How wise

says who poets’poetness?worthwords,spearshake,art forsaken arta now world,with here you,in our all,whose heart?if lovelinesssays sweetly Yessays who poets’poetness?

and maybe God did too;you laughed and smiledwhen you were born –what happened?

by observation, as great scientists?Does Nature do it all without a ‘thought’,the spider just some robot, programmed thus?The spider which the other daybuilt daring, acrobatic, gossamer bridgeacross the path a guy-lined full six feetso that to reach the gate, I had to genuflectas if in some most holy church’s aisle,That bridge of San Luis Rey,…

that dark which, studied, lights the dazzling wholeand brings to finite thought, infinity;as when great singers sing, all hearts can sing;great dancers give us sense that all can dance;great actors speak for all of us; we thinkto know all painted greatness at one glance:we know already, greatness’ unfenced whole,we know that boundless place, the human…

their own hair, grey or white or gone;household handed over totheir son, daughter, ortheir spouse; now,to find again themselves, to be themselves;free, they walk the morning air of freedomtowards the woods; upon the way,meet others of their age.Trees – as every child knowsand old men may remember;old women see through their own children’s eyes –listen…

What in the lovely gaining, fills you?What does the flying-bird sing?What in the lovely losing, joys you?What flies as bird on wing?What lost in loosing, frees you?What does the loosing-bird bring?

meaning, an explosion in consciousness:as you recognise it in a flash, it’s not yet words,barely an idea; just that curious urge, for it to be;You try to get it down – the first verse is a mess,just like your bedroom as you try to packa weekend case that covers everything –but you really need it,…

Freed leaves, dancing home..*[some of the (too many) self-appointed authorities believe that a haiku should contain a ‘surprise’ element, or as the Germans say, ‘the Aha! experience’, plus the usual 5-7-5 syllables and season and time of day identified..]

shakes hands with his opponentbut his eyes don’t follownow they’re off to the umpire’s chair;he reaches up, shakes handsas if he’s tipping the doorman,eyes elsewherehe may have won the matchbut he’s lost my vote.At least politicians have the nerveto look you in the eye.

whose numbers I cannot countand would not wish to know;who seldom know each other;and perhaps, that’s just as well..who, in their dressing-gowns on Christmas morn,amid bright wrappings hasty torn,and exclamations…fall suddenly quiet,are far, somewhere else for several moments;return, and look silently in thought, deeply,at partner, children; their eyesnow a little more shining than they were..or…

and yet, and yet… I’m just a little sad,not to meet my self in previous embodimentand say, thanks for the baton that you passedin this relay race of self to selfthrough millions of forms of life, they say;you played your part; worked through your destiny,gave cradle-gifts; withheld some too,to test me further on the path…

as you like it: you glance intothe banqueting hall, the chandeliersparkles above the laden, enticing table;there’s the scent of perfectionthen the lights go out.Worse, there’s a notein the butler’s pantry:gone elsewhere; you’re in charge.No notice given, not a hint; it wasall going so well.. where’sthe fuse box? Candles?Torches?You remember, what they saidbut it didn’t mean…