HL IV

I let the essence stay with me
I do not push it away
I take it upstairs with me
Happy that it chooses to stay

I sort out the bookshelves
For any poetry that’s gone astray
I feel the feeling weaving within me
Today could be that very same day

I let the tick-tock of my mind
Carry the connections from here to there
I take the bigger clock of time
To carry the seconds without a care

I ask that the thoughts come to me
You might say I encourage them to pair
I wonder at my own sense of being
As I move off towards my lair

I listen to her walk through the fair
With no thoughts of a wedding day
I hold the translucence, I do not scare
I am happy, and also so so ready to play

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HL III

I shared with myself this moment
It was from a good while ago
A subtle and serene evening
With a larger than life echo

The echo is not of loss
Neither of a frightful bore
It is a place without a place
Which did exist, but not now no more

I might almost reach out to enter
At least to feel the magic light
I might almost hold on forever
At least until the end of night

I could draw you a sphere
On a stage with an open door
I could tinge the edge with sadness
Or sprinkle stardust on the floor

The response is not for today
Nor for tomorrow I fear
It is as if a seance
Through the ether with my seer

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HL II

A Sunday night in autumn
Which figures down the line
Awakened by a memory
Of clothes cut neat and fine

And the river that flows by
Was once a moorland stream
And the slipper footed raconteur
Told of his everlasting dream

A lesson in forgiveness
Among the passing of the time
Soft steps of reminiscing
To earn his five and dime

And the love that passed by
Was once a place to lean
Happy then to be an audience
To hear him picking from the cream

A Sunday night in autumn
Cool culture quite sublime
The debt is there to share
Let the punishment fit the crime

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HL I

The slipper footed artist
Steps quiet, across the stage floor
He tells of the pre-raphaelites
He is Jazz
He tells us of so much more

I believe he spoke of Rubens
And baroque, entering the door
He told of the early times
He is Jazz
He is the keeper of the score

I know he spoke of post one thing
Or was it from another shore
He mostly spoke of ample women
He is Jazz
He is the picker in the store

I hope he remembers
Of how they loved him to the core
He was irascible
He is Jazz
He is the laughter from which to pour

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Over Again

There are things which
I would change in my education
No doubt also for you
If it helps cross mine out, replace with yours

I would keep the Mathematics, and the Sport
(But not the cross country)
I was good at both, and they served me well

I would keep Art, and English
But taught quite differently
Taught by doing, not by learning
Taught by getting heaps of exposure
Taught by getting masses of positive feedback

For the sciences Physics is a maybe
(After all I did become an Electrical Engineer)
But Biology, and Chemistry are not for me
How many times have I used the table of elements
Or had to dissect a pickled big toe

I would have Conversation, Social Skills, Meditation
And something about Psyche and Psychology
Providing one with the skill set
To enable one to explore oneself

I would have an Understanding of Confidence
And how to achieve it
Also an exploration of doubt
And how to keep it in check, or avoid it

I haven’t mentioned History
Mainly because I don’t know where I stand
If it is essential then I would have to place it in context
Not simply to learn lists of names and dates
And anyway who did win the battle of Bosworth field
And did it matter (and did it matter that I knew)

Nearly at the end, yes I know
We could go on and on
But for now I turn to Music, and Religious Studies

I am at that stage of life where music, and spirituality
Both bring me great solace and inspiration
If only they could have been explored
With more imagination in my youth
Instead of being served up as something
You could or couldn’t do
Something you could or couldn’t understand
Something you could or couldn’t care less about

I will end with Creativity, whatever that means
But I would have at least one class every day
And two, on Mondays and Fridays

PS

I forgot altogether about Languages
And no wonder
In my case it was French, I hated it
And I was totally useless
My teacher was a brutal bully
Without an ounce of empathy, or an inch of style
But if it had been Rousseau, or Sartre, well yes
Then I might have gone the extra mile

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