vulnerability
i you and you I
riven apart
both as destroyers
yet also
a true source
of life at the top
of the glorious iceberg
itself melting
at a pace
which only it knows how
one which we never discovered
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
vulnerability
i you and you I
riven apart
both as destroyers
yet also
a true source
of life at the top
of the glorious iceberg
itself melting
at a pace
which only it knows how
one which we never discovered
time is only time
isn’t it
but what about thought
are time and thought
separable or inseparable
and those lines
which transgress or cross over
in whose house do they belong
between the blue skies
and the sandbanks
the rain falls
with love and joy
before the lock gates
and the edge of the city
the entrances open
for a first parade
behind the one door
and the hopes for the future
the book is closed
to reason no more
labour of love
what does it all mean
already the ear is listening
was it van gogh’s or munch’s scream
what do I care
what those others say or do
the words are mine and yours
we must work them through
just as in meditation
all and nothing is what is lost
contemplation with visualisation
writing and reading at what a cost
far far away also closer to home
see how the lover feels
as we dance to the music
with the jives and the reels
into the distance
out of the life
if as for instance
as sharp as the knife
along the harbour wall
with ice-creams in hand
stood so fair and so tall
as if all was simply as planned
into the silence
with never a word spoke
if as the licence
was there to choke
along the cart track
to the potato store
going and coming back
through the passageway door