Some of The Ropes and Chains

Image result for image storm

Every storm has a quiet cradle:

A cell in which I can sit with myself and my shadow;

Rain and wind are doubtless a-coming

But before the tempest noise stirs

We get to read between such lines as we can see.

I look through my own eyes – in these moments –

And into my own eyes, seeing beyond, behind.

We’ve started some big fires to get here,

Jumped into and over others, it’s true

And, after this latest hurricane has

Passed and done some damage

We’ll enjoy a summer garden again.

Yet I cannot escape the feeling that I’ve

Let go of some of the ropes and chains

That have anchored  me

To the valuable past.

And it frightens me.

 

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Mixin’

Hangin’ with the fellowship today

Mixing with the global culture’s blood,

Waiting till the price is right

In the early market ‘hood.

Lookin’ at the town hall,

Chisellin’ the stone;

Dreams of expansions,

Designs upon the throne

Along the streets of jumbled pedigree

In the narrow darknesses of the mine,

We recruit militia for the unseen, ceaseless wars

There’s truffles for the swine.

We look beyond our boundaries

Where wizards plot with silver elves

There’s fodder for the factories,

Silken ambrosia charms – of course – for ourselves!

Hearing Glory’s Music …

All that sinfully-wasted time –

Was it really so very long ago? –

All those fumbling words; so many

Maybe each of them would have lost interest,

Walked away, beyond my yearning reach.

And, all the while me, believing

I was dancing smoothly, faultlessly

In pure-diamond skies, hearing

Glory’s music in the slow-spiralling

Falls of angel feathers.

Could it be

I was, simply,

Always failing, slipping

Back to the minefield square

Where you have to throw a six,

Miss a go or

Pay a fine?

A Better Perfection?

What was I thinking?

If I was thinking at all,

Lacking commitment, no precious passion-metal

In this fifty-winters relationship today, nor, indeed,

For some months gone: only mere disdainful disinterest,

Denial: surely the most cowardly forms of betrayal.

No fire in the blood, no iron in the rod

Where love and faith once fitted, fuelled and fulfilled.

Another week’s dull grey rains gone

Under the honest, Bedlam song bridges;

Why was I waiting, pretending indifference?

And for what?

For the gallows shadow birds to find

Paradise-bell voices, describe a better perfection?

For the right cards, for a signal in smoke or stars?

What was I thinking?