for my life? ‘
I jotted that down
in a moment of regret
over the wasted things
of life, that is, my life..
and thought, that
sounds a bit like dialogue
or rather monologue to audience
stage or stalls
in Chekhov
so if no-one was listening
well, that’s that
but suppose that ‘everything’
was listening, and made
changes so subtle that
they’ll go unnoticed except
that I find I have
nothing to apologise for
even to myself
you were made to beas much the same, as God,or, The Creator – orsome other word thatmeans as much – were made to beas much the same as – That –as any human being could be; thatthis, waits for you; it’s there;cease to deny that that is so,and then, it will be so…suppose you hear…
a slender book ofmaybe a dozen poemsgently human, likea summer seashorelapping at the heart,leaving washed bright pebbleslike jewelsfor each five yearsa quiet poet, bright-eyedwith an inner smilehas walked around unnoticedwaiting for a poem to come to himand yetleaving the air around him cleanlike a walk by the sea-shorecleansed by the listening sightof a world full…
the gods are counting.
u my thnk ths pm a slly 1or u my brk out in mrth –bt if u’re LOLthn, at th nd o th dy (ATEOTD)thts wht it’s all abt (TWIAA)– if u’ll prdn my clché…
the gift of His whole self, forever, now..how irresistible this promise sounds!But irresistible to whom or what?The ego hears this promise; makes of itwhat ego shapes; so offers not the whole,the being; but what ego’s made of it…And yet, this is a start – to offer Himnot being, gift-wrapped in entirety,but more, a catalogue: of…
and take the wings of Aprilinadvisedly;ignoring the cloud of jasmine around the open door,incurious, it seems, about the front garden’s offerings,they swoop into the house,take a left turn where the corridor gets darker,and land up in the front room; wherethey swoop again, then like lost soulsstart for here and there, change flight-plan,and end up nosing…
