poem: the wisdom of the bard

 

the bard was wise methinks,

when sayeth he that ’tis not love,

that doth exclude admittance of

that which is feared, would push all loving from it’s gaze;

indeed – what thou fear most would not impede,

my meagre loving of yourself, with none of thee left on some shelf,

to be ignored, or left alone to dry and dust-clad days;

 so my love i say again – and happy to –

tho’ my poor pen

must stand in sted of arms which will amen,

to loving all of thee,

yes, all of thee, still now as then.

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poem: on a scale of 1 to 10

“So on a scale of 1 to 10

how bad is the pain?”

I wonder if the doctor thinks

I lack ambition;

10 seems so peculiarly small

to describe the sensation

of having the back of my skull smashed open

with a claw hammer.

Be generous doctor –

some days pain cannot be confined

to your disjointed understandings.

 

 

poem: ode to my queerly beloved

oh! to be

queerly old fashioned

with thee;

indeed, when thou hast shed the skin

of that pretense

which, long since, poorly had you worn –

thy truer self would agree,

that apt those words describe

what we have always been;

for well we know,

how strange the un-straight path

has weather’d us to normal seemed;

(indeed with strangeness we have taken

tenancy);

perhaps we could compare

our much imagined lunacies?

tho’ rather would i taste again

those queer, old fashioned,

truthful kisses.

poem: some nights aretha sings my blues

 

some nights Aretha sings my blues

when my hearts tried hard my the things you do,

when you’re trying to pretend that you’re like him too –

some nights Aretha sings my blues;

 

 some nights Aretha sings my love sweetly,

 i’m poured over with the rhythm of notes dropped neatly

behind the back beat that her voice sinks into me –

some nights Aretha sings my love sweetly

 

some nights are too many but what do i do,

when you’re trying to pretend that you’re like him too,

and my hearts still aches for this silly old fool –

some nights Aretha sings my blues.

poem: i did not fail to notice

i remember the day well,

when i first ran smack-bang-into

your unacknowledged

but very clear disdain;

for revealing what you had wrongly

assumed me to be.

 

you thought me a nice

quiet, well behaved hetrosexual

– but not even decently, coolly rebelliously gay-enough;

and discovering herself a little queer –

(too much for your taste);

i’m used to being a disappointment.

 

i masked-and-mirrored well, too much

and perhaps that did not happen without me;

but i’m not convinced that it is i, that owes the apology.

it is not i who is uncomfortable with who i am, and yet

its true that now i’m uncomfortable,

with this part of who you are.

 

so perhaps i shall, when time enough

has passed the sting of your disdain

from painful down to – well, and then;

and i will find within again the will try

and understand, without conforming who i am,

to something i am not.

 

neither pretended, or forgot;

and neither you pretending, but so verse might have

an ending, let me say –

i do not sigh with mean asides,

just weary, that myself might be enough

for someone, someday.

 

 

poem: father, son and holy ghost

’tis a truth thy know full well,

that love’s not absent of it’s mind,

or blind, to that which poorly you disguised –

indeed pretence was spotted long ago;

 hide not from love, that loves you even so –

and knows the sacred beat of thy dear heart,

and knows it still.

 

that ill fitting mask you wear,

that oft was dropped when fear of loss

commanded you to reassure – it never hid you well;

but well i know

that half hidden meant half seen;

and oft pursued –

with hope of keeping, what anger sought to lose.

 

anger is the ice that kept him cold enough

to stay away;

you never wore ice well – feign not the bitter frost

that held him sway.

For you are not so lost, and my years will tell

of all the love you give and give again;

for those who love you now, will love you then.

 

 

 

 

 

 

poem: mister angry

 

tis true you are not perfect,

but that’s not how you stay disguised;

for tis your anger still

that scrapes and blinds thee to mine eye;

and this you can’t deny,

when even now you test me out for lies;

 

and scrape the honours given

to force upon them some demise.

mister angry makes you bend and show your arse;

‘twould be funny,

were it not an oft played farce.

 

 

 

poem: good friday

meditation based on psalm 23, vs 5 

 

you prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies

and i look up, from the foot of your cross

and it is my sin that put you there

too oft from a sin that i chose

and yet you anoint my head with oil

and my cup over flow’s

 

 

you anoint my head with oil

my cup overflows’

and i look up from the foot of your cross

from your head and your wounds

your blood freely flows;

how could it be that blood of lamb slain

could free me of guilt, could free me of blame?

that you feed me as enemies taunt me with death

and that my cup, with your love, over flows?

and i look up from the foot of your cross

and my love overflows

Poem: proud, prouder, proudest

 

hide not from me who saw you

however well thy thought self hid;

when you seek me be proud of you,

in all you do, have done and did;

and will do – for love’s great cause,

will never cease, will never pause.

 

the shield you thought protection

can only shut out loves proud view;

cease now love’s long detention,

’tis long enough, they know it true;

there was no shame to hide,

and in mine eyes, you saw it so.

 

Kneading, richly weaving, vibrant growing

and it grows; hide not thine eyes from seeing,

what you know your heart doth know;

and let thy footsteps quickly carry thee –

to tend our soil and watch love grow

our family.

poem: on restoring vision

i will see thee, as i saw thee

and know thee as i did;

though better seen thy will be,

where, once, thou was hid.

 

you will see me, as you saw me,

knowing better what i knew;

and that mine eye indeed was clear,

and saw thee, love, and saw thee true.

 

our lips out loud shall speak,

what is whispered in these prayers;

and eyes this time will meet,

knowing love doth greet us there.

for tho’ mine eye is sore

from long denied thy dearest face;

it’s sight will be restored,

and its light, renewed, with grace.

.