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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
.
a mystery, even carefully unwrapped,
remains disguised
until uncovered
before the eyes, from which
it was concealed
