We can’t demand
Love any more than
We can change the
Colour of our eyes
But we can give
It and so free
Ourselves from the
Burden of Self.
self
A Morning, Late November
Rod of silver
Wand struck
Soft on my head
Of thoughts laced
With sweet, dripping
Nectar beads
Sweet, dripping
Nectar drop.
The Sun shines
Nourishment on
Me on the bedclothes
And my day dawns
Thick, cool, clear
And tinged with
Autumn, crusts
Of the year, left to crumble, crunch
And pile their juices into compost
Fodder for the Spring.
I rise to meet
These orange-browns,
Lights dangling,
Lights drifting, drunken
Twirling through
The gusts,
Traffic wardens flick them off.
(26th November 2009)
Outside
Take yourself out of
Yourself, just far
Enough to see
Without your glasses
Where the trouble is,
The sore and stinging
Itch, the blister,
There, beside the
Heart, where
Anger and frustration
Have rubbed freckles
Raw and no more
Skin is left to
Shield the soul.
Having stopped to
Look, having seen
The pain, the plaster
Will do to stop
Infection spilling
From the broken
Rim of wound.
Soon the blood will
Do its work and anger will subsist,
Just be sure to
Keep things clean
With love and watchful
Pride.
Being heard
To be heard
Is like neat gin,
Goes straight to the heart and
Warms it to a pitch
Unforeseen and heady.
How to know if
You are heard or
If your soul has
Fallen off the fruit bowl
To roll,
Bruised on the cold,
Flat floor.
No way of knowing
But the warmth of recognition
Has evolved as a transmission,
To be recieved,
Or not.
Being Every Day 