Anger

two magpies dancing
here in my path
excuse me for thinking
they’re laughing at me

i am grateful for mercy
small crumbs from the table
i hate the dark gods for the troubles they bring

facing black crows
on the bridge to remorse,
my soul has run off to hide in the trees
a pale aqua thread, blown on a breeze

my right eye is full of cold rage and deep anger
by left eye is empty, submissive and sad

fuck off vultures
go back where you came from
i feel like putting a gun down your throats

Walking on

yes – there was strong attraction
some instinctive pull caught our eyes
there was little value in that
when we couldn’t look into the future
hindsight is always wise

the first time i think i loved you
was under the trees near the river
when you asked why i never chose you
i wanted to wrap you and hold you
i answered politely instead
my words were gentle and kind
but i don’t recall what i said
and i had to walk away

later, much later,
after many days had passed
as the river flowed under the bridge
when i told you i loved you
i didn’t feel loved in return
so ironic
i left you
so much walking away
so many crossings of bridges
to reach the love that was there
under the trees that first day

now we are back where we started
but so much further on
now we are walking together
with a love that is deeper and strong

An Angel in New Jersey

I flew the far Atlantic
to a place unknown
I flew to see a stranger,
a mystery. to me.
The streets were full of cars,
humming as they passed.

I climbed an empty stair.
The steps were cold and bare.
The door was open wide,
I entered there

A crumpled body,
in the corner of a room.
I knew that he would die
If I had not been there.
I spoke to him
he did not reply.

I cradled him
I shook him
dialled 911
the paramedics didnt come
i left the building at a run

i became so lost out there
the city was so huge
i was in despair

in a square
above the town
an angel came to me
and took me to the river
i saw a spanning bridge
the angel told me wait
don’t cross, the time’s not now

i waited in a rocking boat
by the river shore
and there the man came to me
a woman by his side
i knew she was his bride
dead long years before
he spoke to me
he shook my hand

‘we are going now” he said
i knew that he was dead
they danced off down the street
their happiness complete

i asked the angel ”can i dance?”
”when the time is right” she said
”that dance is for the dead”

What is a Clock?

What is a clock?
A finger pointing out the time
That’s the simple answer

Counting seconds, minutes, hours
Passing slower, passing faster
A lazy, hungry creature

Time’s elastic
Drags us on
Pulls us to the future

Strips out history away
Measures out our meter
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock

It knows nothing of the moment
Or the truth of time
It will never be my master

My clock is in my heartbeat
But what if there’s no time at all
And it’s a false illusion?

What if it repeats itself
And each beat is completer?
Or everything is overlapped?

Did we meet across some bridge,
Every meeting sweeter?
And will we pass that way again?

I’m here and there and everywhere
Without time there’s no disaster
Time is not my master

 

 

Frozen.

 

Now here before me I see
the uncrossable bridge,
a drawbridge raised beyond.
It’s made of ice.

On the other side,
holding on to imagined hurt,
clinging to thoughts,
counting,
saying nothing to me,
quivering in rage or sadness,
confused perhaps,
a victim to perception sits
in visions I cannot change.
I cannot know what she thinks.
She won’t allow me across.

I watch as I stand.
I can’t reach out,
hold
or help.
Locked out.

This is often the worst,
the worst of the worst of all.
Misunderstanding
breathes in the silence
between us,
in unspoken words
through closed doors,
no air.

This is injustice.
Heartless.
A vacuum.
A chasm.
A void.

Unwise.

Silence, a solid structure
of ancient deeply grained timbers,
sealed and barred,
a simple torture device
that stands on immovable stone.

Left with a hard decision to make,
for myself and how I feel,
the choice between anger
or sadness or nothing,
nothing at all.

I could ignore it again.
In nothingness
there’s no pain.

On days like this
I would willingly give up
on words
or thinking at all.

I can’t help myself either.
I am frozen,
emptily sad.

The Bridge Over the Weir

 

 

weir bridge

 

a mirror reflecting a bridge

blue span across a calm pool

with a foaming drop to the other side

where swans drift in gentle spray

lazily begging food

 

i lean over and watch them

warm sun beating down on my back

so peaceful here in summer

 

when the floods come in winter

this is another place

the water rises and roars

the river booms

vibrating the beams

close to my feet

 

debris in swirling bundles

crashes into the bridge

a whole tree lodged on the edge

in muddied, tumultuous foam

 

the banks of the river burst

threatening houses

and making a lake of the park

where the swans glide idly in pools

 

they are undisturbed

while my heart pounds

to the booming beat of the bridge

 

 

 

 

River Daughter

Oberon threw a web of stars
Titania washed it with the dew
Roses opened,
as they should

Gentle daughter of the Tamar
Titania sleeping, dreamed of you.
Oberon bought you here
to dance

He pulled you from the depths of river
Placed you on a marble bridge
Leaving all the rest
to chance

Puck is always quick to meddle
He loves to open lovers eyes
He pierced me
with his well aimed lance

The river never flowed so far
The world was never quite so new
All was peaceful
in the wood

Gentle daughter of the Tamar
Tender smile and heart that’s true
Magic shines
in all that’s good

Hidden Rooms in Secret Houses

Secret rooms, hidden behind walls,
books, red cushions and a chair,
visited in dreams, well known.

Narrowed passageways and stairs
climb above the twisted chimney stacks.
They rise like curling smoke, a spiral.

Doors that open inward lead out to
the dove cote, fountain, walls of mossy stone,
pathways, apple trees and pears.

At last I leave this house.
Beyond the gate
the island, slate and jagged rocks,

a swaying broken bridge in sighing wind,
a fragile home of glass and salted timber.
High tides beat against it, retreating in a spray.

A window cracks. I am not afraid.
The lighthouse calls out through the fog,
receding echoes that return again,

a sound that swings around the bay.
In dreams, when I am swept away,
the waiting house remains.