There is then and there is now
before and after
There is
the difference between
occupied and vacant
Pulse
Breath
break
Silence
these bare walls
Brother
Tag Archives: reflection
Beginnings and Endings
At the close of each year
I like to reflect upon all
to note what it is I might have learned
before releasing the past forever to
the freedom of prevailing winds
Then I inhale deep and smile
my gaze upon the new year’s opening sky
anticipating the fledgling wonders
unfolding like a boardwalk through
the forest light of future exploring
Endings and Beginnings
Silences between
Gratitude for every moment
Every song and every scene🪶
Is There No Perfection
Who is there to ask
for definitions not yet discovered
A lonely imagination
pausing to look out upon darkest night
What layers comprise
perfection in form or grace or sound
Spirit of winter
Instruments built from ice of frozen lakes
cut from their melancholy depths
Are there screams
echoing from the drawings to surface
Is there acquiescence
breathless upon a reluctant entrance
And why forever
is it never quite good enough to placate
Our perpetual longing
like Alcyon waiting for Ceyx
Pausing for Breath
Sit on that bench awhile
Look up at that sky
Listen to the birds call
Imagine what they talk about
Early one morning when you’re feeling glad
Grateful just to be still around
Lace up your boots and start walking
Up around the corner
Climb some hill
Take that stick waiting
There among the ferns
Grip it like a sheep herder
Like some old woman or man
Yes, keep on moving
But pause for breath too
There is time enough for everything
If you value the precious in you
The Bog
Meet me there early
Drakes and hens in calm waters
Morning lights the bog
Ageing Ungracefully
Who calls it Winter
Maybe not anyone
Maybe Winter ought be Wither
an unsettling in becoming undone
Through our adventure cycle we endure
So much unknown ready yet still unsure
We are not captains of our own journeys
until we’ve sailed far and long vast seas
Rejected perfection abandoned second looks
How fortunate the few among many
Who discover knowledge secreted in books
As vision grows blurred our steps grow slow
As thin petals yellow our music hums low
May your withering come easy
May your wisdom stay well hid
May your death pass swift and unexpected
like your brief illustrious lifetime did.
Art
Why should I want to contain you
Place your beauty within this cage in this frame
For is not arresting all at the essence of Art
Fragrance of imperfect freedom
An unleashing
Flight from confinement
Escape from ordinary
Exploration of sensescapes no corporeal beings roam
Wings
Logic and deduction and evidence and explanation
Too loaded to follow
A bridge deconstructed an outline made of squint
Lace and velvet satin and flowers rivulets of sky in an ocean of dream
Scenes of an unscene
Can I slip into my/your/our centre in secret moments
Touch your raw naked pulse
Feel
What it is to know truth at the intersection
Where imperfect breath and depth of life exchange promises
Without uttering a sound
But a shift
Caught drifting soft past
A presence
Something there
Pages from a Three Quarter Life
Let us talk of death
for that’s what’s on our minds
We can talk of all the details
examine all the different kinds
It’s on our minds
It’s on our minds
Let us talk of loneliness
what happens in between
We can revisit all the sorrow
tell each other what it means
To be alone
To be alone
Let us talk of possibility
what we meant to do or say
We can talk of all the little things
that got into our way
We really cared
We really cared
Let us talk of all the changes
how different we will be
We can write all our ideas
in a special book of reverie
So we can read
So we can read
Let us talk of love again
and what we think it means
We can talk of human theories
following our dreams
When we agree
When we agree
Let us talk of death
for that’s what’s on our minds
We can reminisce the good times
rewrite replay rewind
We’re out of time
We’re out of time
Campt
I go camping
I live intent
I unspoken
I content
I no words
I no news
Sun rise
Sun down.
I go town
Listen rumble
Stumble rubble
World shouting
World inspin
World falling.
I go camping
I live in tent
I reinvent
I content.
Sunday
Sundays I move quiet
through house street wood
listening for birdsong
wave off voices of what should
Sundays I step slow
close observe neighbourhood
Sunday time
sunrise to dreamline—
all mine.
Pencil Notes 