Home ?

Moon-cooled rivers of

Small sharp stone memories

Zig and zag slowly, catching

Every now and then,

Between low-slung

Dark-sky purpled cliffs.

I have walked, sat

Thought, wept and wished

Wondered in this glorious after-space

Oh-so many, many times.

But, in reality, been there once:

The Siq, the candles,

The perfume of the

Single star-dust sundown

When the desert’s quiet carnival

Unfolded gently and

Graciously welcomed me

Home.

Image result for the siq

 

 

The Garden of Stone Trees.

Reclined, hood-eyes half closed,
As relaxed as is possible
On sun-forged, foreign ground:
Crusader-vigil rest in
The approximation of shade:
The Garden Of Stone Trees,
Sometime playground of the
Sunset-call genies.

crusader

By this hour tomorrow
My sword will be first-blooded –
And named –
A first stain dripped
Onto my soul …
And I may
Still be breathing.

1/2/2013

Photo from Wikipedia

Where Speed Is Silver

desert
This eternity-dry furnace land
Regularly eating itself for a living;
This bed of suns,
Casual death of Empires,
Bed of suns wrath,
Migrant’s merciless gauntlet.

Djinn-guard grains,
Impossible sky in flaked-rock ground,
So that simple water,
That which you so desperately need –
And, indeed
Can sea-sand-see –
Is just not there
(…and never was!)

Where speed is silver,
Quicker than thought;
Where breath is spent
Before it’s taken …
And resurrection is
A rootless, long dead tree.

31/1/2013

Photo from tangledwing.wordpress. com (if any objections to my use of this please contact me, I have no wish to use anything without permissions.)

Lady of Spirit

At the end of the world,

We paused, breathing hard –

The lady of spirit  –

She helped me float,

I helped her climb –

And I. We looked

Across the lovely, dry rocks

That came from the

Words of God.

 

(For Deborah)/Petra, Jordan

15/10/2012

 

 

Rocks That Float

Huge time-passing rocks

That float, like clouds

In a sea of grains.

 

Friend of the sands,

Whose carpet is

Knowledge and fire

Following invisible corridors

Written in the stars –

By the winds of histories,

And faith.

 

Desert camp, Jordan, 16/10/2012

The Violet Distance

In the violet distance

Sand eats the sun again;

Soon cold-rock peace

Will settle horizon’s disputes.

Bad-company hero

Told me (years ago)

The sky is burnin’.

I believe – in this

Desert land of faiths –

I begin to understand.

A little bit of desolation

Is desirable on

Access Action Strasse … and

Some minutes with angels

Will weave silk

For the soul.

 

14/10/2012

One for Sorrow.

Was my salute really so poor

That the black-and-white

Felt able to betray me so,

So completely?

Seven flights of seven steps

To bow, trembling,

Before my judgement god.

The desert lords,

Who own the water,

Will have the final word;

Name me

Legend

Or

Villain

A title that will

March with me

Into eternity.

(Jerash, Jordan)

14/10/2012

Been Away.

Been away. Off the radar. Somewhere else. Somewhere different. With a capital Dee. I have so many impressions, drownin’ in ‘em. So many thoughts, tumblin’ in my cold-moon sky filled head. Like grains of Blake sand blown down a dune. Enough to create a dune. Maybe a series of dunes. A desert?

A desert that’s anything but a desert. But where, my friend, where, oh where to begin?

“Simple,” I hear you whisper on sand-scented winds, “begin at the beginning.” And, so sweet of you; for I know you would be trying, as ever, to help; but when the beginning is written in the opening of Holy Books?

The lake that’s a sea and so much, much more than that. Where I floated confidently in hot waters. Saturated. Literally.

A place that is, now, nothing like it was. That comforted humankind on its way out of African cradles: offering fertile lands, good plentiful water. Space for living. For evolution of civilisation. For trade. For thinking. For faiths to be born, tasted and tested.

And everywhere and everything seems to be only two handshakes, two salaams from the Old testament, the genealogy of the Bible, echoing down from 1960s Sunday school and R.E. lessons, is reality: homeland, homecoming and promises of futures.

Skies that, in the high-sun heat of day, remember the Flood, but can so rarely hold a raincloud hold a cloud – and in the night pour the balm of cool from clear-star heavens over seas of sand in which rock formations wallow like slumbering leviathans.

To a country where people are genuinely helpful, far, far beyond pale plastic pseudo-polite imitations; where, if you tap your head to a waiter in a coffee bar he will be there with Paracetomol and water, before you realise what you were signalling.

A country born from a revolution that changed the world (again); named after (or for) and bordered by a river (the one we have to cross apparently). A country that has little or nothing in the way of resources, but one that showed a different face every day – and each of them brimming with hospitality and generous friendships.

A country extremely poor in water, but one whose role and example has stabilised the region, thanks to diplomacy, patience and inspirational leadership.

A history carved in rock and the winds: revelations on every hand.

Jordan!