How do I know where
you went away to that day?
But I imagine
a very thin line
between adjacent spaces –
We can almost touch.
Maybe we could walk
perpendicular pathways
and swap philosophies?
Our respective footsteps
on the dusty paths, a sign
We shared a little time.
Then, dressed in sparkles
perhaps you’ll up and choose to
smile and dance away?
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When I do crazy things
You don’t have to know my reasons.
I could have lost my way,
Or, maybe I have found another,
Which you find hard to fathom.
When we were children
You wanted to be my friend
Because I saw things you wanted to see, but couldn’t.
So I would lead you, blind, but happy,
Through the realms of imagination.
You moved on, but I still live here:
It is no less appealing,
So dance with me, if you wish.
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If you are a sunset
I’ll stand by my easel
Watching in wonder
as you paint the air.
If you are a rainbow
I’ll follow your glory
Skip with your silken thread
Dance in your hair.
If you are the moonlight
I’ll whisper your pathway
Howl to your melody
Bow to your prayer.
If you are my mentor
My sweetheart, my friend
I’ll know that true beauty
is your tender care.
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A good idea
the coffee cup
with my name on
when ordered up;
A shame the man
upon the train
went to great lengths
to hide his name;
It would have been
a chance to meet
the friendly face
in the window seat.
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On the table, in the pudding,
in each glass you fill and lift,
in the faces of your loved ones,
may you find two special gifts.
Underneath the pretty wrapping,
hung with baubles on the tree,
mistletoed and decked with holly,
hope is boundless, love is free.
Wishing you a warm hug Christmas,
peace and kindness real and true,
may past and present friends and family
raise your spirits – Here’s to you!
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We lose them, don’t we, one by one, to time or aspiration?
What seams we sew, must rip to grow: unseemly alteration.
By stealth, their tide begins to ebb, and tangled in the mortal web
they may forget or shift away from our attention – not to say
we love them less – but like the moon, a distant crescent
glanced at briefly, still in our rounded knowledge there completely.
Look in my face now I have lost some valued constant from a distant past
and find the line which holds me like a kite, and fix me to my missing moon tonight.
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15 Comments
I’m a skinny greeny bean stalk in a
hectic screaming plot, with all the
madly waving grasses tying oxygen in knots.
Will you weed my rambling garden
with your trowel and a fork? Will you
catch me when I’m falling? But that garden cane
won’t work, because without my own direction and no mouth
to call my own, I am barely standing upright if you
leave me where I’m blown. It’s not a case of
undernourished or unhealthy state of mind; I’m just
unable to be stable for a longer length of time.
I don’t need that much attention, just some water
every day, if you prod me with a pruner I will
curl the other way. So if I wave in your direction
an acknowledgement will do, I’m a skinny greeny beanstalk
but I’m full of beans for you!
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Outside respective doors, we coffee-sip,
waiting for our ships to come in.
When they arrive, we’ll give up the day job
and money will be no matter.
We’ll squat in fame, like cuckoos,
whilst our years play knock and run at
Europe’s door.
You will make a point of shaking hands
with Lenny the Lion at celebrity parties,
and I will pay Frank Bough to buy me a drink.
Between autographs, we’ll play Canasta
with the Wing Commander, take the French X Factor
by storm, and bang it all out on a laptop,
-sure to be a hit!
I’ll leave first, because I always beat you,
and you’ll retire to Dunmow, marry a moll,
and for fame’s sake “Kiss the bride!”
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Working virtually
the PenDragons are poetry’s
rough hewn ships on the tide of life
casting inky anchors deep,
diving minds for matter,
sifting happenings for collateral
worthy of our keep.
We make no promises
seaweed catches on our bows
best intentions dashed
by errant storm, becalmed
by sleeping muse,
yet still compelled, we push
through ode and villanelle
divining subtle truths.
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Today, in the town squares of all great cities
around this beautiful globe,
we will, by common consent, remove divisive flags
hung by history’s tainted shreds of angry pride;
folding them away like old aunty’s table cloths.
.
And see draped instead, from mountain heights,
a more fantastic sight; our real heritage.
Reflective of all earth’s passion and intensity
absorbing in amazement all our pain,
this is our rainbow – and the music of a shared song.
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