Stepping Out

 

From

Patient waiting

To

Unconsciousness

To

Slipping and sliding in and out of awareness,

Into relief and despair

To

Existing with thought numbing pain

A pain which draws the mind

In on itself, in self-pity and hopelessness,

Banishing the warmth of creative thought,

Of hopeful ideas, dreams and images

While

The butcher’s healing cut,

Invasive plucking,

Selective drawing,

Invades the integrity of my being.

Then begins the slow toil of recovery,

The growing awareness of life’s breath,

Of hopes victory over despair,

Of faltering footsteps,

Bright eyed attention and thankfulness

Which begets healing.

 

There still lies the long road to somewhere

Not yet signposted,

Not quite where I stood before.

The Thread That Remains.

 

  (For Bereavement Volunteers)

We do not mend the broken heart— we sit beside it, quiet as dawn.

We do not fill the silence— we listen until it sings of love that outlives loss.

In every tear, a thread remains— woven through memory, tied to the living.

And in our presence, grief finds shape, and hope, its breath.

Do You Remember

 

Do you remember

Holding hands in anticipation of tomorrow

Of not saying anything

                    In case the anything came out all wrong

Or gave away a truth

Of holding your breath

                    At the searing of a gentle touch

                                        Which lasted half a life

Of meeting eyes and wondering

                    What thoughts lay in their depths

                                        Coloured by blushing cheeks

Of the joy and laughter felt

                    At the clever words which

                                        wrapped a fear in a mask of joy

Of that pining absence felt

                    In the absent hours spent wondering

                                        Will this end.

And now

The acceptance of togetherness

The familiarity of a predictable presence

Taken for granted, yet

Viewed in the thought of that inevitable parting

While living for the now.

Looking Over My Shoulder

I saw myself today
   Couched in another man's body,
Slightly bent
              But cheery,
Struggling to prize himself
                    Out of the chair,
Taking a breath before the
            First tentative movement,
Spreading his arms, looking
                 For balance and purchase,
And the final push, the
        Grunting effort, the hopeful,
Determined look followed by
                    The swaying, steady
Move to the upright-
The wobble at the almost
        There moment- and
The final chuckle of success.

And I'm still looking back
        To my nineteenth birthday,
Writing my last will and testament
             In a positive haze, (as you do at nineteen!)
A jest, yet also a wry hope of cheating age.

And then we left together
Walking into the darkness
And another man's fist.

I think I'll try Pilates
   or yoga in the New Year.

Starbucks

I enjoy people watching and nothing more than an Americano with hot milk and people watching on the side.

Earth chatter fills the room

With coffee flavoured talk- rich and tasty.

The smell of blocked drains swirl into the

Lecturer’s critique, a comment reflecting last night’s

Conquest and the anticipation

Of tomorrows treat.

Wi-Fi mocha, dark and serious,

Speaks on today’s trade winds-

Clipper fast yet never fast enough.

Laughter lightens the tone

Whelming into a crescendo of companionship

Soon to part, held only by the memories-

Tomorrow’s savouring of today’s Americano.

Then, coffee done, I feel I must take my leave

Past serious young men scribbling compulsory essays

Or making sense of notes now echoing the

Gibberish of the half-listened.

The uniform waits to wipe my table

And my creative moments are wiped away

Like dirty pots.

June 13

PAINTED FACES

Sometimes the darkness and the silence are the cup of random thought- creativity.
Dedicated to Bowie

Painted faces hide the 'you' of me
Standing behind the hedge of us
The reality.

Blue skies hide the darkness
Shadow the reality
And the sojourn which is the
Excuse for procrastination.

Send love to the pinnacle
Make it supremacy
Give breath to love
To the reality of existence-
I am: I am: I am.

My breath is my reality
My thoughts are my existence
My today is the beginning of my tomorrow

I do not deny the me
In me
I am my reality-
Breathe life
       Breathe...

Poetry Walk

Last month's poetry walk was quite an English experience. First there was slight rain, then mild sunlight, followed by sleet, a biting cold wind, then a gentle damp breeze gave way to sunlight breaking through the racing cloud. Who said life is boring?
Below are copies of two poems written by Richard who shared the walk. He also recited two other poems: 'The Weathers' by Hardy, which was very apt as we heard the first cuckoo of the year, and  'Spring and Fall' by Gerard Manley Hopkins.   Thanks to Richard for allowing me to publish them here.
The walk and the talk was an experience which I will never forget.
Hopefully another walk will be arranged in midsummer.

On reading poetry in print

                                                I cannot hear the poets, all I have

                                                Is print on paper, and I give my own

                                                Sound to hear the poets’ words, and make

                                                What seems to me they want to say, live on.

                                                I do not see their molten silver flow

                                                Toward the mould of press or pen; that thought,

                                                That spirit freezes to the words I read.

                                                Then, heated to the melt, I feel my own

                                                Liquid silver glisten and go.

                                                                                                                                         Richard Harris

Metaphors of a mountain day

Lifting away the first quiet dew of dawn

the monarch of the morning takes the sky,

warming the golden cliffs and earth and grass,

and as his powers rise, burning the rock,

parching from earth the last dark patch to pale

dry dust, commanding all the leaves on trees

to give up every drop stored in their veins.

The daughters of this moisture, prim, demure

white damsels sail before the king, grow fat

and blousy, till their kin take umbrage, and

with darkened brows, gather to menace him,

join shoulders to become a threatening mass

and swarm across the landscape for revenge.

As dim rain-curtains sweep across far hills

the first-to-fire, leopard-lightning, claws

to rend the sky; black hordes like charging beasts

thunder their hooves in answer.  Whispered breeze

foretells the rain:  first statements from great drops,

an urgent wide accord, till the whole scene

 a torrent of wet splashy words, that prompts

a childish babble of meadow rivulets. 

                                                    

 Now,

as sudden as it starts, the rain is gone,

and while the grey-stacked sky parts for the king

to show red sunset smiles, the earth lies still;

the sound of silence listening to itself,

reflecting on the drama of the day.

                                                                           Richard Harris