if I’d know you were the dumping kind
i’d’ve dumped you first.
BUT **** IT HURTS
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and sometimes I’m sitting, quiet,
would like to speak through meand it doesn’tbut the stillness as I wait –that’s good.Then just occasionally, whenI’m not visited by a poem,I visit – without planning – Poetry.It’s a place without a namewhere many things meet:there’s space, and hope,and possibility, and, out of the present,a future growing..and something that’s not less, ornot less bright,…
Tenderly
the poet wrote;wishingthat his poemsmight have the graceof the tree.the tree heardthe poet’s wishand gave itself,to share his bookleaf for leaffor as longas his poems livedand so it was
So how would you feel if
80 virgins (I always thoughtit was 76 – tough…)lined up fora ‘martyr’who’d just killed 80 peopleincluding the odd fun-da-mental-ist?Read the small print, honey.(And that goes for you too, guys,if the guy was.. well, you know?)Just askin’…
What I always say is
you can’t always remember whatwhat you always say is
How strange it is – and yet, why should it be? –
of that which gives them life itself to live;so see the All as always everywhere?yet from the jungle, or a city’s heart,the sound of praise does not unceasing rise;and we may tread a springtime’s flowered fieldand hear no coloured choir of grateful cries..why has our Lord Creator set it thus,and hid His love from His…
There has to be a reason:
It’s not just that they jump up the sofa to the windowand bark excitedly even when the postman’s invisible down the street;that’s smart; but they don’t stop at that. For those of uswho still have letterboxes in our front doors,every one’s a tasty finger-trap…and open the front doorto take the parcel – and all hell…