Home on the moor

One day I left this place
It seemed right then
Beyond was calling

Now I talk to the mountain
Listen to the Curlews
Beyond was here not there



This is the third of my small paintings on canvas
20cm x 20cm.

Morning Walk

Every morning after meditation I walk

Rain overnight leaves puddles 

A Blackbird showers itself with vigour

I stop, enjoying the spectacle

Both taking pleasure

On through the tranquil village

Every house named

A clue to it’s owners dreams

One is called ‘ Mole Meadow ‘

Wind in the Willows perhaps?

I think I would like the occupants 

After the houses the lane narrows

The local bus murmurs towards me

I step on the bank allowing passage

The driver waves acknowledgement

Our eyes meet, we both smile

She has a happy smiling face

Presently I reach the river at the ferry

The ferry is no more, just an old pub

The river is dark, flowing with power

I turn to return, musing on metaphor

Near the small shop is a village pond

Two shy Moorhens in peaceful residence

This winters day sunny and so, so mild

All around life is impatient to spring

My thoughts return to the river

There before me and after me

Buddhists believe in rebirth

Continuity in some form I believe

Possibly the nutrient for a new tree 

On that tree will sit a new Blackbird

I am happy with that thought  

It will be enough

This is it

In the meditation hall there is silence

Forty men silently sitting

Silence

A cough, a rustle of movement

Silence

Outside a bird sings to the dawn

This is it

Nearby a stomach anticipates breakfast

Silence

Outside a little animal scratches and scrabbles

 This is it

Someone moves a cramped limb

Silence

Outside a Dove softly speaks

This is it

Smile

I will only know her for two weeks

My time in this retreat place

I see her each morning on my walk

Falling in love with her smile

She passes me on the narrow lane

Slowly sailing her bus

I step onto the bank and she waves

We both smile making eye contact

There seems a warmth about this transfer

I hope she feels it too.

After Meditation I Notice

After meditation I notice new buds as I walk

I notice the old leaf grasped in the lower tangle

I notice that the energy of the earth has turned

The turning from contraction to expansion

I notice I follow without effort into this movement

Always somewhere there is a flower in bloom

 This penetrates me deeply and with wonder

I notice leaves are as moved by the wind as I am

Emotions joyful and tearful arise to surprise me

I notice I am pleased by this affirming surge of life

I notice a handsome Thrush tapping a snail on stone

In the bushes a small bird tests his spring voice

I notice a molehill breaking the long wet grass

It reminds me of childhood walks with my father

I notice tenderness springs up to catch my throat

I feel gratitude for being in this deep miracle

I notice too that I don’t understand it at all

At the Padmaloka retreat 23^rd December 2015

Loch an Eilein at the end of Summer.

This is a time of year when I get very reflective. There is something in the change of energy between summer and autumn which I am very sensitive to. It is a sad feeling but one that changes as the season changes. I notice that I am inspired to write poems during this time.

The Pause

That strange week when nature pauses;

The world falls silent.

Like the tide visits and leaves the shore.

Poignant reminder of time passing.

A dawning sense;

A memory remembered.

That strange week when nature pauses;

Foretelling the end of summer.

A melancholy stillness;

Empty of movement and sound.

Everything is waiting;

For Autumn to begin

Grey

A cold wind moves the grey pines

My heart whispers grey like the air

The illusion of independence vanishing

Crushed on the grey rocks of reality

The shattered dust of delusion
Reforming in glorious yellow

Ghosts of love

Ghosts of lovers past

Stalk my mind and dreams.

Golden haze of memories

Moments of passion.

Floating on clouds of infatuation

Dissolving into tender love.

Gratefully I carry my ghosts

With enduring love and gratitude.

When I die

When I die the world will carry on?

They say.

But what could happen without me?

I say.

I am so important I cannot leave just yet

 I pay all my dues and taxes

 And joined the village choir

I recycle all my rubbish

 And vote in all elections

I help old ladies cross the road

and sometimes pick up litter

I read about the scandals

 In someone else's life

Will those of mine stay hidden

 Or will they come to light

Will anybody remember if I'm black or white

And does it really matter if I reached the heights

Or plumbed the depths and robbed a bank

And donated most to Oxfam

Oh yes I'm so important

I've been and done so much

I've learnt to cook and speak Chinese

And chaired the rugby club

I wash my car once every week

And mowed that pesky lawn

I'm sure I don't deserve to die

After all that I have done

But soon they'll help me cross that road

And nobody will remember

And even though I'm dead and gone

The world will carry on.

It's Over

It's like being pregnant and the end it will hurt.

You know it's been coming and no place to run.

The space between you is getting too large

You want it to happen but can't bear the hurt.

You feel love dying as something else grows

Reluctant to end it and cause yet more pain.

But what is the answer and what is the gain.

To stay is to perish, to stifle a life.

Stillbirth is no triumph when two go to hell
So brave the unknown and start a new life.

Fisherman John

When the wind comes up

we'll go to sea.

When the wind dies down

then we'll see.

When the tide comes in

so will we.

When the tide goes out

why can't we.

When the fish are there

let's all shout.

When the fish are gone

it's so long John.

Guiding Star

Where are you my guiding star?

You are so bright when I don't need you.

Now you've gone behind some cloud

Unseen, Obscured, now that I need you.

Where are you my guiding star?

I search the heavens for a clue.

Indecision makes a fog

And I no longer see you.

So where are you my guiding star?

I'm so sad and lonely.

