Though sparks may fly.

Though sparks may fly. pic

 

he cut my chord with barren words

that echo even now when I

in my sixth decade find spite hidden

in memories

that wake me in the night

and know that my stump

that bit of me we call the soul

is grieving still and asking

plaintive questions knowing that

darkness will over-take every one

of my days

and lay waste to

the child who is still-born

within me.

 So I carry my own foetus unwillingly

in search of life

though in it’s sac, nightly,

I wake flinching at wounds

it’s memory holds intact

forever unleashing the last word

with a prick

to burst the tight skin

of my pride

 and damning with loveless eyes.

Threads

R.I.P

Threads

So, you are famous now

Though it was casual

Mentioned in an alley-way

‘He was found dead in bed’

 

The brutal truth

Is anecdotal

The particulars left to myth

We have our fading vision

 

For your fall was foreseen

By many of us

Who did try to help

When you were out of step

 

But now the game is up

We will honour you

In a thousand small ways

A thread of silence marks this spot

A seconds’ thought

A seconds thought

A seconds’ thought

Morning meditation

Can be disruptive

When questions crowd in

And clamour at the roots of sanity

For doubt is the great divider

Allowing me to enquire

Just as the child once did

Why?

For all that I have seen

And everything I think I know

Is awash

Dampened by doubt

That will fret and pull

And make nervous the certainties

Handed down through histories

Woven into me

 

So, a new day is born

Another unit in my shifting passage

My chance to honour meaning

Salute the depth

The gravity of being

A wobble on the way to Christmas

A wobble on the way to ChristmasSherbet dabs and penny chews

Cold custard and cheese-cake

A teacher kind enough to give me praise

And days when I was free. A king

Score a goal. Win a race

Feel that I had earned my place

Those are captions from good days

Tokens from the sweetness of memory

 

How easy to forget the good

And believe in a parody of the past

Where shadows and puppets

Played the major parts

Reality sits uneasily

Next to the hard evidence

That vanity has made a pass and lost

 

Left with rancour

Instead of gloss

Self-pity grimaces at the mirror

Leaves hands cuddling loss

Emptiness, a stain on the place

Where the atoms sat

The ghost that drags it’s heavy load

Is on the trail of Heaven’s scent

Vital Signs

Vital SignsThe lines are drawn

Dismal or bliss

Wake-up to the mood and function in this

A blessing or a dirge

Decide

 

Everything is better worn

When the shine is off

Bland newness goes

As texture abrades the novelty

And lends surface to experience

 

Confusion can be the precursor

To apathy

So the grey middle ground will adopt

Functionality

You may have to dig deep to carry on

 

Success may not be the tangible thing

But a feeling inside

Some inner glow. Some energy

That elusive thing that tugs at pride

And asks the question of a deeper place