston Park

An early morning drive

Ripe to be surprised

Inner self or outer self

Collective unconscious

Or something deeper

Daffodils in bloom deep within

The sunken soul

Like a ghost

Or a drowned man floating to the surface

The movement was a continuum

Without jar or jolt, the rising

Om, Om, Om for a lost love

Later, in peace, quiet, calm, tranquillity

Om cannot resurrect

From the pit of the body to the tip of the mind

There is no traffic to carry the urn of any kind

The ashes have flown on the wind

Unable to rescind the cindered lingered candle

A flickering, flickering, sickening, failing glow

Extinguished, vanquished, decayed

A dying atmospheric orb

But it did happen

And for that I thank more than I can ever know

I write these words of thanks

To tell you, of what I do not know

Is that how the flower feels in pollination

Some union with an Albion of kind

Was it received or reciprocated or was it bounded

Then bandaged; was it unrequited love

Like the kite blown along the breeze

Or Donald Shimoda in timeless flight

It is a Messiah’s handbook which helps me discover

To recover the greetings of souls; souls meeting

Greeting together as deep below; below as above

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Seeing through to pray

Mist

Morning around dawn

Waters edge ripple

Moorhens dip, swans neck’s flip

Springs nature ramble trip

Before the morning tipple

Mist, silver grey, early day

Fields of hay, curds and whey, mist

Morning

Dawning around daylight

Shafts of light, lover’s flight

Losing sight, ever might

A little tight

Drizzle another tipple

Mist, smoky haze, early days

Funny ways, window bays, mist

Waters edge ripple

Scattered pebbles and tickled trout

Vibrating pulsating waves, waves about

Echoes shout; ale and stout, ale and stout

Cast a clout

Undress and pour another tipple

Mist, white noise, kick and poise

Slick Latin boys, big girl’s toys, mist

Moorhens dip, swan neck’s flip

Underneath, above, below as above

Preening dove, fallen love

Push and shove

Form a queue

Queuing for another tipple

Mist, sea frets and cloud covered sunsets

Place your bets, take the test, mist

Springs nature ramble trip

Refreshing souls feeding salvation

Wonderment creation, the crosses station

Exceeding expectation, tingling sensation

Tipping at Temptation Lake

Aching for another tipple

Mist, fuddled mind, blinded from behind

Forgotten kind, clocks to wind, mist

Before the morning tipple

Last night’s wasted way

Yesterday’s forgotten day

Job gone, no more pay

House lost, no where to stay

Except for another tipple, oh pray

Mist

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I forget

Our love has now departed

It lies there, the living dead

I forget how it started

Was it said, or left unsaid

It’s time for moving on

It lies there, left to fester

I forget how to start

Was it a now, or later on

It’s not a new beginning

It lies there, begun before

I forget the lines and timing

Was it, have you been no more

It’s weird, just not to know

It lies there, untouched

I forget spontaneous smiles

Was it forged, for all who flushed

It’s floating on grey clouds

It lies there, like the drizzle rain

I forget springtime sunshine

Was it grey, in the evermore of pain

It’s taking your turn always

It lies there, waiting on

I forgot, I forget

I am, moving on

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Talking

It used to be so easy to make the call

So easy to start the talking

Space here for several years of failing love

But now talking of what

Small talk to just keep talking

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Watercombe; Thirteen years and more ago

And today in my mind I am revisiting

Just for you, oh, and also for me

I came to this place

Almost twenty three months ago

Then, as now, the sky was blue

The river tumbled and splashed

Like a poet planted

Some time before the snow

Blue, blue, big blue Friday afternoon

Beside the lonely, the only one, the River Erme

In between the then and now

Turbulence has been maintained

Turbulent mind, turbulent body

Turbulent health, turbulent wealth

From landing to leaving

Things were fluid and rolling

My head was full of love, my body was tired or alive

I was ill, I was well, I was poor, I was paid

The sheep graze these windswept moors

Lambs born amongst the driving rain

Alongside the gorse and the reeds

A crop cut grass pleads to grow

Those crazy beasts keep on mowing

There love-stock are dropped and fawned

Where it’s rough it’s ready

Why should we ever misconceive

And the bleat breaks

That waterfall of springtime silence

Alone amongst a thousand acres

Chasing after mother, after mother nature

No more whingeing or whining

Springtime springs once again

In a world beyond the shoulder

Whatever we can believe, she can give more

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