Walking with water

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Walking with water

When I was a child I believed God lived in the skies.

It was the only way God could see everything

God was everywhere his proximity was frightening

I walked the mountains searching endlessly

I know I wasn’t alone in these beliefs

I’ve written fifty years and a day, written as they say

without knowing whether my words are listened to

so I walk these mountains listening to your words

words and teachings no longer listened to

I walk mountain trails following old pathways

I walk old pathways following mountain trails

I sing my words I sing my song to silence.

(Excerpt from long poem “Walking with Water”)

Feeling ancient

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Some days start with difficulty the aching

of my bones through the night unrelenting

worries roam interrupting shallow sleep

these times invade the darkness of my peace.

Progressives dissolve into prancing parody

eyes no longer on the ball

no honesty just the need to win

there is no distinction here, no pride

voices reduced to a numbing incoherence

overused words and a worn out score.

 

Meanwhile the crying of the people

lie unheard echoing unanswered

there seems no shame in this bickering

dressing it up as something different.

Even a blind man could see or hear

something important, something vital

has been lost, has been forsaken.

And there is that unending emptiness

watching the dance of a prattling clown

and the gesticulations of a puppet mouthing

over rehearsed words and tired phrases

but who is who and which is which?

 

And so we are left with that odd echoing

a Welsh word “didoreth” comes to mind

I feel like closing the door on this silliness

but I worry for my children’s future

and all those children struggling out there

and they deserve so much better

something, someone far, far, better.

Than this. So we shall not be silent.

 

 

Burnt

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Burnt out

Burnt out.

Burn out.

Such odd phrases an evocation a reminder

Of a bonfire

Or a rocket falling backwards to earth

Nothing certain. It describes nothing. No feeling of the way emptiness

Seeps into the core of the soul

No give. No giving any more.

No seeing who or what you are.

Other people’s words empty tunes

Bells that toll but fail to ring true.

Demands are made sweating begins

Empty hands shake holding nothing

And that hiding place sleep. Sleep fails

Lying in darkness surrounded by ghosts

Of past words days the nightmare begins

Involuntary shouting swearing announces

That feeling of shame of failing

That stays through the following day

Overrides everything

Those positive achievements

Those days and times when a battle was won

The commendations waved away as worthless.

Burnt out says everything says nothing

It is a meaningless phrase.

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Lost in translation

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Lost in translation

 

I lent you a book

shared some knowledge

you made promises

promises to be broken

I struggle with such interaction

I am told it is this age

nothing can be taken for granted

so nothings changed

life is fragile

we who grew up in a certain time

know that

have always known that

nothing can be taken at face value

nothing can be taken for granted

yet I listen to fools

who are taken seriously

facts mean nothing

it’s just your opinion

and if you shout louder

fact means nothing.

I leant you a book

that meant something to me.

 

Tribute to Eva Hoffman.

On being silent

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I read to people in large rooms

but I can’t hear myself

I feel constrained

my words seem distant

somehow empty

echoing in an empty room

I feel I’m of another time

a sense of regret

I accepted silence for too long

and now feel that I should return

to a world of silence again.

A shepherd has read

a poem I wrote about him

and now looks at me with a new eye

there is a warmth

that I have honoured him

I am someone who has troubled

to write about him

and given importance to his life.

He said quietly that he took time

to read my words

and smiled.

 

For William.

Marcos Ana

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“It is very hard to live when you have been condemned to death. The anguish of waiting, as you listen to the sounds of the night, for the possibility of falling, triszado (cut to shreds) by lead, with the last stars of the dawn”.

Marcos Ana

Born 20th January 1920. Died 24th November 2016.

And such stars as these open eyes in darkness so the light is seen!