Poem: Mr Mysterious

Carefully and in disguise, you went out to seek, to find

If there might be some love out there

Some love out there for you;

And found, perhaps, to your surprise

That love indeed there was to find,

A love right there, held truly, all for you

But in your heart your sorrows held

And as you wandered to, and fro

You tested love and wandered to, and fro;

Then, carefully disguised once more, you came to find

If that same love still waited there,

and still held true for you;

And found, perhaps, to your surprise

That love held true for you to find,

Though carefully disguised you still remain;

Though careful your disguise, and whilst you tease, at least allow

That love was never blind, it wasn’t then

It isn’t now.

Poem: A Further Question…

So, our bodies

do not work

the way convention says they should;

But, it means

we can explore

the endless ways love can reveal

the different ways to live

the love we are both

truly worth

And if the place

we leave to make

that life of endless exploration

is not the place convention

might demand;

it matters not

when the place of destination

is still – naturally –

the love and joy

we are both worth

Poem: A Question…

You want to give;

To make the world a better place

For those you love –

You want to give,

But worry in yourself

If you are enough.

And you think;

Oh, how you think!

About the life

You want to give

To make a better place to live

in love;

But worry in yourself

If you could ever be enough.

I think, too;

Of all I want to give

To make the world a place

Where you can live,

In love.

But worry in myself

If I could ever be enough;

When we do not doubt

each other

Why do we doubt

ourselves?

Why let that doubt rob us

of all the love

we are

both worth?

Poem: Oh, Porcupine..

No wounds, no tears of sacred grief

No scars, no fears, no jowly cheeks;

No green cigarettes when roses are scarce,

Nor trouble of body, no worry or care;

No doubt of self or anxious mind

Could chase me away from you, or

Cause me to doubt, it’s true

If you were here now

it would always be so,

There is only my heart

full of love to say this;

If you were here now

It would ever be so,

I promise, I promise

I promise you this.

On Sacrifice

For various reasons, I am taking a break from my writing here for now,  but following a period of reflection and meditation, I am sharing some thoughts on sacrifice over on my Medium blog.

 

In the meantime, I shall leave you with some of Anne Bronte’s lesser known poetry – this is from ‘Last Lines’, written in January 1849:

 

That secret labour to sustain

With humble patience every blow,

To gather fortitude from pain

And hope and holiness from woe.

Thus let me serve Thee from my heart

Whatever be my written fate,

Whether thus early to depart

Or yet awhile to wait.

If Thou shouldst bring me back to life

More humbled I should be;

More wise, more strengthened for the strife,

More apt to lean on Thee.

 

Poem: How Porcupines Make Love

If you were here now

– a little less prickly,

I would say

My darling, I promise you this;

If you were here now

 – maybe less bristley,

I would tell you

I promise, I promise you this;

No wounds, no tears of sacred grief

No scars, no fears, no jowley cheeks

No troubles of mind or bodily pride

Could chase me away from you, or

Cause me to doubt, it’s true

If you were here now

  it would always be so,

There is only my heart

  full of love to say this;

If you were here now

It would ever be so,

I promise, I promise

I promise you this.

Poem: Storm, Be Still

The storm in your head

The raging in your heart..

You cried out: get away, get away!

But

here, here was love dearest

And hope

 

The storm in my head

The raging in my heart…

  I heard, oh I heard: get away, get away!

  But

here, here is love darling

And hope

And how the storm raged, raged on

And hearts were caged..

Imprisoned,

unprotected,

weeping, hearing

get away!

get away!

Yet stayed the loved,

And stays

And hopes

Come home

Where peace eases, and heals

Oil poured on troubles

And love is free

Unbound, safe, protected

Free, growing strong

Stay

Come home

Poem: Musings On a Beard

I like a beard –

A proper beard,

Not shiny and gleaming

From waxing and preening.

I like a beard –

On the right face

A little wild and rough

Like a Papa Bear Gruff.

To snuggle a beard –

A beard that is shy

Worn to hide jowly cheeks

From the tenderness they seek.

I like a beard –

a beard makes me sigh

They remind me I need you

They remind me I love you.

I like a beard –

Or at least

I like yours.

Image result for beards

Sonnet 116: Looking on Tempests, Unshaken

I love Shakespeare’s sonnets. No, I absolutely adore Shakespeare’s sonnet’s.

Should it come as any surprise, I have a romantic streak about a galactic mile wide, and the sonnet’s speak into my very bones. It is in the poets eye that romantic love is seen most clearly, and the troubles that will come: and it is the poets soul that can navigate the turbulence when it comes.

This is my favourite, for reasons of poetry, of abiding love, and of romance.

 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

Poem: Some Nights – Shakespeare…

There were nights, days when

I had to reach for a sonnet,

written long since;

Some Shakespeare verse or two,

A Barratt-Browning, perhaps

when mine own

Words were so very few,

or tired a little,

of the lonliness.

How do I love thee, let me

count the reasons, dozens

Like dazzling stars,

Glinting brightly against the night

sky, deep and still

waiting for morning,

for sunrise

for daybreak.

Some nights like Alice I fell

into some surreal place,

your smile, like

A Cheshire cat, dazzling bright

whilst from my vision

you fade

  from view

  until..

For as a poet sees, a poet

dreams upon a canvas

waiting to be

Painted with a cottage, door ajar

the smell of fresh baked

bread, sensuous warmth

calling you

home.