John of Forde

containing, and content;around it, another worldis playing out its immortal role,in constant movement whichsomehow conveys to us, stillness,peace; there’s order in that world;and yes, John, you could well call it,unravish’d quietness: (you said, once,in your romantic way, thatyou were certain of nothingbut the holiness of the heart’s affections,and the truth of imagination;here’s the urn to…

unless the knowledge wants to sing?why waste timeon searching rhymeunless the joy can’t help but dance?why waste timeon searching rhymeunless the mind is full of sound?then rhyme with timeand sing and danceand lose your heartto happenstance.

the love, the joy,the devotion, the care,the seriousness, the play,the sensitivity, the abandon,the surgical precision, the anatomical care,the discovery, the giving,the pure animal watched by caring human,the passion, the attention to every detail,the sublime choreography, the poetry in motion,the silent song, the music without pause,the feeling of immortality,the sense of gods and goddesses at playat…

the sort of dayI just might put on that new tieexcept I don’t wear ties while writing poems;how about a new poetic style,though of course, said Eeyore,no-one would notice…The choice offers itselflike those two optimistic primulas in slightly corny colours out theresunning themselves after a winter bravely endured:how about a confidently laid-back,assured as of paradise…

if I’d know you were the dumping kindi’d’ve dumped you first.BUT **** IT HURTS

the real Americaon the roadbut forgot to packhis full stopso lost the pointand thus didn’t stop’til plop!into the Pacificwith a smackbut found it terrificso never went backfor that full stopand lost the pointbut found himselfdid JackKerouac.