Collector’s Items

It is my old painful body
It is my tired forgetful soul
It is my mind
With recent short-fall of memory
Which sees the horizon
But misses the sea

Soothed, by a meditation mantra
Uninhibited by the flashing light
Which signifies no internet connection

I have pastels
I have pen and ink
I have the Atlantic at my window
I have an old birthday card
Which was never sent
For it also had deeper meaning

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Treadmill

And so here you are
And so there you are
And so we look at you right now

And so here we are
And so there we are
And so we look at you right now

And of those times I write no more
Of those times I write no more
No, no more to write of those times

And so I write no more
I write no more of those times
No, of those times I write no more

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Cusps

Yes, there did ought to be a porpoise
Perhaps also a dolphin, just emerging
Yes, there did ought to be shafts of sunlight
On those waves across the Atlantic
Yes, there did ought to be a mood created
As if one’s own dusk had not already begun

Yes, there did ought to have been love
Not unrequited
Not unreachable
Not held off
At some vast colossal distance

But there did ought to be true love
Right here
Right now
As if it was our own love
Yes, our love; yes, really; yes, actually

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Back Here; Same Place

Circle
Circle of stone
Circle of fire and water
Circle of Japanese ink brush

Circle
Circle with compass
Circle with string and paint
Circle of exceedingly well-planted crops

I write of circles only to confuse you
To hide the real story, to hide the true story
Of how the circles encircled me
How I was captured in circles of my own making

Circle
Circle of light
Circle of night before day
Circle of more than lover's happenstance

Circle
Circle with family
Circle with friends and acquaintances
Circle with people I don’t even really know

Yes I write of circles to defuse you
To bypass what I wish to hide
O how the circles circled around me
How I was within, yet also I was outside

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Rutted Ground

A cart track in Yorkshire
A cart track in Devon
A cart track in Lincolnshire

Not that I had a cart
But a way of restful walking
On sunshine afternoons

No thoughts to the labour
No thoughts to the traveller
No thoughts to the horse and cart

Not that I had a lack of thoughts
For thoughts were all I knew
Thoughts of where I was, and where I wasn’t

Then, as the thoughts ran out
And the light began to fade
It was time to turn to parchment

To write what I wanted to write
To write what I needed to write
To write what I could or couldn’t say

A house became a home in Yorkshire
A house became a home in Devon
A house became a home in Lincolnshire

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