Boon and Mills, Boon and Mills,
steam my specs with bedtime thrills…
(M&B – publishers of bodice-ripper romance, with strict rules for their writers)
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Living saints seem to be an endangered species
so how about the ‘sustainable’ bit?How To Be a Saint isn’t yet in thatexpanding Idiot’s Guide serieshoweverthere is a Path, a Wayright at the tips of your fingersthough have your blood pressurechecked firstautomated complaintsand I’m sure I don’t needto spell that out for youthe one that you can’t even get through to make;the options that…
It’s a sepia photograph, taken, I’m guessing,
a crowd on the move, passing the photographer,who could be, say, clinging to a lamp-post, or on a balcony.Going to? Leaving? Impossible to tell.Who’s rich? Who’s poor? No clue.What’s it got to tell you about – life?Why go on looking at it? No reasonexcept that you’re human; they were human; andtoday, you wish, with increasing…
It was not bright enough, not bright enough
the world to bring it gifts; the coloured woolwould say to them look here, look hereit was not strong enough, not strong enoughto meet the heat, the cold; to venturein the world’s bright gifts; the coloured woolwould warm it in the cold, the coldit was not safe enough, not safe enoughto shield itself from hurt;…
Hopes die;
and, subtlest stroke of all,love sharply, cruelly, hides her face,lives lost within the mind a space;until one day in presence new,love – whose love was ever true –leaves the cold, hard, hungry heartand plays love’s everlasting part;and once again, the wiser we…are wild and bold againand fools again;so, love
Yes but has anyone tested it lately?
Well, wouldn’t you get fed up?You’ve sat there, haunched,for tens of thousands of years,all your friends have long ago goneto that place you could tell tourists aboutif they only askedbut no, they take photographs of youor pay over the odds for them,make silly rude commentsabout your missing nose,concoct theories about the Pyramids,eat fast food, Nile…
Do only poets know
comes winging from eternity,to be tasted, savoured on the tongueand then returnedwith love, humility and gratitudeand that huge thing, the human heart;and just a modest hopethat others will accept this thought, this offering?Do only poets know?I hope not.Otherwise, what’s the point?