I look to you to answer me

And lead me far from here.

Where are you my guiding star?

The solution I am seeking.

The answer lies within not out

Lucky

Lucky

We are the lucky ones

We've really had it all.

We haven't had to fight a war

Our problems were so small.

We lived the golden era

Which won't be seen again

.

We had the swinging sixties

And much much more besides.

And now we're off on that world trip

A gap year in our dotage.

We had no unemployment

Our pensions were gold plated.

Our appetites were so so strong

And almost always sated.

So let's give thanks for all our luck

And let us pay the price.

Our kids missed out on all our luck

They'll draw the dole

 And stay at home

And watch that big TV

It's no good for them or for us

But do we have a choice.

And when we're in that nursing home

And have to be looked after.

Who can blame them in their turn

If they don't give a damn.



Over the Cliff

Passion, gain, loss, risk and fear are the themes of my latest poem. Put your own interpretation on it.

Over the Cliff

I could go over the cliff with you

Or fly above the moon.

I could plunge the depths with you

Or visit the hot sun.

I feel you in every moment

Caressed by your luminous beauty.

I could lose my mind with you

Or hide in what I know.

I could break free and run with you
Or rest in comfort cage.

You hold me in fiery tenderness
And lead me to that place.

I could be changed for ever by you
Or stand upon my pride.

I could lose my soul to you
Or fear to take that step.

You are the wilderness before heaven
Or the reef before the shore.

I could go insane with you
Or be consumed by blackness.

But I have glimpsed beyond the veil
 Ineffable perfume of truth.

So I must go
Over the cliff with you.

The Pause

That strange week when nature pauses;

The world falls silent.

Like the tide visits and leaves the shore.

Poignant reminder of time passing.

A dawning sense;

A memory remembered.

That strange week when nature pauses;

Foretelling the end of summer.

A melancholy stillness;

Empty of movement and sound.

Everything is waiting;

For Autumn to begin.

Nomads

;

The swallows are sitting on the line;

Their purpose here nearly over.

A pulse, a scent, something calling.

Tiny scraps empowered;

To ride the wind southwards.

I hear their twittering restlessness.

Primordial longing;

Connecting me to the same fever.

What is it we seek with journeying?

Heed the calling to the source:

Or be fearful and die.

Aldeburgh

Notes about this poem. The Moot House was erected in the first half of the 16th century originally as Council Chambers. Now it is a museum. It was once in the centre of town but now is almost on the beach, the houses in front of it being lost to the restless sea. The reference to fifty three is to the flood surge in 1953 which did much damage to the East Anglian coast. Aldeburgh is also famous for The Aldburgh Festival started by the composer Benjamin Britten with the singer Peter Pears and the writer Eric Crozier.

The Poem. Aldeburgh.

It was bigger once, two streets of houses gone to sea.

Pebbles, from the bricks no doubt, lie on the shingle spit.

High Street with promenade seems perfectly serene.
It's been this way many years, despite a fright in fifty three.

Grey skies and blue for dominance collide behind the lookout tower.
Proud and old The Moot House stands before the public shower.

Still hauled up, the working boats, left on the moving pebbles.
Old houses, out to sea they look, unique is every one.

Harmonious, shades of pastel painted, why do they fit so well
How calming is the atmosphere, it creates a soothing spell.
Every ones so happy here and for a while were we.

A Summers Day

Fields.
Meadows, translucent haze, shimmering colours, greens, browns, beiges and golds. Hot summers day.

Dunes.
Dry Marram grass, warm sand. Sombulent sounds, distant waves, Skylark singing, insects, far off voices.

Sea.
Cool, refreshing, brown bodies, beads of water, salt on skin. Hot sun. Time suspended.

Memories.
Other days. Ten, twenty, thirty years. Boyhood to manhood. Poised today between past and future.

Verges.
Long grass, Ripe Seed, Moon Daisys, Cow Parsley, Red Poppies, Cornfields. Brilliant colours reaching my soul. So beautiful I weep with exultation.

Eternal summer.
Unchanging. Different insects, birds, grass, flowers, other people.

How many more summers? We are just a sound in the song of life.

Desire

I want to be done with this. I have no further need. Bureaucracy, tax inspectors, vat men. Away with them all. Accountants, bankers, solicitors, landlords. Away with them all.

I want the things that mean the most. Immeasurable things. Valueless valuable things. Unknownable things, unpossessable things.

I want to throw away things. Surplus this and surplus that. Donate this to that and that to this. Here take this. I have too much.

I want to simplify, to prune, to lighten. My needs are few. Less is more. Release the bonds.

I want to feel. Exhilaration. The fresh earth. The sun. The dew. The river. The vibrant interconnected pulse of life. The sea. The grass. The leaf. The insect. The mountain.

I want to close the doors. Hand in the keys. Say goodbye. Duty done. I enjoyed the fight. Now it's time. Let go.

I want to see, to feel, touch, glory in, be absorbed by... wonder. Muse on it. Absorb the beauty of love.

Mind unimpeded. Mind unclouded. By things.

The great escape.
Written when I gave up the day job and before I took the next one!

The Rooks Have Gone

A wood pigeon softly calls, hidden in the tall pine trees. Late July now. I notice the gentle sound. A moment of awareness.

All through the spring, frenetic activity, raucous calling. All but the nearest bird song overwhelmed by The Rookery.

The Rooks have gone now. A new generation flown. Another year. I am awake to this moment. To the flow of time.

Awakened by The Pigeon.




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