When you plant a pot of joy
It’s not sophisticated,
Nor filled with such unusual stuff
it grows too complicated.
In fact, it’s more what is left out:
All angst and consternation,
The kind of things you hear about
In troubling conversation.
No, when you plant a pot of joy
It overflows with colour;
It’s filled with smiles and kindly words
and pleases like no other.
No matter what you plant it in,
On sill or stony mound
A pot of joy puts out strong roots
and spreads the joy around.
Caring means something felt
And then something done
Remembering when someone cared for us
Empathising even when it is difficult.
Gained trust is a gift received
Inspite of hardship
Very often the only thing left
Irreplaceable and precious
None of us are perfect, but
Give heartily and know you are loved.
We steal north
where peaks are crag and caved
and folk are sketched
with sharpened pencils.
Here rheumatic trees
have spindled pointed knees
and blue noses poke
unseasonal blasted clouds.
Sounds hang sharp
shriek pierce and blow
holes in limestoned earth
invoking snow.
They beckon me in
and back I itch to scratch
a path – thin and poor
but these are peaks I know.
I love train journeys
Sitting with perfect strangers
Drinking cold coffee.
The book in my bag
is dull in comparison:
all life is right here –
Held tight in packed bags,
contained anticipation:
quietly ready.
You read me a story about a strange clockwork bird, and I flew away to dance with aurora borealis.
We are sheltering in our dreams, spending time with animals and gentle folk who move gracefully.
The dream is punctuated by broken glass and the threat of knives, but I really can’t go there right now.
She is frightened by his humour and clearly more at home when the date is reviewed on national tv.
Even now, you are searching for meaning, and I can remember how dark it was outside that train.
Why cook? Why would I light a fire
when I could spend a happy hour
with people that I almost know
in comfort of a fireside glow?
I’d eat a pie and share a beer
but small mind talk is drinking here,
what poison cup makes folk forget
the basic value of respect?
Community – a chance to chew
on thorny issues old and new,
a chance to learn and to debate,
But not to bully, maim and hate.
Old fireside fears are brewed so deep
and subjugate us while we sleep,
They drink our peace and keep us mean,
Let’s open minds at opening time?
Beware the thwish of arrows:
A hard bow drawn outwards
seeks to deflect attention from internal strife.
Heber sits down on the dusty driveway.
He unties the double knot, loosens his right boot and takes it off.
His woollen sock has a hole at the toe
And another, larger one, at the heel.
Heber tugs at the string on the other boot.
It is stuck, fast. With mighty will, he breaks the string, and removes the second boot.
Heber takes the broken string in his old fingers
And mends it with a knot his father taught him.
Then, he takes the other boot and ties it to its shabby brother
He pulls himself up to stand upon the dusty driveway, in his woollen socks, boots in hand
And looks up.
Heber looks up at the great tree branches
Still leafless, after a keen winter.
He looks up at the pale grey sky edged by impending weather
Heber learned to throw, as a lad, long long ago, at school
As he raises his arm, a memory of winning crosses his lips and he smiles.
So Heber has his arm raised, then swings it far back, and up again,
The weight of his two old boots lending momentum
Up, the boots fly, high into the tree.
Heber looks till his neck begins to ache.
He looks up at his boots, swinging from the great tree,
And he looks at all the other boots, strings tied and paired, swinging in the tree.
Heber has a thought, chuckles, and walks
Noting the sharpness of pebbles in woollen socks, on the dusty driveway.
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