​
​Crossing the wide sky.
A single magpie is
held briefly by a lone cloud.
It makes sound after sound.
Not a soul is listening.
All I can offer is a
package or a words.
To conjour a different view.
I wonder, will it be enough?

​

I told you, the streets
are full of stars.
And a new spring
never disappoints.

All around me, new grass
gradually lifting its way into
the long summer days.
Like a coloured mist.

With each step,
a new word taps out.
A road without an end.
And a whole life that is one
with the nature of all things.

I looked into the sky.
To find a soul’s shape.
Then, I looked into myself.
Letting everything go bare.
Each a kind of truth.
But never the complete
sound, pattern or answer .
This is the way, for me.

Sometimes, my heart
does not want to talk to my brain.
Or perhaps one just
ignores the other?
Then, old wounds and a
passion for an authentic-self.
Life me to some difficult places.
So, I try and open my whole self.
In an honest circle of motion.
Changing what I can.
And what I cannot,
accepting it as it is.
Then, I sense a new rhythm
And the world seems
to be before me.

​

Behind me a rotting path.
In front of me the ground fresh.
Everything with faces.
Too long I embellished
a single story.
Now, as the days go by
I look back less and less.
Lifting myself above my feelings
With hands shining with life.
Afterall, the end is never
how you expect it to be.
​

Another day.
No waves,
just silence.
And the show-ponies
keep laughing.
I remain, as before.
An aging poet
flooded with life.
With enough words
to keep the fire burning.
Before I turn to dust.

​Now, I am on my way
to ‘yes, I can do’.
Refusing to attend
to all the wounds.
That life sent me down.
Again and again
I choose new directions.
Much closer to the way
I once gently lived.
No longer wanting.
No longer suffering.

​

The pen in my bag
announces I am here.
The paper in my bag
defines the moments
I am most pleased with.
Then I can add myself
to myself, to one small
corner of the world.
This is enough.
The moment is everything.

​On the streets,
​I am concerned by
aspirations of
failure and decay.
Like being wheeled
into a coffin.
It is almost a rule.
‘No, no!’. I say.
​This is not the way.
​So, I fetch out
​one more word,
​one more poem.
​To loose the years.
​Then my life, my work
​knows no time or place.
​And grows again
​beneath my feet.

​Feeling lonely?
No……
Too many moments of life.
Many times over.
Storms here.
Storms dying.
Still everything comes to me.
A floating world.
That now I can see and touch.
As if it is in waiting.