You’ll have a cup of tea
Mark said as 1 passed
Down the road
Simple talk, greetings
We knew each other
But not well
Then over a cuppa we chatted
Talk of meditation
Talk of Wales
Simple tales of two lives
Then a few poems
Two poets sharing
A simple life
Around the tables, out the front
Trippers gather to feel
Silence surrounding all our hearts
The peace of our own soul
A man from Cork smiles at me
We share a little chat
A wishing well he gives
A respectful little pat
With words of grace, he takes his place
At our most joyous banquet
And remembers the knowledge we do have
A powerful cosy blanket
How fast does water have to go
to get away from Jack Frost?
Down the river, bobbing to and Fro,
jostling, chunks of ice tossed,
race to find a more convenient place
where the water settles.
where a lake with placid, frozen face
waits for summer's petals.
Faces in places
and places in town,
lit by reflections
of sun going down.
Freed from work spaces
and from the school ground,
carrying cases
and babies around.
Clutching their parcels
and dreamy, they wait,
as the car jostles
and staggers their gate.
Sway, tired Faces,
so crowded, alone,
taking the subway
to Family and home.
One thing done
Two things to do
Want to draw more
But need to express the day
Want to work
But need to clean the room
Time and Time again
When moving forward
I move backwards
Where am I
Where do I go
What have I forgotten
What should I learn
Time and Time again
One thing done
Two things to do
No One is Right
No-One is Uncommon
Noone is Wrong
Disruptive variegation catches. Eye
finds focus on extremes. All
and nothing . Holding space together,
side by side. For more
than a moment consume
the surrounding blades of grass.
Safety does not lie
in numbers. These creatures are not
legion. They are small, clever, groups
unafraid to sacrifice
personal space. They stand, touching
tails, heads, shoulders. Legs
cross, interlock, until they appear
undifferentiated.
Does this one have three ears?
Dose that one have six hooves?
The divides are questionable,
indeterminable. They move as one.
Silently stamping no lone print
into the dirt.
Black. White.
Black. White.
Black. White.
Aligned in natural
symmetry. Pristine
hairline does not stray. Delineates.
Gray is never even a shadow
option.
Insistent whispers from distant places,
tease & menace;
the hold is held*,
coils then melds, melts & is gone forever.
Solid & insubstantial, all objects
whole & partial
resist or yield,
or stubbornly reveal futility
to be both the cause & death of meaning:
every answer
a more graceful dancer than the question;
never endingtension between existence & being.
It slips away,
eternally
within the reach,
of a grip that cannot keep what it holds:
The City swells with life
& you,
insignificant,
stare at the people & the buildings
& the mundane purpose.
Overwhelmed by
the tide, so an anchor is made:
One must stay busy.
Smoke dances the in rain
framed
by the sickly-white, luminescent light
of the night.
A walk, awake
between night & day, surrounded
by the City, &
always the same shapes:
We were in the sunlight
What we cannot talk about…
What we can see