without thoughts
without words
how do i make
my protestations
but it’s what you wanted isn’t it
on this
thoughtless
friday morning
yet to travel
to dhamma dipa
in the presence of beauty
is itself a blessing
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
without thoughts
without words
how do i make
my protestations
but it’s what you wanted isn’t it
on this
thoughtless
friday morning
yet to travel
to dhamma dipa
in the presence of beauty
is itself a blessing
in that one moment
the look
looking back on a lifetime of lack
as all human reflectors must
except for those days
of the blue sky mind
on the dingle peninsula
on the Island of sark
in that one tv moment
the look
of anger
of achievement
of solitary being
of betrayal
of love
where there are shadows
there is light
even in darkness
our bodies can feel
and with such safety of presence
we can walk out on wet sands
we can prepare for the theatre
which comes into our lives
the warm air of kindness
is aware of our love
a blue sky mind
of headland meadows
is welded seamlessly
into our thoughts
in that moment of memory
where we grasp for the salt
in the sea’s fresh estuary air
sat here on the quayside
with prawns and peroni
in the dreamy afternoon sun
then to step out through
fragrant parklands and gardens
towards the brick floor courtyard
where we approach
the ever so so solid doorway
into the presence of love
at six-forty-five or thereabouts
i hear the geese
on their way perhaps
from their night time
place of safety
to the daytime feeding grounds
or because it is warming up
allegedly
or are they beginning
their long flight
back to summer in the arctic