poem: ricochet

i constant ricochet between

what you say and what you mean

what you fear and what you dream

what you hope,but strain to trust

for it is true –

you constant ricochet between them too

and that zig-zag has blurred your view

for the love that you feared lost

never did

abandon you

 

Oh if you could but trust,

this sickening bounce, at last

would stop.

Advertisements

poem: beneath the apple tree

beneath the dappled beams of sun

that fall between the leaves of that old apple tree,

from which you picked forbidden fruit when young –

and kisses too, for love is bold

where lovers think that they must slip out silently –

you stand now a sturdy man for me to see

 

your frame fleshed out by lovers hands,

and tempered by the scars of grief, when rage stole more

than your belief, tho’ that too was undone;

the apples on that tree, still grow so sweet beneath the sun

no rage could sour that love that carries on.

 

and though you haven’t climbed the tree,

in all the years since he was gone –

those broughs are made more sturdy,

by those same years – soft blossom on the tips of those old boughs,

still bloom like tears;

and heralds fruit plucked by those with faith,

to reach for love made sweeter by the wait.

 

 

poem: exclusion

you do not notice it

– or there were times, perhaps, where you once did,

that with every slamming door

the meaning of my smile misplaced in you belief that you could

shut it again,

and again more;

 

when all my smile meant to convey

that whilst understood,

the slamming of the door was not something that was good

for me;

 

i am no saint and will not for this hurt apologise –

love forgives, and weeps those who weep

that clearer be the vision,

when love patient stoops to dry the eye

 

exclusion makes its scars, this flesh cannot but remark,

tho’ wish i often it would speak in quieter tone;

you hear it,

yet i am left unheard.

poem: you never hid it well

 

you never hid it well;

and though disguised to some,

loves eyes beheld thee in thy whole, and saw the scars

though seeing in them love as well

– for even your disguise revealed

that which fear led to concealing.

 

and spoke it in your mother tongue,

through weft and weave

of things begun,

by poets verse and lovers kindred song

– and seeds of scattered wisdom

that no disguise could keep from giving

 

though storms are not yet calmed,

in caves of rest this love

still brings sweet balm,

for knowing of thee now, and now as then

– yet knowing thee still more

for giving now, forgiven then

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.

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: 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: 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.

.