I will take up again
that silver cord.
Find again,
something once clear cut
as the new moon.
And that was only a moment ago!
I noticed this,
as I crave some small wisdom
in a pop song.
Ears pricked
for something outside of me.
All the pulls,
all that is somewhat compelling.
And the drifting connections
you hope to keep tethered.
And then… what is left?
Only that universe inside of you.
6th feb ‘23
I read a poem once,
curled up,
on a sofa made of pallets.
With a beautiful creature,
I did not know.
And yet,
near his heart,
and all its beautiful caves,
and shadows,
and brightness…
I let him hold me,
in his gentle care.
Though that was but yesterday,
it was half my life ago.
Somewhere, in an old hanger in Devon.
Embercombe! This is a poem I wrote post retreat in January 23.
A joy filled experience with beautiful people. (‘will the sand last’ was a reference to the wisdoms and insights gained running through your figures like sand). And a reminder that after retreat, that one has change, and it takes a while to find your place again in the world.
Landing is weird.
The world is so fast.
Full of butterflies and feelings
will the sand last?
All these connections.
And the love in my heart.
and my quest,
and my vision,
and, this is my part!
Let the road come to meet you.
They said as we left.
That which you carry,
Is how you are blessed.
Images of fires and picture of trees
Bright bound red ribbons,
laughter, and peace.
I want to say love gently.
Because the world,
it has changed.
Again_ let the road meet you.
While your feelings are strange!
Morning lovely people.
As most of you probably know i write poetry from time to time. I have done all my life; I am a poet.
At the moment I am at a divergence, hinge moment in life. Things have been fallow, like soil lots going on just under the surface.
Two thing have layed long in the earthy bed of my body… they need a name and a little light.
The first is to share my gifts. The second is to tend to my wounds.
‘Sharing my gifts’ and ’tending my wounds’ is a handle, a phrase to help me access some thing hidden amongst my shadows. I know I need to take small steps, and to be sure of them.
Sharing my poetry feels good. They have been my companions, and an internal guide. But with these type of things, I realize writing them is only part of what they are. Reading them is part, reading them again later is yet another party still! But sharing them in an open and complete way feels like another step, it’s not a big wow moment, but it has a certain significance for me.
I have more to share and more to tend, and I see that feed me, and feed those I talk to. I have just joined the local community choir. I’m practicing massage and shiatsu and I am have conversations with people.
An invitation…
I’d like to share my story and hear yours. I have been unpacking lots of stuff around the practice/Zendo. That is part of our story. Some of you I’ve had conversations with and we have been looking into these days together. I just want to say I am available and that is all. Let’s go for a walk sometime.
With a light and gentle heart. With love and peace, with safety and respect.
Your Sanga Brother.
And….. this poem marked 10 years of this note book. These words mark a new chapter, a chapter of life, where I share. Where I wrap myself in bravery (who are you not to be big, apologies for the miss quote).
This book started as it set out on an adventure, sold up everything i had off value to pay back debts. Closed down my building business and left my flat. To go on a pilgrimage to nowhere.
The last 10 year have been a journey. The person i was then and who i am now….
I want to say- this is my gift (to the world). I cannot say it is well written or contains great wisdom. I cannot say the words here are true, or a complete reflection of me, it isn’t! I have kept certain scribbled lines as ink on page, bound by cream and brown leather. This book, well used and oft’ neglected. A place where the most secret words could rest un-molested and unfinished. It has been my companion and truest confidant. I bless this book, but for me the words can not, forever lie confined. I have to name these words as an offering to the world. If they are an offering then they are not mine to keep.
With love.
this world of clay, cannot be moulded.
-But we are ‘man’ and have these hands.
you are ‘children’ and the world is for play and dreams.
-but these hands want to shape, and protect,
And run figures through the earth.
and that is why you dream
It is your heart that moulds the clay.
This is for those who need for or yearn to connect, and distract themselves with talk of money or push you away with the clever quips. The last line is a reference to- He wished for cloth of heaven by W. B. Yates. there is an opportunity in connection to talk of deeper things, of dreams.
Do not be scared.
When I touch your heart.
– mine beats just the same.
Though there may be a chill, in this open room.
My ungloved loved body, feels better your naked touch.
And oh! This clumsy world
We filled with staccato beats.
But under, there lies a rhythm.
Let me feel you with this gentle hand.
And our body music,
will play on threads of gold and silver light.
Under stones,
On this scattered beach.
The curlew turns
the infinite possibility,
lying quietly under each,
that makes a liar
of that busy life.
That says- this barren landscape
Is your forever home.
All the crunch and churning
Feet on pebbles
It does not change
The purpose of your heart.
Stand a while.
Look under pebbles.
Hold my naked hand.
I found this
Where I forgot to look.
A poem under everyone.What is it that fills your heart,
In the coldness and desolation
Of your empty room.
What happens
if you don’t scratch that itch?
If you just breath——
This life of circles,
And refining loops,
Filled with love so well used.
Woven tapestry,
Folded into layers.
Each strand and crease
A world of its own.
I need not look out.
I am connected.
I need not crave,
For I am part of all things.
A couple of things to aid reading, it’s an unpunctuated kind of poem. So the verses are supposed to run in together, one continuous breath. I really like this poem, but the last verse isn’t quite write. But again this is not the place for finished work, I just want to keep writing.
For reference ‘stop line’ pillbox is a reference to the World War II defenses in the south coast (Uk). There have been analogies or comparisons made between the pulling together of people during the war and lock down. Obviously not in gravity but maybe in community to a degree…
Where I mentioned The Machine is a reference to the government.
Public health guidelines
Now, now— in these extraordinary times
Listen, relax, follow government guidelines.
Dig beds or kids cress eggs
While the television briefing begs
Jagged little lockdown says stay home.
We count the days for normal to return
And find new routines to learn
The fragile, pomposity of The Machine will churn
The last of its regrets.
Now forever marked by COVID-19,
Like ‘Stop Line’ pillbox, half unseen,
We touch the world on iPad screens,
And the way we live has changed.
We find our tribe as isolation connects.
We look deeply, to see what the mirror reflects.
These hard times elects,
New ways for us to try.
These tidal days, maybe slip from time,
The allotment patch- reclaimed by vine.
The advertisers drone will whine.
And beg us to forget.
Forget, forget, what is simple is needed.
Consume and replenish what the grants depleted.
There was a time our hearts were seeded.
By devastation, now not repeated.
If we let go the gold found, unheeded
No fields of poppies, no insite greated.
What has this life become?
