Pool on the sill

I hear it’s November
but the rains sound the same

The birds, I hear
and see as they drink from puddles

I hear my radiators
clicking, groaning
so it must be a chilly November
but it all feels the same

I see it’s grey out there
and suddenly the birds are silent
as I watch dribbling condensation
pool on the sill

I swim in that pool
and feel a tremendous hankering
to evaporate.

After all that rain

After all that rain
all this …
I wake to see art.

Sitting here
with the clocks back an hour
I’m in bed with a coffee.

That bright ball of wool
is being tugged along
by cosmic cats
leaving its fluffy warmth
to permeate the sodden
storm-filled cloak.

Mist curls to chase
the mewing
only to lose substance and fade.

Art remains
to seize the day
and obliterate the night.

Connections

Connections complete us
and compete with us.

As one connection is made
so another fades.

This is the reality of life
the order of things.

A heartbeat is merely an echo
of silence
and within this silence
connections are made and lost.

A breath is nothing but
an exhumation of time
and within this time
we are being destroyed.

A touch is sufficient enough
for a soul to reach its purpose
and within this purpose
is love.

A living thought is dependent
upon its merit
for we are beings with the potential
to create malignant or benevolent connections.

This is the reality of life
the order of things.

As one connection is made
so another fades.

Connections complete us
and compete with us.

Pearl in a dust-bin

Sometimes I think my mind is on another planet, or even another dimension where it’s writing with gusto leaving me blank and pallid so I apologise for my silence lately. The feelings I have to be able to write just aren’t around and I’m not going to force the words to appear.

However, I have been reading quite a bit and as you can see on the right there I am currently reading the huge four volume A Short History of the English People by John Richard Green. I’m about three quarters through volume 2 and Queen Elizabeth is on the throne being pestered by Queen Mary of Scots. I’m also reading Sir Walter Scott’s Lay of the Last Minstrel.

Previous to this I read a wonderful book by Marie Corelli called The Sorrows of Satan and if you get a chance I recommend it. Here are two quotes from the many excellent examples of her writing in the book.

…Be sure that if you are unhappily celebrated for either beauty, wit, intellect, or all three together, halfsociety wishes you dead already, and the other half tries to make you as wretched as possible while you are alive…

…To be missed at all when you die, some one must love you very deeply and unselfishly; and deep unselfish love is rarer to find among mortals than a pearl in a dust-bin…

I hope to be back soon with poems.

Happy Sunday and thanks for visiting 🙂

The sanctuary of self

How little we understand.

How small is this time
yet how infinite
are the finite moments in which we exist.

There are reasons of course
why we are so slow
as there there are reasons
why the things around us, dance with fury.

How little we sense.

This place, this unstopable storm
this attitude of life
exists in each raindrop –
that safe place from the vulnerable silences

… how little we embrace
the sanctuary of self.

Frail

frail
with soul on fire
with tired desire
to burn and bleed with solid need
risen and rising
and yet hold back
lest the cracks open hard
cutting the cords
without reward